Poem by Meghan Eddy

Sunrise Tantalize
I see you through weathered eyes
Compared to you I am young
But to Them, my song’s been sung.

The creases and the wrinkles
And the slowly fading twinkle
Of my eyes, tells the tale
The sad truth, tooth and nail.

I am frail, elderly, maybe old,
But still I can crack the mold
I can refuse to go down weary
I will be fiery, and devastatingly contrary.

I will travel and see sunrise,
Although it may be through weathered eyes,
Because compared to you I’m still young
And according to me my song’s just begun

The Dogs in the Box, a short story by Paul McCreary

Don't let us creep you out but one day, in the 1950s, an ocean side town near Jacksonville, Florida, receives a visit from a long forgotten inhabitant.

The wild-eyed, unshaven, electric-haired man stood transfixed, watching eight puppies sleeping in a box on the oceanside home's porch. The man moved spasmodically toward them, grinned vacantly, then retreated.

The Trumbulls, the house's owners, were gone. Their maid, Geneva, had not noticed the man as she performed her household chores. Black and round, she whistled “The Red, Red, Robin”.

Hearing Geneva through the screen door, the porch man hummed the melody in a rumbling, throaty way. He began zipping and unzipping his pants with the beat. Instead of following the maid’s whistling, he followed one in his head. Johnny B. Goode. Chuck Berry's guitar pounded and the zipper flew as the man burst into loud, staccato laughter.

Geneva dusted, singing a blues song, Big Woman, Don’t Fall on Me. Hearing laughter outside, she stopped.

Snapping back to reality, the man pulled his zipper to the top, before reaching for the nearest dog. Precisely then, Geneva glanced out the door.

“What is you doin’ on the porch?,” she fearlessly inquired.

Peering at her with a half-psychotic quizzical stare, he leaned sideways as if looking around a corner. Another song began playing in his inner sanctum.
Come along baby, we got chicken in the barn,
Whose barn, what barn, my barn.
We ain’t fakin’, whole lotta shakin’ goin’ on.

Imagining Jerry Lee Lewis’ piano pumping in high octane rhythm, he stared through Geneva. Reaching again for his zipper, he followed the thumping beat. He shook his legs like a rock star and the zipping increased to a frantic pace.

Geneva had never seen anyone quite like the man.

“I said, what is you doin’ out here? I’m talkin’ to you.”

The man focused upon Geneva, speaking in a fine, measured, deferential manner. “Why, madam, I live here.”

“You don’t live here. Trumbulls live here. I live here. You don’t live here.”

“Pardon me, my lady, but I do. It was my place of birth half a century ago. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Claudius Blackwell. The Third. Doctor of Veterinary Medicine. I have been away for a time. I was preparing to . . perhaps examine . . these canines here on my porch.

“Them is not your dogs. This is not your porch, and you ain’t no doctor.”

“Oh, but I am, Miss . . .”

“I am Geneva. Geneva Washington. I work here. I live here. You need to get off these folks’porch, or I’ll sweep you off.”

“My lovely, that will not be necessary. Will you join me in a dance? The Viennese Waltz.

“I don’t dance with no stranger man.”

Fixing upon her for a long moment, Claudius assumed a distinguished courtliness.

“I assure you that my intentions are strictly honorable. I would not force the dance upon you, unless you desire. Certainly, I would accept an invitation to your chamber.”

“You ain’t gettin’ into my chamber, or nothin’ else!,” declared Geneva, her bosom thrust forward. “Now put down them dogs before I call the police and Mr. Trumbull.”

“I never have and never shall refuse a lady’s request. It is nearing time for my bath. If you would kindly draw some hot water, I will join you in sweet bliss and ecstasy,” Claudius pronounced. “Allow me to carry you over the threshold.”

Before Geneva could protest, Claudius lifted her. Laboring, he fell as Geneva sprawled on top of him. Vigilant neighbor ladies came to their windows, binoculars trained.
“Why, my lovely, are you resting upon me? Never have I experienced such pulchritudinous felicity.”

Geneva looked into Claudius’ now clear blue eyes. He stared at a cloud, wondering at its metamorphosis, from a sailing ship to a snow lion, then a polar bear. “Your soft form is comforting. Shall we move to the parlor and talk of romance?”

Again, he attempted carrying her, struggling towards the door. The neighbor ladies were fixed at their thinly veiled windows. Desperately wanting to call each other, wild horses could not have pried them away from their voyuerism. Claudius finally carried Geneva inside. The neighbor ladies rushed to their telephones, frantically dialing each other.
Geneva realized that Mr. and Mrs. Trumbull may arrive home at any time.

“My lady, we are in my castle of love,” said Claudius. “Now I shall draw my bath so that I can be …pristine for you. You may await in your chamber, or mine.” Claudius walked toward the winding stairs, stopped, then pulled his zipper to another tune.
You shake my nerves and you rattle my brain,
Too much love’ll drive a man insane . .

Forgetting the next words, he mumbled some do-do-dos, then collapsed into a large chair. Arising, he announced as he ascended the stairs, “I am off, madam. We shall meet in the boudoir.”

In about ten minutes, Geneva heard the slamming door of an automobile. She was besieged by panic and fear. Anything but Mr. Trumbull’s Lincoln, she hoped, then looked out the window. It was indeed R.T. and Violet Trumbull.

“Lord, Mr. Trumbull’s here. I hope Miz Trumbull's not with him. Pleeease,” she prayed. “Mister . . . Doctor . . . Whatchamacallit . .” Geneva called up the stairs in a loud whisper, attempting to warn Claudius, now immersed to his chin in the tub. He created hurricanes and tidal waves that crashed into bars of soap, which were ocean liners and islands at his mercy.

A puppy had followed Claudius. Imagining it a great whale, he lifted it into the tub.
“You have come to join me. Perhaps Geneva would join us. I shall make an inquiry.”

Downstairs, the Trumbulls had entered the foyer. Geneva was there to greet them.“Good afternoon, folks.” she said. She was certain that the Trumbulls could hear the water splashing in the tub. “Uh, it’s good to see you home.”

“It is good to see you, too, Geneva. How has your day been?” asked Mr. Trumbull
.
“Oh, fine. Very fine,” she replied, trying to disguise her traumatized state.

Exiting the bathroom, Claudius heard voices downstairs. Looking into the hallway mirror, he nodded approval before proceeding. Geneva heard him coming, and hoped to stall the meeting. It was too late.

“I see guests have arrived,” said Claudius, paused at the landing. “Geneva, be so kind as to fix them a drink on this lovely day. This is the South.”Clad only in a towel, Claudius continued downward. Recalling the hurricane he had created, he whirled slowly like the wind. He imagined the Trumbulls as swamped by the storm. Concerned that they needed something to dry them, Claudius was in a quandary. His training as a gentleman made the choice easy. Whipping off his towel, he offered it to Mrs. Trumbull with a bow."My lady, allow me,” he said, as she ran shrieking.

In a state of frozen incomprehension, R.T. asked, “What, Sir, are you doing here?”

“This is my home, lad. You are always welcome,” said Claudius, offering R.T. his towel. “You must have had an ordeal on the seas.”

“What? I . . you . . who are you?” asked R.T.

“I am Dr. Claudius Blackwell the Third. Veterinarian. Is there an an ill animal on your boat? Rains must have been torrential. Bad for animals. Very bad.”

Claudius began spinning and waved his towel. Tying it to his waist, he grabbed Geneva, waltzing to some lost, fleeting tune. The waltz was overtaken by Johnny B. Goode’s pounding guitar. He had an irresistible need to play his zipper, but his pants were upstairs! Frantically, his eyes searched the room. Ah, hah! There was R.T. Trumbull! Must be a zipper on his pants somewhere, Claudius reasoned. Releasing Geneva, he strutted toward R.T., following the beat. Claudius grasped the unsuspecting man’s zipper like a pit bull as lyrics came to him.Deep down in Loosiana close to New Orleans, back up in the woods among the evergreens . .

The guitar rocked and rolled, crescendoed, then reverberated throughout the doctor’s acoustically padded mind. R.T. was unsure how to react. Claudius became alarmed because R.T.’s hair was turning to flames! He had a solution. There was a pail near the bathtub. He tore up the stairs, filled the pail and raced back down. Terrified of Claudius’ intentions, R.T. ran out the door.

Claudius saw flames climb higher from R.T.’s head as he chased him across the lawn. R.T. hoped to reach his Lincoln before the doctor caught him. Violet sat in the car, suffering an anxiety attack. R.T. signaled her to open the door. Unsuccessfully.
Claudius was relieved to be gaining on R.T. The flames were out of control. Just as R.T. knocked on the driver door window, Claudius swamped his head. The flames died right out.

“I am pleased that the fire is extinguished, “ Claudius exulted. “Please take my towel.”
R.T. wiped his face in bewildered anticipation.

“Good sir, I shall return to my bath and prepare for the day. Ms. Washington may join me. Please bring your lovely wife for a return visit. My home is your home.”

With that genteel and hospitable invitation, Dr. Claudius Blackwell III walked back to his home, in the Southern breeze.

A poem by Becky Klein McCreary

A Kind-hearted Woman Lives Here

I pressed my summer-tanned cheek
against the white porch pillar,
flaking paint rough on my face.
I shyly peeked
at the hobo man sitting in my Daddy’s chair.
He smiled and said, thank you
when Mamma gave him
meat loaf, mashed potatoes, brown bread,
that was all he said.
I looked at his shoes,
one black, one brown
both scuffed and laced with twine
My six-year-old feet, bare
could walk, even run
on the railroad bed
where the hobo man jumped the train
to find a kind-hearted woman.
He knew I watched him
sitting in Daddy’s chair.
Little girl, bring me a stick!
I gave him an apple twig.
His tired, blue eyes
squinted a smile.
In the dirt of our driveway
he outlined Indiana,
and inside,
he drew a smiling cat --
a message for the next hobo
who jumped the train
to find a kind-hearted woman.

A short story by Joan Baril

This story tells the tale of a co-op house in Winnipeg in the early 1970's. The residents want to help Americans who come to Canada to avoid the Vietnam War. The story was first published in Thunder on the Bay, a local anthology by the Writers' Circle.

THE DODGE
by Joan Baril

When Carl told us about the draft dodger he’d met at the homeless shelter, we were all in favour of letting him move in with us. Actually Carl, Catherine and I were in favour; Maurice had reservations.

“We don’t have enough room, for one thing,” Maurice said. He was stretched out on the living room rug, his head near the wall and his stocking feet close to the door.

“There’s an extra cot in the basement,” I said. “He can sleep down there with Carl.”

“Christie, look around you.” Maurice waved one foot in the air. “There’s only three chairs in here. And the front hall is a pile of junk. It’s the Great Wall of Winnipeg out there.”

He had a point, I had to admit. The small entry was so jammed with snow boots, running shoes, text books, and skates you had to push hard to open the front door from the outside. We couldn’t use the back door; we’d covered it with insulation and plastic because it leaked so much heat.

“We don’t use this room often,” Catherine Semenek, Maurice’s partner, pointed out, “but the kitchen’s a good size and that’s what matters.” She was in her yoga pose on the rug beside him, her coffee cup balanced on one knee. She raised her arm with one finger in the air. “And why did we rent this house? Wasn’t it to take in Vietnam War resisters?” She frowned down at him. “Now, you’re backing out over a few fucking boots?” She was hitting Maurice’s ideological hot button. He sighed.

“If we’d take stuff to our rooms and leave the front for snow boots only…” I ventured, but Maurice and Catherine, who had heard this argument before, were standing ready to leave for their evening activities.

But Carl stopped them cold. “Ray’s got a Dodge,” he said.

“The guy has a car?” Maurice said.

“A ‘67 Dodge. Ray’s got it parked behind the homeless shelter. The clutch is shot, but if he had a place to work on it, he says he’d get it going.” Carl told us he went with Ray around to the back of the shelter and saw the Dodge half buried in snow. He immediately thought of the old unused garage in our back yard. And Ray offered a deal. As soon as the car was running, we all could drive it as a co-op vehicle. He’d pay the insurance and that would count as his rent.

There was a brief silence while we took in this information. “We’ve got to get ourselves together on this,” Maurice said. “Another meeting tomorrow?” He gathered up his briefcase and piles of marked French papers from the bench in the hall. Catherine raced upstairs to get her dance bag. They were heading for the Portage Bus, he to Red River College where he taught French two nights a week, and she to her feminist theatre rehearsal.

After Carl and I cleaned up the coffee cups, he shrugged into his winter jacket adding a pack laden with pamphlets, posters and hand-outs for the Waffle meeting at the university. He also carried the coffee urn. Since I was the group’s secretary, I had the minutes in my shoulder bag as well as a completed history essay I intended to slip under my prof’s office door. I also had a cloth bag packed with coffee, serviettes, stirrers, sugar and creamer packets.

On the bus, as we steadied everything on our knees, I thought about how much easier the trip would be if we had a car. When I told Carl this, he smiled. “It’s all coming down, Christie. I can feel it. First a car for us. Next, at the NDP convention, the Waffle will bring the party back to its roots.” Carl was great, I thought. Even though he was an American, he was dedicated to the cause, to use the Waffle faction within the NDP to push the party farther to the left.

Carl Rosen was a deserter from the U.S. Marines who had moved in six months ago. He slept in the basement because there were only two tiny bedrooms upstairs. He was a dark-haired, soft-eyed young man who fit in well, paid his share of the rent on time with money from a part-time job at the food co-op and, besides helping out with the Waffle meetings, he volunteered at the homeless shelter.

The next day, during my morning classes at the university and my afternoon job at the candy counter of the Metropolitan Theatre, I fantasized about the Dodge. I saw us dashing around the city with ease putting up our demo posters. I pictured us loading the car with supplies for the Waffle meetings. I imagined us driving some of the older members who couldn’t get out in the winter. After my shift, as I waited for the bus at the corner of Portage and Main, I kept warm by conjuring visions of cozy rides to school in the mornings and sleepy rides home after work. Whenever a car went by with passengers cocooned from the cold, I smiled. Soon, my turn.

Later, in our old-fashioned kitchen, the coffee was perking. I tapped my empty cup with my spoon to get everyone’s attention. “We’ve got to make a decision about this guy at the homeless shelter,” I said. Carl, who’d made challah bread and chili for supper, and was now tackling the dishes, turned and wiped his hands. Maurice, with his chair tilted against the kitchen counter, closed the French text on his lap but did not come to ground. Catherine, who’d been doing yoga poses at the end of the kitchen, flipped to her feet. I set out all the reasons why we needed a car.

“No argument from me,” Catherine said. “We need this vehicle for our political work.” That sealed it for Maurice. Carl would invite Ray to move in the next day.

“Where’s the key for the garage door padlock?” I said. “Is it still on the hook by the back door?” I was in a hurry to get the scheme going.

Raymond Burns was from Minneapolis. He was a short guy in his twenties with a narrow unshaven face and a bouncy walk like a gymnast. Instead of long flowing hair like Maurice’s or Carl’s, he had a duck cut in front and a little pony tail in back—a sort of 50s, 60s combo. That evening, Maurice filled him in on the house rules. “And there’s no smoking inside,” he said when Ray brought out a pack of Players

“No problem, man,” Ray said, putting the blue box back in his shirt pocket.

The next evening, our new resident cooked up clam chowder, dished it out and, after supper, following the house rule that the cook does the dishes, tied a towel around his waist and started in.

Catherine brought out the posters she had silk screened for the anti-war demo. They showed a bleeding maple leaf with the words “End Canadian Complicity in Vietnam” superimposed on it. “What do you think?”she said.

I put down my coffee cup. “Terrific,” I said. Carl and Maurice nodded in agreement.

But Ray turned from the sink and shook his head. “Not my bag, man. I hate politics and I hate the police. I stay clear of everything.” Catherine rolled up her posters with a snap.

That winter I had early classes and I ran into Ray in the kitchen most week-day mornings. He’d make me a cup of instant coffee and set it before me with a shy smile. When I headed out laden with school books, he always held the front door open for me in an old-fashioned way that I found endearing. A fondness was growing between us.

“Bye for now, Christie,” he’d say as we parted on the sidewalk, I to the bus stop and he to walk down the street and around the corner to the back lane to get to the garage. I’d see him striding along lighting a cigarette as he went. He never complained about the round-about walk or suggested we take the plastic off the back door.

We’d each chipped in eight bucks to get the car towed and another ten for parts, but Ray was having trouble with the brake pads. Since neither Maurice nor Carl knew anything about auto mechanics, he said he was going to try to find a guy he met at the homeless shelter to come over and help him. Meanwhile, he fixed the clutch so things were moving along.

Thursday night was scrub night at the candy counter. After we shut down at 9:30, we took everything apart and washed and disinfected every surface including the stinking popcorn machine. Usually I didn’t get home till close to eleven and, on this Thursday, as I walked towards the house, I saw a glint of light from the garage window. Ray must be working late. Maybe his friend came to help with the brakes. I went around to take a look at the car—I hadn’t seen it yet.

But the padlock on the garage doors was firmly closed. I pushed on one of the doors, moving it back a little to make a slit wide enough to see inside. The garage was in full light. Along one wall was a pile of boards, and along the other, a few old windows. Ray was not there and neither was a car. The space in the middle of the garage was blank. I pushed harder on the old door to expand the crack to get a better view. No tools were around, no oil cans or dirty rags or anything to suggest this was a mechanic’s shop. Obviously, he cleaned up very well.

“Hallelujah,” I said out loud, dancing in the snow. The car was finished and about time, I thought, for I realized, with a snip of surprise, it was more than two months since Ray had moved in.

Everyone was asleep in the house, so I couldn’t tell them the good news. The next morning early, there was Ray in the kitchen. I threw my arms around him.

“I’m so excited,” I said. “Where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

“The car.”

“In the garage. I’m doing the brakes today.”

I stood back and looked at him. A crumpled look was taking over his face. For my part, a big light was dawning.

“There’s nothing there,” I said stupidly.

With a sudden movement, Ray pushed past me and ran down the basement stairs. I followed. Carl was asleep on his cot but jumped up naked when he heard the noise. “What the hell?” he said.

“What did you do with the car? Did you sell it?” I yelled, but then another thought hit me. “You never were going to share that car, were you? You lied to us all the time. Carl, he lied to us—he sold the car.”

Ray paid no attention. He was grabbing clothes and shoving them into his duffle bag. Then he yanked his sleeping bag off his bed, deked around me and clattered up the stairs. I ran after him, but he was out the front door running down the street, the end of his sleeping bag trailing along the sidewalk. When I turned back, Carl was standing in the kitchen. “What the hell?” he said again. “Has something happened to our car?”

It was only after I found the padlock key under Ray’s pillow, and we went around to the garage, that we understood the truth. There never was a car. The place was too clean; the dust was undisturbed on the floor. A few footprints by the door and a squashed cigarette butt were the only signs of activity. The fact of no car settled on us very slowly. It came out that none of us actually saw the car. None of us had gone around to the garage. We were all too busy. Ray showed Carl a green Dodge parked in the snow behind the homeless shelter but Carl never checked to see if it was taken away. Later that day, Carl went to the shelter, walked around the back, and there was the same green Dodge buried deeper than before.

We’d been conned.

Was Ray really a draft dodger? Was he even an American? Where did he spend his days if not working in the garage? Why did he go out to the garage that evening and leave the light on? There was no way of knowing.

Our next house meeting had focus. “I figure we’re each down two hundred dollars or so when you total up the cost of car parts and the food that bastard scarfed down,” Maurice said.

I sighed, not for the lost money; but for my imaginary car, for the demise of my warm and happy green Dodge.

“We’ll just have to check more carefully the next time a draft dodger wants to move in,” I said. “We must keep in mind they’re not all like Ray. I don’t want this incident to sour us on helping war resisters.” I was trying for a pragmatic tone.

Carl interrupted me with a burst of laughter. “That little rat was the best bull shitter I ever met,” he said. “Last month, he told me he’d got the parts off an old junker at the dump. Supposedly, that took a week. And he said his friend, the great expert on brakes, was in the hospital with a broken foot, but he was getting out soon.” These recollections made him fall into giggles that erupted off and on throughout the meeting.

Maurice ignored him. “I’m through with taking people in,” he said. “My life is too busy to worry about house crap.”

Catherine stood up from the kitchen table. Her voice was high-pitched and shaky. “That Ray made us look like fools with everyone we know, and I don’t want to talk about it any more. I’m sick of the topic.” She ran from the room, put on her coat and boots at the front door and slammed herself out.

At the anti-war demo, I looked for Maurice and Catherine among the marshals, but they were not there. I couldn’t see Carl either. I waved my sign but I didn’t feel like chanting. The frost breath of the small crowd twisted into the air. Above us, the windows of the American consulate were blank. My feet felt like ice, and my hands were freezing on the sign handle. I stomped my boots and walked straight ahead, but my mind was twisting this way and that.

All our carefully planned political schemes were under siege, and I realized that Ray had left us with much more than an empty garage.

POEM by ULRICH WENDT

My Hands


Having lived long enough, I look forward to death.
I long for the graceful slide past the hectoring day.
Night on night, I long for the pall.

But my hands. My hands curve.

I have begun to compose the lines of my face
into lines of stillness and comfort,
grateful for my warm bed of soft earth.

But my hands. They are already curving themselves,
fiercely eager to grasp what they find.
Be it clay, they will mould it into a bowl or a jar.
Be it sand, they will shape it for the casting of strong metal.
Be it stone, they will hold it this way or that.

They will place one stone upon the other,
they will build a wall and a gate in the wall.
They will make the gate to swing inward and say
“welcome, come to me!”
And if none should come, they will swing the gate outward
and compel me through it, back into the world.