THE BACK COVER

I thought this might make a good back cover. What do you think ?

You asked for it

This is Bev's Idea for the cover of the magazine or booklet or whatever you want to call it. What do you think ?

Mean People - I don't mean you

I don't know why people are mean to each other. Take this birthday cake for instance. Would you eat it if someone gave it to you on your birthday ? I would not and I did not think that Lin would either. That's why I kept it and its luscious creamy chocolate-ness to myself. Sorry Lin but someone had to save the world from this mean cake, so I chose me. And that is why you didn't get this cake from me. Happy belated birthday anyway.

Neighborhood Rumble

Their voices carried across the prairie into my backyard. His was the loudest, accusatory, strong, self-righteous. I tried to make out the words. F--- was all that I could hear clearly. Then came her voice: angry, cynical, defensive, maybe a little whiney. It was clear, he would win. He was the most strident. What was the fight about? Burned steak on the grill? Too much shopping going on? Junk in the backyard? I doubt it. Something more like, I'm embarrassed by your stupid outbursts, your temper, your constant complaining. Why can't you be like Joe's wife--a looker, slim, big boobs, full hair, holds her liquor, real whistle bait, always agreeable?
Because I'm your wife. You, the big bafoon, overgrown ape, can't fix anything but good at breaking everything, including our marriage! I could have done a lot better, but I thought you would be different. The best of the lot, I thought. Boy, what a fool I was. All that bragging you did about how much money you made. Now you got fired and you're sitting at home in front of the TV. Day after day. You don't even shave! My girlfriends keep asking what's wrong, why am I down in the dumps? I don't know what to tell them. The truth? Would you like that? Oh, my husband just got ticked off and told his boss where to go. Next thing, he's out the door.
And what about the kids? They need school clothes, shoes, books, lunch money. Where is that going to come from, huh? Your drunken father? My crippled mother? It was your idea to leave Iowa and move to Chicago. More work opportunities, you said. Well, here we are. I should never have let you talk me in to it. What was I thinking?
Oh, yah. Well, you have arms and legs. And a backside. Why don't you get a job? Always talking about how attractive you were to your old boyfriends. Get out there and prove where your looks can get you. It's not my fault housing construction has shut down and guys are being let go. I tried. Honest to God, I did. Every day in the hot sun, sweating, aching from carrying shingles up those ladders. I just couldn't take being yelled at all the time. Hurry it up, he said, move faster. It felt like those slaves building the pyramids. So I told him to shove it, that's what I did. So Monday, I'll sit in the hall and wait for work. I got it before; I can get it again. (to be continued...)

Lightning in a Bottle ? Huh I don't gt it

Lightning in a Bottle - only at the Center - only in Creative Writing class

Homer Glen Gathering

Thank you all for coming last night for the wine-klatch. It was fun for me and I hope for others. It's nice to meet members of the other writing group in a casual setting. And what a beautiful evening!

I'm Back

I just wanted to let everyone know that I haven't fallen off the face of the earth. Believe it or not, I actually posted something on my blog today. I'm back! I hadn't written anything about my son, Jeff, so this new piece is a tribute to him. Hope you are all well and continuing to write.

perfect stranger

Perfect Stranger

Why do we use the term 'perfect stranger'? The one I'm thinking of was not so perfect. In fact, for years I have blamed this person for a major turning point in my life and this is my story. .
I was going to school and living in an off-campus apartment. I was old enough to take care of myself but still very naive about men, relationships and what a few drinks can do to one's better judgement. Ben was a blind date. He was studying for the ministry (of all things) and had just come back from his yearlong vicarage in California. He didn't know any girls in town so his brother gave him my phone number. It happens all the time, right? Well, he sounded nice enough over the phone, we met and when he opened the door to my place that first night, I was smitten. Tall, with dark, curly hair that framed a tan face. Nice smile. Clever opening banter. Hey, this could be THE ONE, I thought. We started dating regularly, so no, this is not the stranger you will eventually hear about.
To cut to the chase, I got pregnant. The night was balmy, we went to a jazz club in down town St. Louis, the music and drinks went to my head, we came back to my place and that's where it happened. I never planned it that way. The daughter of a Lutheran teacher with the son of a Lutheran pastor--only innocence could prevail. Wrong, that's exactly why it did happen. I was on the virginal wagon, it could never happen to me, I wouldn't let any sweet-talking guy knock me up. But, bam! There it was. And all I had to show for it was a red stain on my sheets which would take me a whole jug of Tide to get out. The sad part was, there was no joy in it. All that grunting and sweating and he was out of the apartment like lightning.
Of course, it only takes one time. I waited, Ben waited, no period came. I had even considered breaking off the relationship since I didn't feel comfortable with what had happened and how Ben had responded. But then, with the realization of a pregnancy, I panicked. Raise a child out of wedlock, no job, no income, no support, in a strange city? We've got to get married, I said, and Ben, after what seemed like endless consideration, finally agreed. The tough part was calling my parents. "Guess what? I've met the man of my dreams and we want to get married--soon!" I didn't have the nerve to mention the circumstances, only that we'd like a wedding before the year was out. My folks were floored, but the Lutheran in them softened the blow. What better life for their only daughter than to marry into a religious family and be married to a pastor. They would plan the wedding and try to cope with the mysterious urgency.
The expected nuptials took place in August and the following March our daughter was born. Then a second surprise occurred--Ben got a Fulbright to study in Germany. He was ecstatic, just what he wanted. A chance to study abroad. Maybe not with a family in tow, but we thought it could all work out. We were young, full of hope and optimism. We were both smart, successful students with our whole lives ahead of us. We would live the '60s American-bohemian dream in a small, quaint apartment in Europe. I would get a job in a library to help make ends meet and Ben would write his doctorate on Paul Tillich. In our minds, it could be bliss, maybe not so pure, but bliss nevertheless. Our baby was only seven months old when we sailed. I was 24 and the first German word I learned was "durchfal"--diarrhea--because she suffered with it throughout our passage across the ocean.
Now came the kicker. After four years and no thesis completed, Ben decided he could work better if I and our four-year-old went back to the states and lived with my parents. He would finish his work and return to us in the next few months. By this time, I was pregnant with our second child and flew with our daughter to St. Louis to await his return from Germany. Again, my parents met the challenge and took us into their home. But Ben didn't return as expected and one year later, after we had just celebrated his son's first birthday, the son he had never seen, I received a letter. He had had difficulty writing his thesis in German, had hired a woman translator, and, you guessed it, had fallen in love. Anyway, he had always felt trapped in our marriage, he wrote, and he wanted a divorce. True, the Other Woman was a stranger, but still, not the one I have in mind.
So much for the American dream. The arch had just been built in St. Louis. On my worst days, I contemplated jumping from it. On my best days, I was in denial. How could he do this to me and the two kids--just up and leave us? Surely he would get over this infatuation and come back to us. He would get a teaching job in a small university town in the US, we would raise our little son and daughter, and life would be beautiful again. I told no one about the letter and Ben's devastating proposal, probably hoping that would make it go away. Crumpling the blue sheet of airmail paper wet with tears, I disposed of it. I don't remember if I responded. What would I have said? Have a nice new life? I'll mail photos? Send lots of money?
Ben finally did return, but four years later, the divorce was complete. I got a job not far from my parents, rented a small apartment for me and the children, and tried to start over. Reluctantly, I went back into the dating scene--singles dances at church, a few blind dates set up by friends, parties at work. I didn't really like it.
That's when I met Gary. He was just back from Vietnam and still felt awkward about meeting people. As his eyes darted back and forth, I thought he seemed to be looking around for the enemy. He was the roommate of my best friend's fiance, so we double dated frequently. We didn't have a whole lot in common, but I was lonely, he was lonely. For a while, it was enough to keep us together. Then, I got restless. Surely there was someone out there who was more compatible, someone who liked kids and could accept a ready-made family--a teacher, maybe, or an artist or a writer. Gary actually talked about returning to Vietnam. Amazingly, he said he felt more at home there. He knew what was expected of him and he did it well. And here I was, against the war, and, had I been free to do it, a potential protester. I broke it off. Gary was hurt. He said he thought we both needed each other. Dejected, he went back to college in his hometown and my life stayed relatively the same.
The same, that is, until summer came, along with vacation time. I decided to drive out to Iowa with my children to visit relatives on the farm. This would be fun for them. My parents would go too, following in another car. A road trip, just like "Easy Rider"! Ah, I could already smell the wheat fields, the hay-filled barns, hear the squeals of pigs, the whinnies of horses, the churning of combines. It would be rejuvenating. Exactly what we all needed.
But there was a slight hitch. My dad had a former student friend he wanted to stop and see. He lived halfway and it would give us a short break from driving. I was agreeable. It made sense. Plans were made to meet him at a restaurant and have dinner together. We even shared a bottle of wine and laughed about former times in my dad's classroom. Then the friend invited us to stop and see his home, meet his wife and children. Again, we thought it would be interesting and we weren't that far from our destination. We could still make it by nightfall. I was to follow behind his red truck in my car as my dad, taking my son with him, trailed behind me.
We took what seemed like back roads--dusty, bumpy, gravel paths through unfamiliar territory. I squinted to keep sight of the bouncing truck ahead and gripped the wheel. Then he did something unexpected. He passed the car ahead of him. I couldn't see the red truck any longer. How would I find my way to his house? I had to keep up with him! I'd have to pass, too. Dust was billowing up around us, but I floored the gas pedal and pulled out into the other lane just as another car came toward me. I remember thinking, right before the crash, that maybe with luck I could squeeze through. But then I opened my eyes to hear my mother at the car window saying my name over and over. The steering wheel felt hard against my cheek. A strange pillow, I thought, and why had I been sleeping? I raised my head to answer. Small bits of windshield glass were stuck to my face and one dropped into my lap. Next to me, my daughter was crying, a red gash on her forehead. Sirens wailed, lights flashed. Voices seemed to come from everywhere, "Try opening the door! Get the girl out! Pull harder!"
I had done this. I had tried to pass when I should have just waited. I could have killed us both. In fact, I should have died from the impact. It would have served me right. I must be a terrible driver. No, the young man in the red truck was the terrible driver! Why had he chosen to pass when he knew I was trying to follow him? I couldn't remember his name but now I hated him. And I hated the driver of the on-coming car. It was all his fault. Couldn't he have swerved off the country road to avoid me? He was a perfect stranger and he came into my life out of nowhere.
Leaving the local emergency room, I marveled that we had escaped serious injury. Scrapes and cuts, but no broken bones even. Still, I felt rotten about my poor judgement on the road. I was a failure at keeping things together, a weak mother who endangered her children, a woman who reacted poorly under pressure, a dittsy divorcee. I wanted to hide from my relatives. I couldn't handle living alone. I needed a man, a good driver, to take care of things, to keep us safe. When we got to the Iowa farm the next day, I sat down at the big, oak dining table to write a letter. "Dear Gary," it began.
Janis Boldenow Aug. 2008

Cover Me Please

I need your pictures, suggestions, or ideas for the cover of the Literary magazine youse guys are creating with your literature (stories). I also need ideas for a title and back cover.
Any help would be welcome - Frank

Garden Social

On my morning stroll through my tiny plot of garden, I notice that the plants seem to have personalities of their own. They all have their special language and express themselves in a variety of ways. For instance, it's clear that in these waning days of summer, some have already thrown in the towel.

The petunias have given and given and now they're too strung out to bloom anymore. Exhausted, a few lavender funnels hang on to the very ends of the stems that droop over clay pot edges. Next to them, the once purple fuzzed Liatrus spikes turn rusty, waiting for the fall, and then the snow, to turn them into white scepters that rule the garden once again. Even fanned out hasta leaves are curling and crumbling, making way for the young, naive green sprouts beneath them to debut in the spring. Peony leaves redden, impatience leaves yellow and coral bells brown.

But some flowers rally, like the mounds of flox that squeeze out a few more pink stars on the cut-back tips. They want to try again in the August sun, good sports that they are, knowing that this second blooming can never quite compare with the early summer display of petal fireworks. One or two daisies peek out shyly, long after their myriad friends have deserted.

And some plants are still biding their time, waiting for hotter "dog" days to force open their buds. Then white anemone will strut proudly in front of trimmed foliage behind them, towering sunflowers will nod their heavy heads to all the abject subjects below and offer their bounty of seeds to nature's needy. Milkweed pods will burst, gleefully spreading fluff on the wind everywhere.

And still others refuse to bloom at all. An antisocial hydranga folds its leaves across its chest as if to say, "I didn't bloom last year and you're out of luck now, too." A struggling blue balloon plant pouts until its petals finally break open to cry. As I continue my walk through the garden, I can't help but wonder what the trees are thinking. They might have been envying the flowers their colors this summer, but, oh, how they can brag in the fall!

seduction

It has been going on all summer: the flirting, the teasing, as when the heavy air slyly lifts the skirts of the gazebo to flap in the wind and the petticoat curtains make a shuffling sound as they scrape past each other and finally part and reveal. Bees buzz together, gathering around the sweating glass of yellow beer on the table. Twittering birds play hide and seek in the leaves. Where are they now? On that moving branch or is it only the wind brushing by again? Is that their song or the squeak of the awning as it strains against the metal supports? Nothing is plainly seen or heard; the gauze of the heat covers and muffles everything. Even the cat has given up looking, his eyes closed in sleep on the coolest step down from the deck. His fur moves up and down as he breathes, chin nested between paws, mouth slightly open.
You imagine you hear him warn: don't even think of working in the hot garden. The weeds can wait. Stay in your chair. Rest. Put your head back. Nothing really needs to be done. You have hours now to observe the sky, time the cloud's glide over one rooftop to another, check the openings of buds, measure their progress as they give birth to full blooms, with stamens like baby fists shaking in the air above pink petals.
You feel the heat, the trickle down the back, under the bra strap. You want to slip off the damp clothes, undo the sandals to walk in the grass, let the summer wrap its arms around you in a sweaty embrace. Dare to do nothing for now. The frost comes soon enough to cool the passion. Flowers fade, the bus pulls up, the school bell rings. The seduction ends.

Ok, so I recorded "Project Runway" and will spend the afternoon catching up, but I had a lovely evening with the writers. Such a nice group! Thanks for coming and just hanging out. It was cool, bugs were low in number, neighbors were quiet (except for Yip Yap), and the company was good. Can't wait for fall to come and class to start again.

Lin

Prayers For Connie

Send your good vibes and prayers out for Connie French
who had her appendix removed last night. Connie who was
in Creative Writing last fall was in New York attending a Buddhist retreat.
We love you Connie, get well soon.

Supreme Sacrifice for Class--Missing Project Runway

--Please join us pond-side for a summer writing get-together at my house. We'll do the usual 6:30 to 8:30 Wednesday night, August 6. I will provide some of the wine, beer, coffee, etc., but if you are fussy, please bring your own. Frank will require you to read your stories and write something new, but I'm not that bossy. Come to just visit and get inspiration or support for future endeavors as well.

--I live in Crestwood at approximately 127th and Route 83. If you are thinking of coming,
please contact me via e-mail (farkel4@yahoo.com)
so I can give specifics on address and directions, also I kind of need to know how many to expect. I look forward to seeing my old classmates as well as meeting the new ones. I hope you come.

--Oh yeah--no swimming in the pond please.

Lin