'It
Was Quite A Distance' by Margie
Craine Neilson
She measured distance, not in the usual way, not in
the way that most people measured distance. Not by
inches or by centimeters, not in miles or kilometers
and certainly not by longitudes or latitudes. Not even
by the long city blocks of her old neighborhood did
she measure distance. No - she measured distance by
light and shadow. By the varying degrees of bright
summoned by the slow rise and descent of the day's
sun. She measured distance by the blue black arch of
shadows cast by an evening's moon. And she measured
distance by music: short crisp punctuated notes, or
long sinewy drawn out tones. Distance could be
measured by the shades of soft green produced by Enya
or the driving piano rhythms of Fats Waller. It could
be measured by the hot feeling of red she got when her
mother forgot to come see her or by her warm pink
feeling when she stroked the soft fur of the kitten
down the street. Sometimes distance could be measured
by the boring beige tune of a carrot and peas medley
orchestrated in the cafeteria down the hallway. And
distance measured in these ways assured her that she
would always be able to tell just precisely how far
she had come.
'Dorsey
& Lynette' by Earl
Phillips
Dorsey sat at his table under the awning in front of
the Latte Lounge & Cafe, adjusted his horn-rimmed
glasses, allowed his fingers to climb over the brown
lunch bag holding two containers of fast food that he
bought from the side window of the Cafe on Orinda
Street, as he did six days a week during his lunch
hour. Without a second thought he pushed aside the
dull gray box of specially machined bolts he had to
deliver after he ate, and wiped his palms on the knees
of his work pants, stained by machine oil from the
shop that never washed away.
He'd
received notification today that his divorce was
final.
Lynette
stared out of the front window of the Orinda
Restaurant while she waited to be served, as she did
every day during her lunch hour, and as usual noticed
Dorsey across the street going through his lunch
routine under the awning at the outdoor
table.
While
Dorsey ate his lunch he watched the small birds that
regularly busied themselves around the row of small
oak trees planted across the street by the Orinda
Street Merchant's Association. He also watched Lynette
eating her lunch behind the plate glass window of the
restaurant. She was always neatly dressed for the
business office and always had a book open on the
table which she read as she ate, occasionally glancing
out the window. Their eyes had never met and she gave
no indication she ever noticed him. Dorsey was
conscious of the light and shadow that played across
her attractive face, highlighting her dark brown
bobbed hair and metal rimmed glasses.
He
had been watching her for months. At night he dreamed
about her, in the morning he lay in bed fantasizing
about her, and every day was impatient at work for
lunchtime and then hurried to the Cafe.
Meanwhile,
Lynette was thinking about her divorce which had been
final for months, thinking about marriage in general,
conscious that Dorsey always watched her. When she
looked up he was gone. After lunch, on the way back to
work, she walked past the Cafe.
The
next day Dorsey walked past the Orindo Restaurant and
looked in the window as he passed. She wasn't at her
table. He turned, went inside and sat at the same
table where she usually sat. He ordered lunch from the
menu, looked out the window, noticed the small birds
around the oak trees, and glanced across the street to
his usual table under the awning at the Latte
Cafe.
Lynette
was sitting at the table eating her lunch from a brown
bag.
'Celtic
Spirit' by Lisa
Boisjolie
When the full moon sits on the coastal mountains I
allow myself once again to slip away to the place I
have known since childhood. A land of another time and
a different continent than mine. Even though I was
born an American, my French father and my Irish mother
instilled in me a love for the homelands of my
grandparents. Though my blood lines may be equal, I
feel a bond to my Celtic lineage.
Mary
Jacob was born in Belfast of Northern Ireland: A woman
who taught school, ran her late fathers' farm and
attended the university to further her curiosity in
philosophy. All at the same time. When she decided she
wanted a husband, and not any of those blasted drunks
found down at Shays' Pub, she chose to sail over the
muttering waves of the north channel to Scotland. In
less than a year she and her new husband journeyed the
gale force back to Belfast.
Five
children and three grandchildren later, she became my
grandmother. She taught me of her Ireland. A place
where you ramble along the purple moor to where the
moon meets the sea. At night, the Belfast Lough casts
its sapphire waves toward the ribbon of moonlight that
leads home.
A
stone house nestled in the woodlands is her home. For
more than two hundred springs, gusty winds have beaten
against its chanking shutters. In this stone and
mortar home I learned to love that country through her
words and feelings.
My
grandmother had an insatiable desire to show me the
Ireland that bore, raised and nurtured her into the
woman she came to be. From this devotion she hoped I
would grow to know and treasure my Celtic heritage
just as she had. It was from these shared times I felt
not only a connection to Ireland but came to know the
part of me that was of my grandmother: the strong
will, love of life, Irish blue eyes, and an off-beat
sense of humor, all distinctively from
her.
She
spoke in a thick brogue which seemed to become thicker
whenever she would speak of her beloved home. She
loved to tell of her many chats with the "lil' music
man." She explained how he would only come out to sing
and dance and play his fiddle for children. I was
told, "That nonsense of rainbows and gold is just pure
foolishness!"
Over
the many years I spent holidays and vacations with
her, I enjoyed rising in the early morn for a chance
to see the little fiddler. Dressed in trousers, wool
sweaters, knit cap, and rubber boots that went up to
the thigh,I would set out with my grandmother
searching for the clever little man. Although he
eluded us, the ventures were always brimming with
endless delight. My wee friend would lead us down the
familiar path bordered in violets. Just as I felt I
could hear his song, he would dance away into the
shadows of the cypress trees. As we wandered back,
Gran would tell me more stories of her childhood and
the great adventures her father had shared with her of
his days as a merchant seaman.
The
celebrations I experienced in Ireland I have never
matched in my country. Always with good-hearted
people, eating and drinking and making merry while the
dark veil of night feel upon us. We danced and laughed
until my glazed eyes told tale on me. I would be
ushered to my grandmother's home to a tall narrow bed
with time-worn blankets and chilly
sheets.
As
a young woman, I found my taste in Celtic men to be
that of my grandmother. I so enjoyed their company,
laughing and jesting with them as I drank their ale. I
always took great enjoyment in harmonizing with Shamus
Morgan and his pals, but to commit my life to any of
them surely would have meant death for one of
us!
It
was in Ireland that I learned to appreciate music
filled with passion. Be it great joy or heavy sorrow,
the feeling was expressed strongly in the music,
stirring my feet as well as my
emotions.
As
my fast-paced American days seem to spill from one
into the other, I continue to feel the pull for refuge
in my grandmother's homeland. I long to look upon the
green pastures separated only by twining roads, to
hear the enchanting sounds of tin whistles and
fiddles, to dance with the cherished music that has
soothed Irish souls for centuries, and have it once
again clear the brambles of my mind. Some days, I
would give my citizenship to sit in Shays' Pub where
the talk and laughter is so loud and dense it is
impossible to worry or contemplate on anything more
important than the warm ale.
When
I see the full moon sit on the coastal mountains I
long to touch the iron handle on the thick ewe door
that opens to my ancestors'
home.
