Submit your work, find resources, and get involved:

thewatershedjournal.org

thewatershedjournal@gmail.com

Spring Edition 2019, Issue 04

FEATURED WRITER

Philip Terman

An extremely local literary magazine for Northwestern Pennsylvania

FEATURED PHOTOGRAPHER

Paul Staniszewski

Poetry | Prose | Imagery

Paul Staniszewski is an award-winning

photographer known best for his images of

Pennsylvania elk. His work has been featured on

a television series, "Wild About Animals" and he

was recently named a Creative Maker by PA

Wilds. (Featured photograph inside)

Philip Terman is the founder of the Chautauqua

Writers’ Festival and the coordinator of The Bridge

Literary and Arts Center. His work has been published

in Poetry Magazine, The Kenyon Review, The Georgia

Review, The Sun Magazine and The Bloomsburg

Anthology of Contemporary American Jewish Poetry.

Le!er from "

“Through our eyes, the universe is perceiving itself.

Through our ears, the universe is listening to its

harmonies. We are the witnesses through which the

universe becomes conscious of its glory, of its

magnificence.” - Alan Watts

What does it mean to choose to live in Northwestern

Pennsylvania? For many, it means staying close to

family and friends, participating in tradition and

deepening our roots. Others have been drawn in by

the region's natural resources, slower pace and lower

cost of living. There are many wonderful reasons to

call this place home.

When we started The Watershed Journal a year ago,

our grandest dream was to celebrate those who have

chosen to make their lives here in this part of

Northern Appalachia. In the past year we have been

witnesses to a growing community of voices that are

testaments to the richness of lives in our area.

From writer's meetings to public performances to the

submissions that have made this magazine possible,

we are blown away by both the power and tenacity

of the writers, photographers and artists who are

making their voices heard.

This publication is dedicated to our region's

storytellers and to those who love them. Our stories

matter!

Jessica Weibleexecutive editor

Sarah Rosseymanaging editor

thewatershedjournal.org

thewatershedjournal@gmail.com

photo

by P

aul Sta

nis

zew

ski

ISSUE 04 SPRING 2019 poetry, short stories and essays by

PHILIP TERMAN Father BirdPETER BUCKLAND Vespers of the Barrens

KATHY MYERS The TouchDAVID TOBIN An Appalachian Day

LAURIE BARRETT Wishes in the WindJAN SADY Spring SongsANDIE ROSS The River

PAUL STANISZEWSKI The Art of Wildflower MacrophotographyPAUL STANISZEWSKI Full-Page Photograph

REBECCA HOFF WalterPATRICIA THRUSHART On Union Hill

CODY WELLS Winter's JourneyWAYNE SWANGER Helix

ANTHONY VALLONE The Ducks and Geese of Tannery DamCINDY SCULLY The Jacket

JOE TAYLOR ChangeAMY SALSGIVER Still Out There

COREY GOOD The RhymePATTY SUSKO Perennial People

JOHN POZZA Knights of the Roundball TableJOHN MILLER Airing Ezra's Attic

GREG CLARY TodayW. HILL Scent

KIRKE WISE Just Another Mother's DayPEGGY ZORTMAN The Swing

GIRARD TOURNESOL The Blue BottleBYRON HOOT Wait Not

with images and photography by

PAUL STANISZEWSKI | KYLE YATES | TRICIA GRUNICKJAN SADY | BILLIANA KOVACS | GREG CLARY

LAURIE BARRETT | PEGGY ZORTMAN | NATE CRISPIN ANTHONY MANGINO, INTROSPECTIVE IMAGES

Thecryofagoosesplitsthemorning.

Windscatterslightacrossthesurface,

aswift’sbeakclutchesdragon<lywings

andthememoryofthetraincar,thestopover

inChicago,thewalkwithmyfather

forsalamiandryebreadinapaperbag

throughthesweatycrowd—shadows

andraincoats,theconductorcallingall

aboardaswestepuptoitsdeparture,

theslidingintothewestofforgetfulness.

Salamiandryebreadinapaperbag.

Myfathermakingthesandwiches

andpassingthemaround,framed

bytheMidwesternexpanse.Sevenyearsold,

weweredisappearingintothecountry.

Andthat’sall.Salamianddisappearing

andmyfather.Noweightgeese<loat

aimlesslyonthesurface.Ismyfather

portionedoutequallyamongthem?

Orishetheonespreading

silentlyitswings,asifmeasuring

theairforfurther<light.Howotherwise

unrecognizablefromtheothers,

Canadian,exceptthisone

distinguishingitself—perhapsanitch,

anirritation,orthewaythecurrentsweeps

acrossitsfeathersandithonks,asolitary

cry,andanotherrepeats,andanother,

climbingandscaling,abeatingofwater,

a<lutteringfarewell.

The Father Birdby Philip Terman

photo

by G

reg C

lary

Thesehillswerecarvedby

Carnegies'andThompsons'

fullferrousmight.

Thejackandpitchpine’s

brownpaperneedles

andrigidbrawnycones

festoonthe>loor,

somemagnate’safterthought.

Onasteephill

vertigotakesmeasIlook

overthevergeofan

emptiedorepit.

Ikneelontheground,

certainofyourdeath—

notofitsimminence—

justitsinevitability.

Iplucksomesandyloam

andneedles,rubit

betweenmy>ingers,

putitonmyforehead

asifitwereAshWednesday,

andprayatvespers

forthe>irsttimeintwentyyears.

Vespers in the Barrensby Peter Buckland

photo

by K

yle

Yate

s

There’sasimplepairofrodsonapeginourbarn

collectingdust.Fashionedbymyhusbandoutoftwo

oldcoathangers,theiroriginalpurposewasto;ind

wateronourvacant41acresintheBeechwoodsof

JeffersonCountywhereweplannedtobuildour

home.

Hehadbeenreadingaboutwaterdowsingonthe

internet,theprocessofdetectingthegroundwaterin

thesubsurfacejustbeneathourfeet.Waterdowsing

isalsoknownas“waterdivining”and“water

witching."Some“dowsers”usespecialforkedtwigs,

othersusemetalrods.Whilewaterdowsingis

consideredbysometobeapseudoscienceandothers

saythereisnoscienti;icevidencethatitisanymore

effectivethanrandomchance,myhusband

determinedthiswouldbehismethodofchoicein

decidingwheretodrillourwaterwell.

Withthenewly-fashioneddowsingrods,oneineach

handextendedoutbeforehim,myhusbandwalked

theproperty.Whatheexpectedwouldhappenat

somepointwasthatthetworodswouldcrossover

eachotherindicatingareserveofundergroundwater.

Atleastthatiswhathereadonthe“net.”Tohis

dismay,nothinghappened.Surelytherewasareserve

ofwatersomewhereunderground!Disappointedin

the(non)resultshesaidtome,“Here,youtakethem.”

Now,Iamnotapersonwhoistechnicalinanyway.As

Ireluctantlytooktherodsfromhim,Iwasskeptical

thatIwouldbeanymoresuccessfulthanhewas.

However,whathappenednextwasinexplicable.

Holdingtherodswhilewalkingaroundthearea

whereweplannedtobuild,thepiecesofmetal

seemedtocomealiveinmyhands,crossingatthree

majorlocationsneartheproposedhousesite.Ihad

noexplanationforthisphenomenonotherthanto

exclaim,“Ihavethetouch!”

Thesaurusexplainstouchasagift,knack,ability,

talentor;lair.Again,theexpertssaywaterdowsingis

notscienti;ic,somesuggestingitisthewillofthe

personholdingtherodsthatcausestheirmusclesto

movetherebymovingtherods.Otherssaydowsingis

nobetterthanchance.Still,othersbelievethatone’s

dowsingabilityinvolvesanenergyforce.Albert

Einstein,inhistime,believedthedowsingrodwasa

simpleinstrumentshowingthereactionofthehuman

nervoussystemtofactorswhichwereunknown.

Personally,Ibelievetheexplanationthatitisa

reactiontoanenergyforce.

ThewaterwellwasdrilledinoneofthemajorspotsI

identi;iedusingmydowsingrods.Andwhatawellit

is!Initialtestingshowedityielding10gallonsper

minuteforonehour.Ithasnevergonedry.

Dowsingrodsaresaidtobeusefulinlocating

archaeologicalsites,lostjewelry,minerals,andoil

amongotherthings.Withspringuponus,I’mgoingto

dustoffthosetworodsandgooutandstartexploring.

Hmmm,IwonderiftheFBIrecoveredthatrumored

lostCivilWargoldshipment?

photo

by A

nth

ony M

angin

o

Outinthemorningmountainmist

ThebreezebeckonsthisNemophilist

Haunteroftheforest!

DeepintheoldgrowthIamfound

Theforestisnear

Myheartishere

Treetrunksappear

Branchessilhouetted

Drizzledandwet

Highonthishill

Silentandstill

Isitwithoutsound

Reverenceforthisground

Lovefromabove

Senseallaround

Thosewhoabound

Thesewoodedhighlands

Dawnringstheearlyspring

Thesparrowlightsuponaseedpod

Singsawelcomingaubade

AcheerfulchickadeechirpstoallinArcady

Abluejayannouncestheday

Twogreysquirrelscomeouttoplay.

…laterImakeway

Thismappedplace,nowspiritualspace

Gratefulformystay

AnAppalachianday.photo

by K

yle

Yate

s

Wishesinthewind

Makemebelieve

Delicateandfree

Seedofhopeintotheunknown

Adestinationofrootstosow

Wishesinthewind

Muchtobeseen

Milestogo

Flyawaysimplebeauty

Carrymydream

Wishes in the Windby Laurie Barrett

photo

by N

ate

Cri

spin

ACardinal’ssong

Soarsabovethetrees—

Melodiousnotes—

Welcometomyears.

Crowsanswerback

Withsongsnotasmellow

Astheirneighbors.

Chickadeesjoinin—

Black-CapsBlittingamongoaks.

Theirchorusrisestogether—

“Chick-a-dee-dee-dee.”

ACatbirdcalls—

IshereallyaCatbirdor

TheMockingbirdimitating

Hiscousin?

BlueJaysscreechaddingmore

Noisethanmusic

Butlendingtheirnotes

Tospring’ssongs.

Musicalnotesblendinharmony—

Likearehearsedchoir—

Allsingingtheirpartswell—

Inachorustocelebratespring.

�

� �

Thesunglistenedbrightlyovertheriverasifitknew

nootherwaytobe.Thoughtheraysilluminatedthe

waterbeautifully,itwasverymisleading.Iflookingat

apicture,onewouldimagineawarmdaythatcalled

forsleevelesstopsandsandals,butthecoolApril

breezesentgoosebumpsupAmanda’sspine.She

shiveredasshepulledhersweaterupoverherbare

kneesandontoherlap.Theairnippedatherface

fromthefrontofthecanoeasitglideddownthe

water.

“Iexpectedittobemuchwarmertoday,”said

AmandaassheturnedtofaceMichaelintheseat

behindher.Hisbroadshoulderstightenedashe

navigatedtheboatwithhispaddle.Hegaveafaint

smileashelookedupatthesky,hopingthe

inclementweatherwouldholdoff.Ithadrained

quiteabitoverthelastfewweeksandtherapids

weremovingswiftly.Typicalsituationfortheyoung

couple:underpreparedbutupfortheadventure

anyway.Thiswasn’ttheGirsttimetheyplannedafull

dayattheriverwithnothingbuttheclothesontheir

backs.Theonlyfoodpackedwasabagofbroken

Doritos.MichaelalwaysjokedthathecouldGishfor

theirdinneriftheygotdesperate,althoughthat

wouldhavebeeneasierifhehadrememberedhis

Gishingpole.

Michaelwasasturdymaninhisearlytwentieswith

largetreetrunksforarmsbuteyesthatsparkledlike

thesameriverthecouplenavigateddown.Hissandy

blondehairandbronzeskinwereproofthathewas

nostrangertotheoutdoors.Hefoundpeaceand

solitudebeinginthewild.Hisoldsoulneededtobe

surroundedbytallmountainsjustasmuchashis

lungsneededthefreshair.Michaelhadgrownupon

thislandandknewitwell.Themightyriverwas

treatedwithrespectbuthedidnotfearit,foritwasa

kindredspirit.

Amandalovedtowatchhiseyescomealivewhen

theywereouthere.Shewaslearningtolovenature

asmuchasMichael,althoughitwasnewertoher.

Californiabirthedandraisedher.Nowshewasproud

towearAppalachiandirtunderneathherunpolished

Gingernails.Thetransitionhadbeengoodforher.The

daughterofarestlessgypsy,Amandahadtraveled

thecountrybeforereachingadulthood.Nowbarely

oldenoughtoorderadrink,shehadfoundaplaceto

plantherroots–withaboywhoknewexactlywhat

ittooktohelpthoserootsgrow.

“There’sarock,”calledAmandaassheturnedtoface

thefrontoftheboatagain.“Staytotheleft!”Both

partnerspaddledvigorouslyasmoreobstacles

appearedinthedistance.Maneuveringthecanoeasa

team,theydodgedeachboulderintheirpath.The

rivernarrowedaroundabendandthespeedofthe

rapidsbegantoquicken.Watersplashedfuriously

alongthesideoftheboat.

“Straightahead!There’sabigonestraightahead!”

Amandaclenchedherpaddlewithwhiteknuckles.

“Hardright”yelledMichaelfrombehind.Amandadid

asshewastold.Theboatfolloweditscommandas

wellandturnedassharplyaspossible.Scraping

acrossthemossyboulder,thecanoeteeteredbut

escapedwithouttrouble.Thecouplestraightened

outtheirvehicleoncemore.Thoughthewaterwas

stilldeep,theyhadnavigatedpastalltherocksand

therapidsslowlybegantoGizzleaway.

“Wedidit!”Amandacelebratedandspuntolookat

herpartneroncemore,beamingwithpride.Her

momentumcaughtMichaeloffguard.Hequickly

triedtocountertheshifttheweight,butitwastoo

late.Beforeeitherofthemhadachancetoreact,the

boatupendeditselfandsentthecouplehurdlinginto

thewater.Theriverrushedpast,swirlingand

twistingeverythingaroundthem.

AmandahitthewaterGirst.Breathwasinstantly

takenfromherlungs.Thefreezingwaterwaslikea

The River by Andie Ross

thousandknivessimultaneouslyenteringherbody.

SheGlailedandpaddled,justtryingtoGindair.Her

longlegsstretchedout,searchingfortheriver

bottom.Nothing.Itwastoodeep;shecouldn’tstand.

Longbrownlocksofhaircoveredherface,betraying

hervision.Herarmsthrashedinapanic.Finally,her

headbrokethroughthebarrierandshetookalarge

gasp.Shelookedaround,disoriented.Amanda’seyes

metMichael’s.Hewasneartheboat10yards

upstream.Hisstrongarmsheavedastifforangelife

jacketherdirection,butitlandedjustoutofreach.

Sheswamashardasshecould,buttheriver

overpoweredherwithease.Herlimbswerenumb

fromthecold.Shewilledherarmsforwardand

graspedtheGloatingvest.

Michaelhadpulledhimself

intotheboatandrowedas

fastashecouldtowardsher.

Hereachedherwithgreat

speed.HedirectedAmanda

toholdontothesideofthe

canoeashebeganpaddling

towardsthebank.Amanda

grippedontotheedgewith

allhermight.Rocksbegan

toscrapeherlegsandshe

knewtheywerenowin

shallowerwaters,butshe

stillcouldn’tstand.Her

muscleswouldn’tallowit.

Michaeljumpedfromthe

boat,draggeditontothe

shore,andgrabbedholdof

Amanda.

“Areyouokay?”Hepulled

herinclosesothathis

Glushedcheekwaspressed

uptightagainstherwet

forehead.Amandanodded.“Youscaredmehalfto

death!”

“Ijustfeltlikegoingforaswim”shesmiled.Amanda

alwaystriedtolightenthemoodwithajoke.Shewas

embarrassed;sheknewitwasherfaultthatthe

canoehadtipped.Michaelrolledhiseyesbuthisgrin

toldherhewasn’tupset.Thecoupleleanedback

ontoanearbytreeandtriedtocatchtheirbreath.

Withtheiradrenalinestartingtosubside,theyeach

tookinventoryofalltheirnewwounds.Amanda

touchedhersideandwinced,“IthinkIcrackedarib.”

ShepulledherblackshirtupasMichaelleanedinfor

acloserlook.Justbelowherbathingsuittopwasthe

beginningsofagiantbruise.Purpleandmagenta

swirledonherskinlikesmearedwatercolor.The

colorswouldhavebeenquitebeautifulifitwasn’tfor

thepainetchedonAmanda’sface.Sheforcedasmile

asshestraightenedhershirt,“LookslikeIhavea

thingortwotolearnaboutcanoeing.”

Thecouplegatheredwhatlittletheyhadremaining

ontheshore-theyhadlosttheDoritosduringthe

capsize-andloadedbackintotheboat.Bythegrace

ofGod,thecloudspartedandallowedafewraysof

suntowarmtheirsoakingbodies.Thewaterwasstill

high,butmuchsmoothernow.Amandatooka

painfuldeepbreathasshe

triedtorelaxintoherseat

andlookedatthebeautiful

scenerysurroundingher.

Theriverlookedlikeglass.

Shewonderedhowits

temperamentcouldchange

soquickly,whenonly

momentsagotherapids

weretryingtoswallowher

whole.

Inthedistance,aneaglewas

glidingthroughthestormy

sky.Thebird’sstrongbody

driftedpowerfullybut

Gluidlythroughtheclouds,

mirroringthecanoeonthe

riverdirectlybelowit.

Amandahopedthathe

wouldswoopdownsoshe

couldtakeacloserlook.She

hadneverseenanythingso

majestic.Asifoncue,he

slowlyGlewoverthe

mountaintopandoutofsight,remindingherthathe

wasnotthereforheramusement.

Inthatmoment,AmandaunderstoodMichael’s

connectionwiththisplace.Hisrespectfornature

camefromtheunderstandingthathewasonlya

visitingguest.Thisisnothishome;theselush

mountainsbelongtotheriverandtheeagle,theGish

andthetrees.Thisistheirhome,buttheywelcome

himlikeanoldfriend.Amandaknewshehadtolearn

theirwaysifshewantedtostay.AndMichaelwasthe

onewhocouldteachher.

photo

by G

reg C

lary

Theclassicde+initionofthisartformrefersto

close-upphotographythatcapturesthesubject

closetothesamesizeorlarger.Drivenbya

desiretocreatehisownpersonalstyleand

vision,theartistbegantoexperimentby

photographingbothwildandcultivated+lowers.

Allofthesubjectsarephotographedoutdoorsin

theirnaturalenvironmentwithnoarti+iciallight

andtheyareleftundisturbedforotherstoenjoy.

Depictingobjectsthroughmacrophotography

emphasizestextureandcontrasttopresentan

exceptionallevelofdetailandathree-

dimensionaleffect.Techniquesavailableinthe

digitaldarkroomresultinaclean,uncluttered

studio-qualityphotographthatallowsthe

viewertofocusattentionontheintrinsicvisual

beautyofthesubject.Thesephotographic

imagesareaboutemotionandtheresultsarea

brightandvividwild+lowerimage.

Technicalperfectionisadesiredgoal,but

doesnotstandbyitself.Thereisnothingmore

rewardingthantomakeahugeprintofa+lower

oranysmallobjectthatisnormallytootinyto

beviewedbythenakedeyebutiscapturedwith

thetechniquesofmacrophotography.The

macrolensallowsanindividualtoobserveand

captureexcitingdetailsofwild+lowersand

plantsthatarenotusuallyseen.

Theupperleftphotoisoneexample:a

commonweedcalled“bird’sfoottrefoil”isfound

alongsidewalksandlawns,growingalmost

everywherehereinnorthcentralPennsylvania.

Youwouldnottakethetimetobenddownto

lookatit.However,seehowbeautifulitlooks

whenviewedasamacro. photo

s b

y P

aul Sta

nis

zew

ski

photo

by P

aul Sta

nis

zew

ski

It$iltersslowlythroughthecanopylikeinkinaglassofwater,

thissylvandawnbreakerlight.

Inatrickle-downeffectthroughhiseyelids,

agradualceaseofslumberarrivesto

thepeaceful$igurestretchedupontheoldbedmadeofpinewood,

amancontent.

Heshuf$lestohisglasswindowpane

inleathermoccasinsfadedandcrackedwithageandthousandsofsimilarly-shuf$ledfootfalls.

Themorninglightshattersuponhiseyes,andhedrinksinthesceneryamoment,

greetinghissurroundingsashehas

foryearsinanunspokenroutine.

Hemovestothekitchen

unhurriedly—coffee,thatgloriousmagical

brew,isthenextsequenceinwakingup,

a$lavorhehasperfectedthroughtheyears.

Itkeepshimsane,thismethodicalunalteredprocess.

Hepoursitintothebluesteelcampmug$leckedwithwhiteenamel,

hisonlycoffeecup,theonlyoneheneeds.

Steamrisesandcurls,whichheinhalesappreciatively,lettingitenvelophissleepyface.

WalterJ.McCoytakeshissweettime

andstepsoutontohisAdirondackporch

inbarefeet,muginhand;

at62,there'snorushwhenyou'reretired.

Hisleanbonesmakenogroanofprotest,

nopainfulclickwhenhesitsinhishand-carvedrockingchair.Afterall,hestillswimsinthelakeinhis

backyardeveryday,rainorshine.

Hetakesnopillsorsupplements,andsmirkseverytimethedoctorhehasseenforthelast44years

shakeshisheadindisbeliefandpronounceshim$itasa$iddle.

Leaningbackinhischair,heenjoyshiscoffeeandwatchesthemorningunfold,

thewildlifecomesaliveandthelakewhisperstohiminripplesandcurrents.

Thelastdregsswirllazilyatthebottomofhismug,andWaltsighsdeepwithinhimself.

Beingretiredisthebestdamnthingthat'severhappenedtohim:thewifediedin'03andthekidsnever

comearoundanymore.

Nowit'sjustWalt,thelake,andthetrees.

It'sallamanneedsouthere,withfewexceptions,coffeebeingoneofthem.

Yessirree,justanother$inedayofftoa$inestartandhe'sprettysureit'llwindupbeinginthebooksasa

damn$ineoneatthat,startto$inish.

Hepropshisfeetuponanoaklogthatservesashisottoman,foldshishandsonhischestclothedin

$lannel,

andcloseshiseyeswhicharenowawashin11o'clocksunlight,richandwarm.

WalterJ.McCoyletstheembraceofalazynaptakehimandhearsthelake,

eveninhisdreams.

Walter by Rebecca Hoff

Inmybarefeet

Iwascalled

tothehillbehindthehouse,

andIwalked,thesunonmydarkhair,

myskirtbrushingthewildblueberries,

thegrassfragileundermysoles.

Iclimbedabovethegardenslushwith

whiterosesandorangesun:lowers

noddinginthewaningday.

Belowmecowslolledintheirpastures

andIheardtheirmutedbellsclang

intimewiththeswing

ofmyarms.

AtthetopIturned,breathless,

andsuddenly!

thewidemistyworldwasthere—

green

androlling

andbeautiful.

IspokethentoHewhohadcalledme;

IinvitedHimin,

andHehasnever

since

left.

On Union Hill

Twelve Years Old in Rossiter(Poem for Ann)

by Patricia Thrushart

photo

by N

ate

Cri

spin

Asubtleretreatfromthetown

Wintermakes,wherehegoesIdare

Notask.Perhapshegoesdown,down

Toadepthwithidlehourstospare.

AsthepilgrimsofChaucer’snobletale

SeekCanterbury,onlytoreturn

Sowouldmosttellyouwithoutfail

OfthegiftofWinter’ssojourn.

Thevoidleftbythemeltingsnow

Filledwithgreengrass,andmoss,andleaves

Withatouchofwindwillalwaysblow

Amongstthebranchesofthetrees.

Ajourney’sgiftmayseemlight-hearted

Asonereturnstowhereonestarted.

Winter's Journey

by Cody Wells

photo

by G

reg C

lary

Theygive

Icanonlyreceive

fromtheirhands

nevertouched.

Mybenefactors,

facesframedonplasterwalls,

inphotographsexhumed

fromatticandcellar.

Theirbodiesscatteredon

Pennsylvaniahillsides,

beneathheadstoneshard

asthelivestheylived.

Today,Iwalkamongthem,

Namesfadedongreygranite:

Cover,Kendall,Coy

Turn,Cook,Illingworth…

Theygive,evennow,

unknownandunknowingly.

Helixby Wayne Swan!r

photo

by T

ricia

Gru

nic

k

Atdusk,

theyrisefromtheripplingwater

ofJuniataLake,

9locksoftheirownkind

forminggracefulvees

intheair,circling

theskyabove

neighborhoodhouses

likemine&thedam

whereghosts

ofglovemakers

leaveun9inishedwork

forthelasttime

&ghosts

oftheJuniatatribe

reclaimtheirname

fromthestreet

&elementaryschool.

Ontheground,thegeese&ducks

wobblelikedrunks

acrosssidestreets,

stoppingtraf9ic

untiltheycrosssafely

ontolawns

wherewell-meaningneighbors

scattergrain

&chunksofbread

thatholdthem

hereinDuBois

longerthantheyshouldstay—

somethingsurprisinglybeautiful

inthiscity,theducks&geese

turningeasily,

asmanyofusheredo,

slower&moredomestic

inourcomplacency.

The Ducks and Geese

of Tannery Damby Anthony Vallone

photo

by A

nth

ony M

angin

o

Thiswasyourjacket,

Ijustcouldn'tgiveaway.

Itwasyourfavorite,

Wornmosteveryday.

Youlikedthatithadtwopockets,

Madeofsoft,warm@leece,

Ofallyourclothes—andtherewerealot—thiswasyour

Favoritepiece.

I’vewashedit,butnomatterhowmanytimesIdo,

Ithinkthatitstillsmellslikeyou.

It'sabitbig,doesn'treally@itthatgood,

ButIwon'ttakeitineventhoughIshould.

WhenIputmyarmsintothesleeves,

Icanimagineyouarehuggingme.

Youneededtogo,

ItwasGod’swill,

Yourhealthwassobad,inpain,

But,still.

Therearesightsandsounds,andmemoriessomedays,

Thatbringonsmilesandachesinsomanyways.

Whentheweathergetshot,I’llreluctantlypackit,

ThenI’lllookforwardtofallwhenIgetoutyourjacket.

photo

by A

nth

ony M

angin

o

When,uponbeingsummonedtotheboss's

of3iceandhebeginstheconversationwith,"I'm

afraidwe'regoingtohavetomakesome

changes,"youknowthatyou'llsoonhavemore

timetowatchgamesduringtheweek.So,

sometimethewordchangedoesleadtogood

things.Squeezingquarters,dimes,nickels,even

penniesintocoinwrapperssoyoucanbuyan

extrasixpackisapleasantsurprise.

Butthenagain,changecanbeginasapositive

andendupwithaquitenegativeconnotation.

Youareanewdaddelightedtochangeyour

baby'sdiaperforthe3irsttime--cutto6months

and456stinkydiapersintoit,itisnolongera

Hallmarkmoment.Howproudyouwillbe,afew

yearslater,whenyouletyourlittleblonde

hairedgirlgouptotheDairyQueenwindow,

withacoupleofdollarsinhandremindingher

to,"Waitforthechange."Howdevastatedshe

mightfeelyearslaterwhenshenoticesthat

blondehairfadingintogray?Thatdreaded

change.

WhatwouldIchangeifIcouldchangethings?

WouldIchangemyjob,changemywife,change

mybeer,changethewayIstrutmystuff—wait,

that'sfromanoldsongisn'tit?

Whew,I'mtired,reallytired.IthinkI'llturn

in...turnintowhat?Don'tgetmestarted….

I'vebeeninthismonkeysuitallday.I'mtired.

Thedamntieischokingme.Theseshoesare

squeezingmytoes.IthinkI'llchangeinto

somethingcomfortable.Whatwouldbe

comfortable?

Apillowwouldbecomfortable.Iwonder,ifI

changeintoapillowanddozeoff?WouldIbe

sleepingonthejob?That'sthepillow'sjobisn't

it,toletpeoplesleeponit?But,I'mhungry,too.

SomaybeI'llchangeintocomfortfood.How

aboutmashedpotatoes?Changingintomashed

potatoeswouldkilltheproverbialtwobirds

withonestone--Icouldfallasleepinthem,then

wakeupandeatthem.

Betteryet,Icouldchangeeverything.Change

intosomeonecomfortable.TomHanksalways

seemstoberelaxedandcomfortable.Andhe

changesintoallthesedifferentcharacters,but

youknowdeepdownthathe'sstillcomfortable

ol'TomHanks.Yeah,Ineedachange.

IsthereawordintheEnglishlanguagemore

ominousthanchange?Whenthemissusstands

inyourfaceandtellsyou,"There'sgonnabe

somechangesaroundhere,buddy",youknow

thatSundaynoontomidnightfootballonthe

couchisgoingthewayofyourlatelamented

JackHammjersey.

Changeby Joe Taylor

photo

by K

yle

Yate

s

Iwillnever

Understand

Howyoucantravel

Throughthedarkness

Withme

Handinhand

Clawingourwayfree

Overdeathand

Destruction

Supportingeachother

Asthestorm

Rages

Allaroundus

And,Cinally

Whenthewarmth

Ofthesun

Touchesourskin

Toturn

Surveythedepths

Ofhell

Thatwesurvived

Together

Andsay,

Iwon’tenjoythis

Sunlight

Withyou.

photo

by L

auri

e B

arr

ett

It'sbeentoolong

sinceIwroteasong

It'shardto3indthetimetorhyme

Somuchso,youbelieveyou

havenotime,whenreallyyoudo

Busylife,littletime

workinghard,yetlittledime

It'shardto3indthetimetorhyme

SoItakethetimeto3ind

what'sonmyheart,what'sonmymind

andmaybe,justmaybe

I'll3indtherhyme

AndwhenIdo,I'llsingtoyou

what'sonmyheart,what'sonmymind

andmaybeyou,willsingwithmetoo

dancingsidetoside

Andlateron,downtheroad

I'lllookback,intothepast

andIwillrememberthetime

thetime...

thetime...

Ifoundtherhyme

The Rhymeby Corey Good

photo

by K

yle

Yate

s

Winter’scanvasisblackandwhite,

hardandclinical.

Summer’s—deepandhazy,

thickandtextured.

Fall’s—rusticand>leeting,

gentleandcalming.

ButSpringbringsinstinctsandcolors

likenoneoftheseothers.

Theyarevibrant,almostneon.

AsnewLifebeginsandblooms,

perennialplants,animals,birds-

evenpeople,

returnhome.

Goodforthebody,mindandsoul

hopespringseternal.

Perennialpeople—

comingbacktolife.

Perennial People

by Patti Susko

photo

by N

ate

Cri

spin

Othertimestheyoptedtogoman-to-man,especially

ifaparticularKnighthadadecidedadvantageover

theopponent’sbestplayer.

Thisteamwasaparticularlyclose-knitgroupwith

Charlie,Bob,Bill,PaulandDannycarryingthebulk

oftheplayingtime.Amongthesewarriors,Danny

stoodoutforhisdefensiveintensityandunusual

propensityforhiding

behinddefendersbefore

suddenlyappearingout

ofnowheretogetopen

forhispatentedshots

fromthecornerpocket.

Healsohadanulterior

motiveincapturingthe

favorofhissweetheart,

Katherine,who

witnessedeverycontest

fromherfavorite

bleacherspot.

Thesemini-battles50

yearsagoculminatedin

aMarchMadness

“winnertakeall”battle

ofpatronsaintschoolstodeterminetheundisputed

diocesanchamp.ThetitlewassigniJicantinthatthe

ErieDioceseencompassedthewidestgeographic

regionofCatholicschoolsinPennsylvania,covering

13counties.St.Peter,thebestofthenorth,metSt.

Stephen,thebestofthesouth,onaneutralcourtat

KennedyCatholicHighSchoolinHermitage.

Inwhatturnedintoadefensivestruggle,bothteams

wererelentlessintheirpursuitofthetitle,battling

throughadversity,shootingdifJiculties,foultrouble

andtwoovertimestoJinallydeterminethewinner.

Ultimately,inanupset,St.Stephenoutlastedits

opponent38-34toclaimthetitle—theJirstand,to

date,stilltheonlyteamoutsideofErietoeverclaim

thechampionship.

TheseKnightshadplentyofshine,buttheyweren't

dressedinarmor,orevenwhitesatinforthatmatter.

No,theseKnightswereatotallydifferentbreed.

Theyformedaquintetofnoblecrusaders

representingSt.StephenofOilCityinErieCatholic

Diocesejuniorhighschool’sproverbial“holywars.”

TheseKnightsbattledfellowpatronsaintroundball

opponents24timeswithoutswords,shieldsor

helmets.Theirskills

wereinmarksmanship

andathleticism.

Inthewinterof1969,

Stephen’sKnights,

dressedintheirvintage

redandwhiteuniforms,

battledtwoorthree

timesaweekbefore

enthusiasticcrowds.Like

anyteam,theywerefond

ofdoingbattleontheir

homeschoolgymJloor.It

stoodoutforitsunique

parquetdesign,

reminiscentoftheJloor

attheBostonGarden

whentheNBA’sCelticswereinthemidstofanother

dynastyrun.

TheseKnightsdidbattleagainstthelikesoffellow

crusadersincludingSt.JosephonOilCity’snorth

side,St.PatrickinFranklin,St.TitusinTitusville,St.

MichaelinFryburg,St.ThomasinCorry,St.Gregory

inNorthEast,andSts.George,PeterandJohninErie.

TheseKnightsemployedarelentlessfast-break

attackwiththeultimategoalofgettingmorescoring

chancesthantheiropponentsoveraspanof32

minutes.Thatwinter,itworkedtotheiradvantage

with19victoriesagainstonly5defeats.

Underlong-timecoachDuckyHall,acraftyold

veteranofnumerous“holywars,”theseKnights

employedvariationsofacollapsiblezonedefense.

Knights of the Roundball Tableby John Pozza

photo

by G

reg C

lary

CloseDoorOnTheOld

OpenLockedPoetryJails

MakeYourLanguageSpring

Airing

Ezra's

AtticbyJohnMiller

photo

by B

illiana K

ovacs

Today,Ilearnedabout

Tariffs,borderlesspuzzles,braidedstreams,

AndtheWitchcraftActof1735.

Today,Isawahairywoodpeckertappingsuet,

Amarshhawkswoopingupavole,

AndabeardeddragonClickingacricket.

Today,Ilaughedatanearperfectmetaphor,

Aclipofanincrediblyfunny,profane,littleIrishgirl,

Andastory,repeatedforthe100thtime,byanoldfriend.

Today,Iheardthescreamofabaldeagleonthewing,

Thescreamofbrakesfromaspeedingcoaltruck,

AndJohnnyWinterscreamingout“MannishBoy.”

Today,Ifeltthecold,rushingClarionRiver,

Theshockofblackmuduptomyknees,

Andtheblissofalong,thriftless,hotshower.

Today,Ismelledpintobeansandhamcookinginapot.

Thepungentscentofwetplantationpines,

Andalonglostpeppermintpattystuckunderacarseat.

Today,Iofferedmygrandsonthreeessentiallifelessons:

Learntodrinkyourcoffeeblack,

ShuntheLeeroftheWorld,

Neverletadaygoby.

Todayby Greg Clary

photo

by G

reg C

lary

Springcanbringnewness

eventotheold

whorememberhowthehope

ofromanceblooms

thoughit’sdoomedtowilt

inWinterwheretheycan

stillsmellthescent

savedallthoseyears,

neverfullyspent.

Scentby W. Hill

photo

by T

ricia

Gru

nic

k

It’sjustanotherMother’sDay

Sowhat’sthebigdeal

Butyouonlyhaveonemother

Considerhowshemustfeel...

Yourmotherwillalwaysloveyou

Totheverydaythatshedies

That’swhyshetookcareofyou

That’swhyshealwaystries

Raisingyouupthroughtrials

TremblingwithineachDight

Guidingyouingooddirections

Tryingtoteachyouwhatwasright

Shewillalwaysthinkofyou

Thisshouldcomeasnosurprise

It’swhyshewantstohugyou

Andthat’swhyshecries

Yourmotherwastheonlyone

Whoheldyoufromthestart

Inherlife'sgreateststory

You’llalwaysplayapart

Theonewhoalwaysremembers

ThatDirstlookinyoureyes

Withsmallhandsandfeet

Andthat’swhyshesighs

Butshewon’talwaysbethere

Becauselifeneverletsusstay

Somethingyouneedtoremember

OnthenextMother’sDay

Just Another

Mother's Dayby Kirke Wise

photo

by A

nth

ony M

angin

o

ful$illingmywishthescarlet-plumedmalelandedon

anearbylimbandhislessconspicuousmate

perchedafewbranchesdown.There’ssomething

comfortingaboutknowingthey’reback.

Ispiedapairofsquirrelsplayingtaghighupinthe

topsofthetrees.Probablythesameoneswhoraided

thebirdfeedallwinter,performingamazingfeatsof

agilityastheystoleseed.I$iguredtheyhadpaidin

fullfortheirbootywiththeirentertainingantics.

Haveyoueverhadtheprivilegeofwatchingthe

acrobaticsofthesquirrels?Theydanceeffortlessly

amonglimbsseeminglytoosmalltoholdtheir

weightandiftheyslip,theygrabthenextone.And

thoseleapsfromtreetotree...thoseyouhavetosee

tobelieve.They’resmarttoo.Justtrykeepingthem

outofthebirdseed.

Weinstalledabluebirdhouseveryearlythisspring

hopingforachancetoseethesebeautifulbirds,but

sofarnonehavearrived.Thecrowsarebackthough.

Thelookoutwasperchedinthetopofthatolddead

elmtree,keepinganeyeonRovandme,and

constantlycomplainingtohisfriendswhowere

seekingleftoversinlastyear’scorn$ield.

Mycoffeewaslonggoneandmyexcusesforsitting

ontheswinghadevaporated.Ifeltblessedand

somehowinvigorated—morereadytoface

whateverchallengesthisdaywouldbring.

SuddenlyoldRoverjumpedfromhisseatlikea

youngpup.Achipmunkwaschatteringfroma

nearbystump.It’swonderfulhowabeautifulspring

morningofsimplysitting,listening,andwatching

canreviveaperson...oradog.

IonlywishIcouldsomehowpreservemomentslike

this.Then,Icouldtakeoneoutanduseitwhen

needed,orbetteryetshareitwithyou.

AsIwalkedtowardthehouseIspiedapairof

bluebirdscheckingoutthenewapartment.This

wouldbeawonderfulday.

TodaywasabeautifulspringdayontheSummit.I

wasupbeforesunriseand,whenthecoffeewas

ready,I$illedamug,calledthedog,andwewalkedto

theedgeofthewoods.Wewouldsitontheswing

andwatchthesunrise.

Abitofchillwasintheairandgrasswasstillwet

withdew.Therewasastrongbreezeruf$lingthe

youngleavesofthemaples.IwasthankfulI’d

grabbedalightjacket.

Isatononeendoftheswingallowingroomforold

Roverifhewantedtojoinme.Hedid.Itookadeep

breathandwasrewardedwiththeincredible

aromasofanearlyspringmorning.

Theheavyperfumeofthewildhoneysuckletickled

mynoseandayardfullofsunshine-yellow

dandelionsenhancedthepleasantscent.Warmrain

thelastfewdayshadencouragedyoungshootsofall

descriptionstopushthroughthewinter-dormant

earth,andthatearthysmellofthemoist,warming

soiladdedtothemystiqueofthemorning.

Rovlaidhisheadonmykneeandgaveadeepsigh.I

feltittoo—atotalsenseofpeace,ofwonderandof

belonging.

Asthesunstarteditsslowascentintothepreviously

starlitsky,themusicalcallsofbirds$illedthe

airwaves.Theysingtoimpressmatesandpotential

matesI’vebeentold--butthismagicalmorningI

imaginedthechorustobeformyearsalone.

Withthesteadilyincreasingdaylight,Iwatchedtheir

chaoticfrenzyastheyenjoyedanearlybanquetat

thefeeders,then,rushedthroughtreetopsseeking

theperfectspotforasecurenest.Theorange$lashof

theBaltimoreoriolewasunmistakableandthe

freeloadingbluejaysannouncedtheirannoyance

$littingfromtreetotree.

Forthelastseveralyearsapairofcardinalshas

calledourneighbor’shugerhododendronhome.I

foundmyselfhopingtheywouldreturn.Asif

The Swingby Peggy Zortman

photo

by P

eggy Z

ort

man

ThebrightbluebottlehitmelikeahintofdeathonthebreathofSpring.

Iimagineditbeingtossedoutatruckwindow,

byunderageteensfancyingthemselvescleverandmatureandimmortal.

Asiftheearthhadwilleduponthemthatherstolentreasure,Aluminum,

bereturnedorshe’dcausetheirtruckkeysdisappearforalleternity.

Ipickedupthebluebottle,

triedtofeelresurrectioninarecyclingsortofway,

feltinsteadonlythehollowemptinessofmindlesseternalreincarnation.

WinterhadbeenlongthisyearandlatelyIfantasizedresurrectionmorethanusual

ataAieldwhereIstoppedtolistentomeadowlarkandAieldsparrowcalling

formatesoralertingeveryonetothesinofthebluebottle.

SeveraldeergrazedtheunseenAirstgreensofSpringnearskunkcabbageandcoltsfoot.

Atasmallstream,Icuppedmyhandintotheicyfastwaterandraisedittomylips,

thensplashedmyface,thensplashedsomemore,more,

thenknelt,bothkneesatthestreambedandsubmersedmyfaceandhead,

inself-inAlictedbaptismformyownbluebottlesins,

openedmyeyes,exhaledallmybluebubbles,forthelongestofrepentantmoments.

PulledoutofthewatergaspingtheholySpringairfordearlife

andthereafterwalkedeachstepinthegardenofresurrection.

The Blue Bottleby Girard Tournesol

photo

by Jessic

a W

eib

le

Waitnotuponthatwhichiscoming

buttakewhathasarrived,isbefore

eyesandearsandtouchandtaste

andsmellinthefullnesstheunknown,

thenotyetheredoesnotpossess

andnotforgetthatwhatispresent

wasrecentlyasunknown.Thatwhich

isyettoarriveisthecertaintyofnotyet

turningtohereandnow.

Letnothingbeturnedaway

becauseyouwait—whathasarrived

istheful>illmentofwait

andthepromise

ofmoretocome.

Wait Notby Byron Hoot

photo

by T

ricia

Gru

nic

k

Retail

Price

$8

Submit, find resources, and get involvedthewatershedjournal.org

thewatershedjournal@gmail.com

front and back cover photos by Paul Staniszewski