I hunch on the bathhouse steps and turn

to the thunk of the diving board

to catch the plush and then her strokes

cutting toward the roar of the spillway.

SWIM AT YOUR OWN RISK

NO LIFEGUARD

sheens in three-foot black letters

on the concrete wall staring creekside.

The twin water towers chug steam

in ribbon-thin clouds, the breeze unwinds.

The forest leaves waver on the hill

by the rapids, now gold, now silver.

Shall I go to her now, speak my mind?

A laurel bush winks in the wind,

a few tentative syllables the creek summons:

Not now, not yet, the creek whispers.

At the Waterworks, 1968

by Michael Benigni

photo by Judy Schwab17

saying, “No Way!”) She turned and ran toward the Palace then at the last minute detoured left heading for the back of the house. Trooper hurried inside hoping to begin his breakfast but came back out immediately to help his sister (although I saw him look longingly at that handful of hay.) I took the grain back to the feed barn and grabbed the lid of a metal garbage can. Now I had what I hoped would be protection as well as a wider run-away-blocker to help me herd her back to the Palace. Didn’t work. She did circles around me – head down with determination in her dance of defiance in her attitude. Thinking Lucky might feel abandoned and come running I

stumbled to the Palace and closed myself inside, I could see my outlaw goats just yards away. Lucky was crying, “Ma! Ma!” and Trooper was standing to the side looking confused. I opened the door. Lucky stayed put but Trooper seized the opportunity to grab a mouthful of grain then made a quick exit. Neighbor dog, Abby came to help. Abby is Boxer big and is blessed with a loud, gruff voice. Whatever she told the goats had them heading the wrong way.

Then Abby was called home. I returned to hiding behind the Palace door and this time remained inside a good while longer. Lucky came closer all the while calling for her “Ma” while Trooper watched to see what his sister wanted to do. When she was within a few feet of the door I slowly opened it and stood aside. First the white streak of my billy goat entered screeching to a halt at his feed dish. Lucky hesitated but finally gave in to the smell of breakfast. As fast as my played out body could move, I closed the door, put away my ‘shield’ and climbed the hill to my own door. Once inside I removed a few layers of outside clothes and collapsed in my favorite chair. Without a word Bill delivered a steaming hot mug of coffee and didn’t crack a joke or even a smile until much later. That afternoon that same defiant nanny goat was as sweet and cooperative as could be. Guess she just had a severe case of cabin fever.

Every day on the Summit is an adventure thanks to a collection of critters both tame and wild. This is a story involving our lady goat, Lucky Stripe. Lucky lives (usually peacefully) with her brother, Trooper. It’s been a long winter on the Summit and in order to keep my goats warm and their beds dry they have spent most of the time confined to their rather small barn – commonly referred to as the Palace. Each morning I replace frozen water dishes with fresh water and provide a small breakfast. Lucky always ‘helps’. She can’t wait for the door to open and believes striking it with her front feet and/or ample set of horns will cause it to open faster. She follows me into the hay barn to supervise (aka get-in-the-way) while I collect a bit of grain and a handful of hay for each animal. She then leads the way back to her Palace. The ritual is repeated in the afternoon but with a bigger ration of goat grain, fresh produce scraps and best of all the peels of carrots or apples. Today was cold, dark, wet and windy.This well-fed, sedentary, gray-haired female had piled on triple layers of coats and was wearing long johns under her lined jeans. Her oversize heavy-ugly-warm-dry boots flopped on her feet and her tassel hat was creeping off her ears pushed by the big warm hood that protected her somewhat from the wind. I just wanted to get the critters taken care of and go take a nap...It wasn’t to be. Apparently, the long confinement had pushed Lucky over the edge. On the way down the hill I could hear her calling, “Ma! Ma!” and hitting the door of her Palace until it rattled on its hinges. When I opened it she sprinted out, her brother close behind. But today instead of following me to the feed barn Lucky trotted half way up the path, stopped and turned to look at me. I got the feed and hay and took it to the Palace. Trooper followed me but Lucky refused to move. I walked toward her – she moved further away and now Trooper was outside again. He goes where his sister leads. I got a small portion of her favorite grain and offered it to her. She approached me with her horned head down and mutiny in her eyes. (Pet goats have a unique way of

Cabin Feverby Peggy Zortman

photo by Peggy Zortman

18

There’s beauty in the frosted fields

with haystacks piled high

the rubbled corn left on the ground

and winter’s fierceness nigh

As skeletons of goldenrod—

dry sentinels—remain

to speak of autumn’s once-red hue

to whisper summer’s gain

Frost has killed

and yet the earth sustains

its chosen kind—

a fox amid the crusted stalks,

a hawk among the pines—

The dew collects on weavers' webs

left ragged, insect-torn,

and freezes into mandalas

for spiders yet unborn

Frosted Fieldsby Patricia Thrushart

photo by Jo Scheier Bugay19

My Apple Treeby Wanda Logan

I had forgotten about the old tree and how she comforted me until, as an adult, I read aloud “The Giving Tree” by Shel Silverstein to my children as they snuggled into their beds. Not having pre-read the story, tears were streaming down my face by the end of the book, but luckily, my children had fallen asleep before the emotion of the story overtook me.

I, too, had a tree. We lived in a little development against a mountain in North Central Pennsylvania during my childhood. I was the eldest. My Mom had divorced and remarried and I had a younger half-sister. We were free to roam the woods and hillsides near our home and often “borrowed” our Father's tools to build tree forts. There was a special place called “The Wax Mine” that was within walking distance. It is told that during the war, explosives were stored there in wax bunkers. We used to pack a lunch and take off for the woods and dig wax out of the old bunkers. I wonder now if it was dangerous?

On one of the expeditions to the wax mine, I wandered off by myself and came upon a lovely apple tree, all in bloom. The lowest limb was rather close to the ground and seemed to beckon me to sit awhile, which I did. As I gazed up into the tree, white blossoms floated down on me, set free by my movement. I soon noticed that the limb had a crook and that I could settle back and lie down as if resting in a hammock, except that it rocked gently up and down instead of swinging back and forth, releasing more fragrant, snow-white petals. I quieted myself and heard the buzzing of the many bees above me, gathering nectar as they dusted themselves with the yellow pollen. Off in the distance, I heard another soothing sound: a brook, bubbling and chuckling along over smooth-edged rocks.

 I found myself drawn to the sounds of the singing

water so I moved to where the edge of the creek met the ground. It was covered in dark green

photo by Rose James

fragrant moss so thick that when I stepped upon it, I felt as if I were floating on clouds.

I immediately sat upon the moss, removed my shoes and put my feet into the clear, shining water. It was so cold, my legs ached all the way up to my knees, but as I began to enter the creek and explore, my body grew accustomed to the chilly water.

I felt as if I had discovered paradise on Earth! When I reluctantly headed home as the sun was setting, I knew I would revisit my secret spot again and again.

Over the tumultuous years of my teens, I would escape to the apple tree, the green, fragrant moss, and singing water to avoid the wrath of my mother; to find that quiet place of inner piece; to tattoo the initials of my lover into the bark of the tree; and later to weep over lost love.

I recently revisited my old hometown and decided to go and look for my tree. A factory had been built near the place where the tree was located. Would I even be able to find the place? I hiked around the perimeter of the factory grounds and found the path beside the creek that led to The Wax Mine and then on to my spot. I rounded the bunkers and looked to where the tree once stood. Amazingly, it was still there! The limb I used to rest on was touching the ground and the tree itself looked like there wasn’t much life left. I softly approached my old friend who knew so many of my secrets and gently stroked her rough, dry, peeling bark. I felt like the character in “The Giving Tree.”  

I leaned against the apple tree and whispered my thanks and gathered pieces of broken limbs on the ground to remember her. I gave thanks for living in a time and place that allowed me to have this most precious experience of loving a tree; of lying in rich green, fragrant moss; of washing away my tears and fears in a bubbling brook. Have you hugged a tree today?

20

inhabiting the pool.

At the head of the pool was a run of riffles, even but for

an eddy formed by a pyramid shaped rock that stood

twelve inches above the water’s surface. The eddy

served to trap passing food items for the trout and gave

this morning’s mayflies a merry-go-round ride into the

waiting mouth of the great fish. Between their hide and

the trout stood ten feet of open bank comprised of sand

and moss.

The observer stayed hidden and kept tabs on the fish

while the caster snuck away and crossed safely

downstream below the pool. The angler made his

clandestine approach screened from the rising trout by

the mid-pool boulder.

Kneeling to stay hidden, he

made a final inspection of his

leader and tippet. He double-

checked the knot holding the

fly; a barbless AuSable Wulff

#14. The cast would have to

be low and nearly forty feet.

The fly would have to land

just above and to the right of the pyramid rock to allow

the line to stay clear of the eddy and give the fly a drag-

free drift that would not alarm the fish.

The potentiality of the situation caused the angler’s

world to shrink to just him and the fish. His peripheral

vision blurred and sweat beaded on his forehead as his

partner's voice faded. A large part of the mystique of fly

fishing stems from the enchanting beauty of the cast. To

be sure, the most sublime form of the sport is achieved

while fishing a dry fly. None of those philosophical

arguments mattered to the angler at this moment. The

cast and the dry fly were nothing more than tools he

needed to allow him the chance to possess the trout.

A slight wrinkle in the broken water betrayed the

monarch. The two friends moved forward as quickly as

a stealthy approach would allow. Concealed by a thin

wall of hemlock, they waited. Sip… There it was again.

Sip… sip… sip… The rise was rhythmic but unhurried,

and far too dainty for the size of the old brown trout

enjoying a morning’s hatch of mayflies.

The friends, though approaching middle age, looked on

with boyish wonder and excitement about what they

were seeing. Through the pellucid water, they sorted out

the well-camouflaged trout from the shell and sandstone

streambed. What they saw amazed them. The lovely fish

was approaching twenty inches. He was wholly

disproportionate to the small

stream, flowing through the

quiet Jefferson County

hollow he inhabited.

The giant brown with fan-

sized golden fins continued

his languid rise as the friends

flipped a smooth, disc

shaped, stream stone to see

who would have a go at him. The winner of the stone

toss graciously offered to concede his turn, but the loser,

more graciously, declined. Strategies were discussed in

hushed tones as they remained low and hidden in the

cool shade of the hemlocks.

Though the trout resided in a small stream, it chose the

finest pool within the length of the watershed. The pool,

sixty feet long and twenty feet wide, was formed at a

sharp bend where the stream pushed up against a steep

hillside. Large boulders, the size of compact cars, held

water back at the lower end. At mid pool, another large

boulder protruded from the steep bank and extended,

table-like, just under the surface and ten feet into the

water, forming a wonderful retreat for any fish

Small Stream, Big Troutby Mike Weible

"He sees it!" was

all that his

friend said.

21

He stripped line from his reel as he intentionally made

his first cast to the right of the fish in order that he

might gauge his cast length without alerting the trout.

To the angler’s surprise, the spotter excitedly called out

that the trout was turning toward the fly. The wulff

passed by too quickly and the trout turned back to its

feeding position. The caster skillfully picked the line up

from the water as he prepared to make his measured

presentation to the fish. The line came back low and

straightened out behind the angler as he gently applied

just enough pressure to create a tightly-formed loop on

the forward cast, just above the water’s surface. He

checked the cast and dropped the rod to the right to

mend his line in order that only the fly would float over

the fish. The fly drifted to the water’s surface like goose

down.

“He sees it!” was all that his friend said. Two seconds

later the fly disappeared. The angler raised the rod to set

the hook and the battle was on. The fish raced upstream

ten feet ripping line from the reel then turned and

rocketed downstream past the angler. The rod was

arched high and the tip swung upstream to maintain a

tight line. The gossamer tippet that seconds ago allowed

the trout to be fooled by the fly was now the weakest

link between the trout and the fisherman. He could do

no more than hold on as the trout bulldozed on the

bottom at the foot of the pool.

Typically taciturn while fishing, the angler's verbal

prayers would just as quickly turn to lamentations if the

fish were lost at this point. The great trout, fighting deep

within the pool, now sought sanctuary under the

midstream rock. The angler yelled out to his friend that

the fish would surely be lost now as it was running the

line against the edge of the overhanging rock, refusing

to leave the safety of its fortress.

For a time nothing happened; the angler and the trout

were attached to one another by the arched rod and

strained line. In order to gain control of the perilous

situation, the angler decided to jump up and down on

the rock. It worked! The fish was spooked from its

refuge and was forced to fight for his life in open water.

After several anxious and agonizing minutes of battle,

the fish began to fatigue allowing the angler to coax him

in by degrees. Twice he passed within reach before the

net was swept over him from behind. The great fish

struggled within the net as the angler cried out in

victory.

The fisherman and his friend shared a moment of

elation. They marveled at the gold and tans of the fish.

Its fins were huge and undamaged. Spots of glossy

black and scarlet adorned his sides. In the corner of the

fishes hooked toothy jaws was the fly, barely holding

on. The fly was gently removed and the tape was laid

along the nineteen inches of beautiful wild brown trout.

The thought of relegating the beautiful fish to the lowly

station of a den wall ornament never crossed the

fisherman’s mind. No words needed to be said between

the old friends. The monarch was gently lowered back.

Cradled in the cool water his gills flared, he shook his

head, and with a powerful surge of his tail he retreated

back into the depths of his pool to regain his throne.

Fatigue and joy washed over the angler as his friend

extended a hand of congratulations. They both wore a

smile as they made the long hike out, taking turns

retelling and perfecting the story they would certainly

cherish for the remainder of their lives.

photo by Mike Weible

22

23

photo by Greg Clary

Returning home to Greenbottom and hearing

“Hey Baby”, “Darlin”, “Honey”.

“What can I get you?”

“How you doing?”

From unfamiliar women.

How I miss those sweet terms of affection.

But, Sugar is what gets me.

Every time.

Tips are automatically doubled,

Purchases are made that weren’t intended.

My face goes from grim to grin.

Every time.

Today, sitting alone in the woods, buck hunting,

I got to thinking.

Sugar. Why sugar?

Then a vision. An awareness. A discernment. An image.

My mother died as I turned 3, and

her oldest sister, my Aunt June,

would stop by, pick me up,

turn me upside down,

rough me up, make me laugh.

And call me Sugar.

Every time.

Something I needed, but could not name.

Something I still need.

When a grin needs help conquering grim.

When I come home each day.

Every time.

Sugarby Greg Clary

24photo by Tricia Grunick

The fall came suddenly, almost by surpriseWith just a slight twist of an old unforgiving hip

Against The Wind

Unceremoniously, he lay prostrate in itFace down in a pyre of leaves

A pile of autumn, and since the fallA heap of _ _ _ _

Against The Wind

How easily he was raked inBy Jack Frost, the apparition of breath

A cool and colorful callerAlways calling with and never ever

Against The Wind

Stillness lay within the leavesEach one a day in His life

A harvest of daysBlessed or cursed, but fully lived

Against The Wind

His nose spoke first and led The WayTickled into sneezing he inhaled

The mossy joy of his youthWhen falling into leaves was sport

Ah, to fallAgainst The Wind

Then his mind wandered toThe fried green tomatoes of summerThat yellow zoot-suit from his promThe sweet kiss of ruby red lipsThe amber of those momentsAll golden sunsets birthed by the night

He rolls over to look at the sky and treesThere are yet a few leaves on This treeHe stands to face the rakeHe knows will turn intoThe ache of the snow shovelYet again, another seasonAgainst The Wind

He leans on the rakeHe looks head onInto The Wind, and says:

Should this winter bringThe Ides of March

So be it, they will come, as alwaysAnd should the angels come for me

So be it, I will sing with the angelsShould the demons come for me,

So be it, I will drink with the demonsAnd should the light come for me

So be it, I will bow to the lightAnd should the darkness come for me

So be it, I will burn like leavesTo warm the darkness

EternallyAgainst The Wind

The Fall Came Suddenly

(Against the Wind)

by Girard Tournesol

photo by Rose James25

How can I sing that old comforting music

When youth’s melody soon comes to a close?

Beat your breasts, girls, and tear your tunics.

My dear friend Eros has laid down his rose.

Eros, again now, the loosener of limbs

Bittersweet, sly, uncontrollable creature

My servant no longer, follows his own whims.

He has forgotten me, his ardent beseecher.

Rosy-armed Dawn, they say, love-smitten

Once carried me off to the world’s ledge.

But Dawn’s light scattered itself unwritten

And the bleak daylight now cuts with an edge.

Soon comes old age to seize my tender body,

Soon my dark hair will be white as the snow.

My legs will grow tired and my knees knobby;

Already my sallow cheeks have lost their glow.

But Apollo has not yet the sunset begun,

And while my eyes still have their brightness

Is there hope to be found, victory to be won,

Though the die has been rolled in blindness?

Can I learn to create my own delicate fire?

I hear my voice, far off, and listen.

My aching care is no longer required.

A shattered heart is only transition.

Delicate Fireby Sarah Rossey

photo by Sarah Rossey 26

Among the flowers and weeds, somewhere in between, is where I sit;

hidden under their leaves and holding onto their stems.

With whom do I belong?

For which one am I?

Will I be so sly as to escape the weed's deadly grasp?

Am I strong enough to grow tall and bloom,

or will I simply curl in the shadows, never to face the sun?

Perhaps my roots will persevere and my stem be sturdy

that I will indeed grow boldly to the light, casting blossoms yet to be seen.

For I am dually the weed and the flower; a wildflower, unlike any other,

who has landed to root in the mud to be only what I am.

Among the Flowersby Laurie Barrett

photo by Greg Clary

27

I have never been a bel iever in reincarnation and have only slightly considered the theory of the recycling of the souls. My mother’s wee granny, however, according to family lore, was born with a “veil over her face”, an old-time term for a birth anomaly that some believe gave her the “gift” of foretelling the future. There are many family stories of her predictions, including her vision that she was going to die soon when apparently there was nothing wrong with her health. And sure enough, a few days after her prediction, she did die. Her death certificate lists the cause of death simply as “old age”.

It was when I was given an opportunity to accompany my husband on a business trip to the Far East, namely Hong Kong, Malaysia, and Taiwan, that a local doctor, a native of India, cautioned me to be wary of people from Sri Lanka during our trip. Seems his warning had something to do with mysticism.

Flying from DuBois, we touched down in Pittsburgh, Atlanta, Los Angeles, Anchorage, and then the big hop across the Pacific to our first stop, Hong Kong. I vividly remember the crowds of people performing tai chi in the streets in the morning on their way to work. We toured the city by double decker bus and rode the ferry back and forth between Kowloon and Hong Kong Island. We rode the train to the top of Victoria’s Peak and back.

Looking for more adventure on the last full day we were there, we decided to take a train north out of the city toward the rural area that the British named the New Territories. The track ran along the coast and we went to the end of the line, which then was under British rule. About half way back to Hong Kong, the train stopped at a large metropolis, Shatin, with a population at that time of more than 461,000. It is the location of the Temple of Ten Thousand Buddhas. By chance, we exited the train to visit the Temple.

To reach the Temple of Ten Thousand Buddhas, we first passed the Po Fook Hill Ancestral Halls where we witnessed families gathering to have picnics in front of the walls where their ancestors were interred. Passing the Halls, we climbed 500 steps up the path through heavy vegetation to reach the top. The day was hot and steamy, but upon arrival the temple area was quiet and peaceful. Pilgrims were here and there making offerings of rice to Buddha. I was quite taken with the embalmed body of the founder of the Temple, Rev. Yuet Kai, painted with gold leaf, draped in robes, sitting cross-legged on display in a glass case in front of the main altar.

Eventually my husband and I sat in a courtyard reflecting on the sights around us; gold Buddhas of various sizes adorning the walls. It was while we were sitting there that I noticed a man watching me from across the courtyard. Eventually he approached. “Excuse me.” he said in English. “I am from Sri Lanka. Are you from Portugal?” “No”, I responded, “I’m from Pennsylvania.” Never taking his gaze off me, he said, “I have met you before in another life. The Portuguese sailors used to bring their wives.”

I can’t recall what our next actions were other than we politely declined further conversation and walked away. What sticks with me to this day is that on the first leg of our journey to the Far East we encountered a person from Sri Lanka, as our doctor had cautioned. How could he have known? We made the trip to that mountainside north of Hong Kong by chance. Certainly our encounter with this stranger from Sri Lanka was far from ordinary. He knew me in another life. In retrospect, I wish I could share this experience with my mother’s wee granny and what her vision might reveal to me.

My "Other" Life by Kathy Myers

28

photo by Kathy Myers

I walked

No I ran

Towards the storm

Wanting it to consume

Me

With its wild winds

Its monstrous rains

I wanted its lightning

Its bright flashes

To pull me up

Wash me clean

And rebirth me

Free

But the madness

Enslaved me

Kept me

Breathing fast and alone

Searching for light

That was never there

I tried to find my

Footing

But the storm knocked

Me loose

Tumbling

Into the crash of thunder

Silencing my screams

This one thing

I thought would save me

Crippled me

Left me hunting

Hungry

I saw the storm

In you

When you never could

And now

The storm

Is me.

Broken Watch

by Amy Salsgiver

photo by Aaron Ames29

Reflections in Retrospect

I look upon my life thus far,

Wonder where I lost my star,

Did I lose it at the Liberty Bell?

Or did it go in a lobster shell?

Can I recapture it in forest green?

Should I look more closely in a dream?

What is important at this stage in the

game?....love? money?...the latter insane,

The former still most important by far,

For love is truly a reachable star.

by Elaine Bigley

photo by Sandi Bell

30

by Rick Abbot

Lyrics by Tim Rice Music by Andrew Lloyd Webber

Music by Andrew Tom Kitt Book & Lyrics by Brian Yorkey

A Reitz Theater Original

Book by Roald Dahl Dramatized by Richard R. George

by Ken Ludwig

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