- Excelsior College

Issue No. 2‌‌‌‌‌‌ │ March 2013
Cover
Alex at Ocean Point
Dimensions: 24" X 36", Media Acrylic
by Dr. Sandra Dutton
Faculty, Liberal Arts, New York
Near Boothbay Harbor on the coast
of Maine.
Issue 2
March 2013
David Seelow
Editor-in-Chief
Hem Borromeo
Photography Editor
Scott Dalrymple
Editorial Advisor
Stephen Tytko
Photography Editor
Ron Milos
Managing Editor
Angela Stimpson
Art Editor
Larnice Tetreault
Designer
Michele Dutcher
Editor-at-large, Production
Ross Acevedo
Poetry Editor
David Sherman
Music Editor
Bethany de Barros
Fiction Editor
Vaishali Jahagirdar
Video and Non-Fiction Editor
Anne F. Connor
Non-Fiction
Editor
Chris Johnson
Editor-at-large
Excelsior ReView is produced by a dedicated
staff of volunteers and showcases the creative
and artistic talents of the College's worldwide
association of students, alumni, instructors,
professors, and staff. It is representative of the
diverse community that is Excelsior.
The magazine is published online twice a
year. Submissions are always being accepted.
Guidelines, information, and procedures are
available at review.excelsior.edu.
Download
a PDF of this issue.
View Back Issues
Contributors
Art
4 Cityline
by Dr. Lewis Mustard, Faculty, Health Science, North Carolina
20  Alaska Postage – Muskox
by David Devoe, Graduate, Bachelor’s in Liberal Arts ’80, Alaska
35  Your Light, Meet My light
by Jenn DeWald, Student, Bachelor’s in Nursing, New York
40  Tango Under the Moon and Stars
by Elizabeth Paige Martin-Harre, Student, Associates in Nursing, Guam
46  Old Guitarist
by Eddie Rodriguez, Student, Associates in Nursing,
North Carolina
Fiction
10  Visiting Wellsville
by Laura Kujawski, Graduate, Bachelor’s in Liberal Studies ’85, North Carolina
18  About Me
by Paul M. Troop, Graduate, Bachelor’s in Liberal Arts ’80, Georgia
23  Stone Passing
by Ron Milos, Staff, Office of Information and Technology Services, New York
Functional Art
7 Experiment
by Michele Dutcher, Staff, Enrollment Management, New York
Music
8  In My Dream
by Mark D. Oppenneer, Staff, Office of Information and Technology Services, New York
Non-Fiction
30  On a Chilly Autumn Afternoon in my Mother’s Car, We went for a Visit
by Jennifer Dauccio, Student, Bachelor’s in Liberal Arts,
New York
Photo
9  All The Way Up Then All The Way Down
by Anthony Stagge, Student, Associates in Business, Ohio
15  Three Amigos
by Lyndon Rich, Graduate, Associates in Liberal Arts ’75, Navy Veteran, Illinois
17  Watson’s Mill Bridge
by Geoffrey Wallace, Master Sergeant, U.S. Army, Student, Bachelor’s in Criminal Justice, Georgia
22  Nuclear Toad
by Robbie Lowry, Student, Associates in Nuclear Technology, Navy, Virginia
29  Old-Fashioned Love
by Cecil Vernon Crumrine, Jr., Graduate, Bachelor’s in Business ’86 and Master’s in Liberal Studies
’06, Texas
38  Gambling with Pollution
by Manuel Yanez, Captain, U.S. Army, Graduate, Associates in Nursing ’98 and Bachelor’s in Nursing ’11; Student, Master’s in Nursing, California
42  Beach Log
by Kinisha Watkins, Student, Master’s in Nursing, Indiana
44  Perfection: Suanne and Sophia
by Laurie Kenny, Graduate, Associates in Nursing ’99; Student, Bachelor’s in Nursing, Connecticut
48  The Flame
by Roberto Macairan, Graduate, Associates in Nursing, Florida
51  Roxas Boulevard Street Urchin
by William J. McElligott, Graduate, Bachelor’s in Liberal Studies ‘12; Student, Master’s in Liberal Studies, Florida
53  Barnstorming
by Stephen Tytko, Office of Information and Technology Services, New York
54  Bruges in Oil
by Michael Strickler, Graduate, Bachelor’s in Liberal Studies ’95; Student, Master’s in Liberal Studies, Florida
56  Uluru at Sunrise
by Dr. Maureen Cardoza, RN, Faculty, Graduate Nursing Program, New York
Poem
5  Between Love and Fear
by Karen J. McLeod, Graduate, Bachelor’s in Liberal Studies ’11; Student, Associates in Nursing, Louisiana
21  There is a House
by James David Caudill, Graduate, Associate in Science ’76, Coast Guard Veteran, North Carolina
36  Flickering Comprehension
by Victoria Chadwick, Student, Associates in Nursing, Texas
39  Croton Dawn
by Marlene Newman, Graduate, Associates in Liberal Arts ‘72, New York
41  What They Don’t Know
by Joshua Rambo, Army, Student, Associates in Liberal Arts, Marland
43  Toward the Certain Sun
by Brian Thomas, Graduate, Bachelor’s in Liberal Studies ’91, Colorado
45  Elegy
by Robert Galin, Graduate, Bachelor’s in Liberal Studies ’94, Colorado
47  Troy
by Dr. Marck L. Beggs, Faculty, Liberal Arts, Arkansas
49  Falling Up
by Dr. Katherine Nelson-Born, Faculty, Liberal Arts, Florida
52  Through the Years
by Tiziano Thomas Dossena, Graduate, Bachelor’s in Liberal Studies ’77, New York
Video
16  Buddhism and Abstraction Art Show (silent)
By Kil Cha Gullickson, Graduate, Bachelor’s in Liberal Studies, Cum Laude ’06, Texas
The Word is Out
Penn State’s official news source, Live,
announced the publication of “Ask
Mountain,” a painting by Thomas Ask, a
Penn instructor and Excelsior graduate,
in our first issue.
Excelsior Essentials, a college-wide
newsletter to prospects and students, has
an article about Excelsior ReView.
Also in: Excelsior College press release,
Linkedin, and Hudson Whitman Press
Call for Submissions
The Excelsior ReView is
accepting submissions for its
third issue. Please read guidelines,
requirements, and formats before
sending material.
Inquiries may be directed to
[email protected].
Disclaimer: Any opinions expressed by the
author(s) are solely their own and in no way
reflect the policies of nor are they endorsed by
Excelsior College.
Art
Dimension: 30"x 36", Media: Arylic painting on canvas
Cityline
by Dr. Lewis Mustard, Faculty, Health Science, North Carolina
Informal abstraction expressing a delight with color and shape.
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Poem
Between Love and Fear
by Karen J. McLeod, Graduate, Bachelor’s in Liberal Studies ’11; Student, Associates in Nursing, Louisiana
Fear
In its very essence, chills us to the bone, like the icicle formation of a seafloor brinicle.
Fear banishes a broken, forsaken, and distrait woman.
Fear coerces a mother to abandon motherhood.
Fear stalks a child relentlessly.
Fear steals hope and the soul as it covers a child’s cries with clamping, stalwart, palms.
It drags a crumpled and forlorn victim to the depths of despair.
We hear that
Love
Is patient and kind.
It keeps no record of wrongs, but as Love departs to a safe harbor, it never forgets.
Love bears all.
Love gives all.
It is all encompassing.
Many times, Love drifts to distant memories of laughter and hope.
It recalls the scent of fresh, downy, newborn skin.
It envisions the sparkle of light in deep, chocolate, brown eyes that steal your heart.
She remembers the silky blonde strands of hair and the chubby, dimpled, arms that
reached out to her For love and comfort.
Love
Yearns for an absent mother and questions what might have been done to make her
leave.
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Love always hopes and seeks, relentlessly.
Love heals itself with academic excellence, music, poetry, and film.
Love dreams and prays.
Love is powerful.
It joins and reunites, and yet,
Fear
Rears it heinous head.
Hopelessness and helplessness are all that stand.
Tragedy and senselessness exude what is left of a young teenager’s life.
Emptiness, grief, and sorrow loom in every direction.
How could an innocent life have come to this?
Visions of terror, battering, and violence are silently revisited.
The demolished vehicle with the Batman gasket and the driver’s seat head rest are all I
have left.
And still,
Love
Conquers all, comforts all, knows all, and forgives all.
Rest in Peace My Precious Angel….
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Functional
Art
Painted Pottery, Sushi Plate
Experiment
by Michele Dutcher, Staff, Enrollment Management, New York
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Music
Click Here to Play
Length: 4:50
In My Dream
by Mark D. Oppenneer, Staff, Office of Information and Technology Services, New York
In My Dream is a pensive piece about the fragile emotional thread tying together my dream life, the
world of my waking memories, and my present identity. The song is sparsely arranged with keyboard, bass, and percussion with a mixture of sung lyrics and spoken word. Written, performed,
and recorded by Mark in 2004.
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Photo
Camera: Nikon D7000; Focal Length: 24mm; F-Stop: f/2.8; Shutter speed: 1/40 sec; ISO: 400
All The Way Up Then All The Way Down
by Anthony Stagge, Student, Associates in Business, Ohio
Looking up at the staircase in the Ponce Inlet Lighthouse, Ponce Inlet, Florida.
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Fiction
Visiting Wellsville
by Laura Kujawski, Graduate, Bachelor’s in Liberal Studies ’85, North Carolina
Many years ago, I visited an abandoned hospital. I hadn’t given much thought to it until I was
going through old photographs and sat down to write the first draft.
Sarah walked quickly along the grass infested curved concrete driveway to the distant
five-story monolithic centerpiece of brick and stone block ahead of her. She looked to
the side of the driveway where shades of green leaves in the tall trees swayed, swirled,
and tangled in a mad parody of a macabre dance. Sheets of blistered grey clouds above
her roiled as they were swept across the sky. She felt a long way from her bustling
hometown of Philadelphia.
When she went through the small rural town a bit earlier, she noticed that a bank
thermometer was already nearing 90 degrees on this July summer day, but she wasn’t
aware of the temperature or humidity. Sarah was focused on visiting this now closed
and condemned sanatorium.
Closer now, she stopped to look at the building. From where she was, the driveway
started to rise to where the sanatorium was set on the side of the hill. Behind and
to the sides of the imposing building, trees grew. The thick wooded area looked
impenetrable. The building itself appeared to be a worn fortress. She wasn’t sure
what she expected it to look like, but she didn’t expect to see the decay that was
present. How many years had it been since she had last seen it? She wasn’t sure.
Rounded brick and stone turrets rose above the five-story entrance and the two fourstory wings spanned north and south. Large windows with skeletal frames and broken
glass hung onto the building. Not one was intact. A curtain of vines covered the fivearches of the stone block portico that once allowed carriages to deposit visitors and
patients unscathed by the foulest weather.
A gust of wind whipped Sarah’s long brown hair across her face. A plastic “Thank you
for shopping with us” bag flew past her on its haphazard journey as it continued to
catch and free itself from long grass and debris on its path.
Walking into the relative shelter of the portico, out of the corner of her eye, Sarah saw
something scurry under a clump of dried leaves captured in a nook next to the massive
wooden doorway. Strands of yellow tape, with the bold repeated warning “DO NOT
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ENTER” looked like a spent and sagging spider web across the front of the two arched
front doors. A weathered “No Trespassing – All Violators Will Be Prosecuted” sign was
nailed to the wooden door that stood ajar.
She’d come too far to let tape and a warning bar her way. Sarah slipped through the narrow opening and into the dark foyer.
The blustery wind calmed and her connection with the world outside seemed to recede
once she stepped into the foyer. Gradually her eyes adjusted to the dim light. At first
she could pick out the shape of chandeliers stripped of all but a few hanging crystals. A
massive wooden counter was set slightly to the right in the foyer and next to a corridor
that opened to an eternity of darkness.
As she stood still, more of her surroundings became apparent. Dark carved wood
wainscoting covered the walls. An old wooden pendulum clock still hanging above the
counter forever proclaimed it was 3:37. Ancient cobwebs were heavy with the dust
that covered everything with a soft grey blanket. A mouse sat on its hind legs atop the
counter observing her with twitching whiskers while eating a seed or berry held in its
front claws.
Small sepia colored sheets of paper spilled from wooden boxes like dry autumn leaves
on the counter and onto the floor. The mouse leapt from the counter and darted into
a hole in the wall as Sarah walked closer to examine the fallen sheets. She could see
the ornate sanatorium letterhead and precise handwritten script identifying a patient,
their parents’ or spouses’ name and address followed by columns for room, meals, and
treatments charged for the patient’s care.
Mildred Pierce. Phoebe Morgan. Catherine Marshall. John Adams. Ada Wainwright.
John Smith.
I used to be friends with a girl named Phoebe Morgan, she thought.
Some of the sheets, like Phoebe Morgan and John Adams contained a final entry declaring
“DECEASED” in heavy bold lettering followed by the date of death and disposal of the
body. A sight breeze rustled the papers on the floor and raised a dusty fog around Sarah.
She’d traveled too far to let darkness and a mouse in this clinic’s entrance keep her
from further exploration. Sarah walked pass the counter and towards the hallway. On
the left, a two-person hand operated elevator with sturdy brass grates was next to the
staircase going to a lower level. The wrought iron balusters and handrail looked secure
enough as she slowly stepped into the ever-dimming light. Once she was on the midpoint stair landing, Sarah could see natural light illuminating the lower level, so she
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continued her passage down.
On this level she found no ornately carved wainscoting or chandeliers. Bizarre scrawling
of monstrous creatures and foul language decorated the dirty-whitewashed walls. The
basic utilitarian look signaled that this is where the staff worked. Continuing down the
hall, she walked into a large white tile-walled room with windows high above the work
area. Here she saw built in ovens, multi-burner stoves, mammoth tables, and large
sinks. The floor was covered with broken dishes, mouse droppings and dirt. She circled
the room and put her hand on a dusty metal tabletop, and wondered how many people
worked preparing meals in here? What were their lives like here and when they went
home?
Leaving the kitchen area, Sarah went down the hall into another large room ringed by
large, deep chipped porcelain sinks, and metal washtubs still secured to the floor. How
much laundry did they do every day? Did they wash and use sheets again after someone
died on them, or did they burn them?
Across the hall, a door with a frosted glass window hanging from one hinge, revealed
a much smaller room than the other two. Sarah looked in and saw that cigarette butts,
shards of glass, and intact brown bottles littered the floor. The room had built-in
cubbyhole storage units that were probably for staff to store personal items while they
were working.
Toward the end of the hallway she found another tiled room with drains in the floor.
When she walked up to the door, Sarah thought she saw shadows of what looked like
people clinging to metal poles – no – maybe they were tied to the poles. She hesitated a
moment, then stepped inside the room. As soon as she crossed the threshold, the shadows drifted to the ceiling like sooty smoke. Cold – this room built into the side of the
hill would always be cold.
When she examined the room more closely, Sarah saw only a tobacco-brown stained tile
ceiling and ten thick metal poles attached from the floor to the ceiling. The tiled floor
was rust-hued and filthy. On the far wall, six heavy metal doors opened into long, deep
box-like caverns. She slowly walked to one of the opened doors. The crypt was littered
with unrecognizable trash and skeletal remains of some small animal. What did they do
if more than six people died? Did they have to hang them from the poles until there was
more room? Just then Sarah heard an eerie screech that sounded like a child’s plea to
stop an unbearable pain. She consoled herself thinking it must only be the wind.
Leaving the morgue, Sarah found a staircase with small windows allowing dust filtered
light in as she tread the steps. These steps were wooden and worn by the many feet that
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went up and down them so many years ago. Sarah went up the steps carefully but deliberately. Until today she never thought of herself as an explorer. Her family would have
been surprised. She was always the quiet one. The one who wanted to stay home; the
one who obeyed the rules.
Step by step, she made her way to the third story. Here, large dirt stained windows let
in ample amounts of dusky light making it easier for her to find her way. She started
down the hall and abruptly halted when she saw a man round the corner and walk away
from her down the south wing. Quickly she backed against the wall, arms and hands
pressed flat, instinctively trying to make as low a profile as possible in case there were
others on this level. From what she could see of him, Sarah guessed he was somehow
part of the staff by the way he was dressed. He wore a dark gray tailored suit and had a
neatly trimmed mustache and beard; he was a striking figure – but one that she didn’t
want to encounter as she explored the building. He didn’t seem to notice her and she
lost sight of him as he faded away down the long hallway. Even though Sarah heard
his footsteps moving away from her, she inched over into the recess of a doorway and
waited. Seconds, then minutes passed, and she heard and saw nothing more. Sarah decided she
would cautiously continue her exploration. Rooms on the east side of the corridor,
floors layered with bottles and trash, appeared to be treatment rooms. In some rooms
she found large porcelain bathtubs with claw feet. Two of the tubs were shattered and
pieces tossed about the room. Three rooms had heavy built-in tables with hooks fastened to the ceiling above. What was probably some sort of a strange looking undergarment hung from one of the hooks. For a moment Sarah looked at the bright red silk
and lace garment with both fascination and embarrassment. She turned and walked
away. Further down the corridor other rooms had strange wooden reclining chairs with
chipped paint and broken slats.
Crossing over to the west side of the corridor, the large rooms were lined with the
remains of a large glassless window overlooking the valley. A gust of wind tossed rainsodden papers and trash from one end of the room to the other like a demonic snake
trying to reconnect its many separated pieces.
In the past, each of these wards had double French doors that allowed staff to move both
patient and their bed onto the deep open porch were they spent most of their days. Regardless of the season, it was here that men, women, and children separated from their
families dealt with ravaging disease and consumption, and were instructed to breathe
the healthful fresh air. Sarah remembered being told that children received their school
instructions from teachers as they stay in their beds on the porch. What a sad way to
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grow up – if they did recover and grow up.
Now the doors were open, broken. The patients were gone. Their stories were all told
and ended so many years ago. Only some ghosts remained.
Sarah walked into one of the rooms, stepping over trash, and up to the doorway leading
to the porch. She stood for a moment, her arms tightly crossed as if she felt a chill, her
long hair swept across her face. She watched as the storm clouds brought torrents of
rain that washed over the valley and onto and inside the building. Jagged white lightning
pierced and lit the tortured sky, followed by the bass rumble of thunder.
She missed her brownstone in Philadelphia. It was home for so many years, but they
tore it down. That day when she stood on the stairway, she heard men say something
about it being in too bad shape to restore to code. That was why she made the long
journey here.
“Sarah? Is that you, Sarah Goodwin?”
Sarah turned and saw a young woman with curly auburn hair tied with ribbons. She
was dressed in a long soft flowing ivory dress accented with tiny buttons and lace insets.
Sarah looked at her childhood friend Phoebe Morgan.
Sarah ran to and clung to her long ago friend. “Phoebe!” she cried. “They tore down my
house! I left here so long ago when Mom and Dad took me home after I died. I stayed
there even after they were gone – it was home. At each of their funerals they tried to
bring me with them but I couldn’t follow. I don’t know why. Then they tore down my
house and I didn’t know where to go. But then I thought maybe I could come back here.
Maybe you would still be here! Phoebe, I don’t want to be alone anymore.”
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Photo
Camera: Sony SA-500; Len: Sigma 18-125mm
Three Amigos
by Lyndon Rich, Graduate, Associates in Liberal Arts ’75, Navy Veteran, Illinois
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Video
Click here to play
Length: 3:13, Size: 62.2MB
Buddhism and Abstraction Art Show (silent)
By Kil Cha Gullickson, Graduate, Bachelor’s in Liberal Studies, Cum Laude ’06, Texas
Buddha was a teacher in the 6th century. He showed the path to enlightenment. I have painted four
Buddhist oil paintings, four abstracts, and three final Buddhisms for the series. In my abstracts, I
describe my desire to mix colors through the use of geometrics. My paintings are a use of mediums:
acrylic, oil, coffee grounds, gloss gels, and flexible modeling paste. Thicker texture creates a 3D
work in the viewer’s eye.
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Photo
Camera: Nikon D7000; Focal Length: 24mm; F-Stop: f/2.8; Shutter speed: 1/15 sec; ISO: 160
Watson’s Mill Bridge
by Geoffrey Wallace, Master Sergeant, U.S. Army, Student, Bachelor’s in Criminal Justice, Georgia
Image of Watson’s Mill Bridge, at Watson’s Mill Bridge State Park in Georgia.
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Fiction
About Me
by Paul M. Troop, Graduate, Bachelor’s in Liberal Arts ’80, Georgia
Former member of the Alumni Advisory Board.
I remembered the very first essay I wrote in Freshman Composition when I was a full-time student.
The assignment was “Tell us something about yourself and why you’re in college.” Ah, yes, that
essay. I found it in a stack of papers in my basement. And it explains so much about my college
career.
On the day I got out of prison I realized I had to make some life-changing decisions.
[Great beginning! You’ve got to grab them with that first sentence. And that’s a grabber.
What college professor wouldn’t be intrigued by an ex-con in his classroom - and an
introspective one at that! He’ll want, no, demand to know more. So, now I need a
second sentence. Tricky. I’ve never been in prison. And a summer bagging groceries
at the A&P doesn’t prepare you for envisioning yourself walking through a heavy steel
door onto the mean streets, taking those first breaths of free air, looking back at the
foreboding stone wall and the barred windows in the cell blocks behind it, and vowing
never again to be caught. What I actually learned at the A&P is never put a carton of
eggs on the bottom of a sack. Boy, I won’t do that again. Or at least not a third time.
If I go with the prison theme I’ll have to put down what I was in for. I don’t want
anything too violent. Chopping up one’s mother and serving her in a salad bowl to your
guests would get me labeled as kind of weird. Wait. Why put down any reason? I could
be a man of mystery. “In the joint you don’t ask what anyone is in for.” Then I scowl.
That would attract a certain kind of girl. It would help if I had a tattoo. I just don’t know
how long I could keep that up. Or if I’m really ready for that kind of girl.
Maybe I could make something of the A&P experience. I could be the sensitive
intellectual who finds meaning in the most mundane task. Let’s work with that. I took
the job because a friend who had the same job last summer said it was a great place to
meet girls. And that’s true. When a girl came through my check-out I’d say, “Hi. I’m
going to college in the fall.” And she’d say, “Don’t put the egg carton in the bottom of
the sack.” So what’s the life-lesson here?
I’m sure the other students are putting down things like, “I want to work for world
peace.” Or, “I want to cure cancer.” Or, “I want to discover the meaning of life.” Oh,
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give me a break. What they really want is to pass this course. Hey guys, let’s not start
off with the clichés. Let’s show some originality.
I will say one thing for my classmates, they’re all so directed. The pre-meds want to
dissect something. The pre-laws want to sue someone. The business majors want to
make a lot of money. The English lit majors know they’ll never make any money.
Oh my god! I just looked at the clock. It’s 7:15 and I’ve got to hand this in in 45
minutes! No more procrastination. I’ve got to put my fingers on the typewriter and
put down the first thing that comes into my head. Here goes:]
On the day I got out of prison, I realized I had to make some life-changing decisions…
I’m sure you will want to know what kind of grade I received. Well, while other students received an A or a B, I received a “?”. As the term progressed there were more
essays, most serious, a few whimsical. But I don't think my professor every got past that
first “?”. Looking back now, I'm kind of pleased with that.
Copyright 1959, 2012 Paul M. Troop. All rights reserved.
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Art
Dimensions: 1546w x 2236h pixels, Digital
Alaska Postage – Muskox
by David Devoe, Graduate, Bachelor’s in Liberal Arts ’80, Alaska
This “postage stamp” is my own creation of a notional independent nation of Alaska. It portrays a
bull Muskox on the coastal tundra. The musk ox is often referred to as Oomingmak (The Bearded
One) by Alaska natives. My degree has taken me far in serving as an intelligence analyst for the U.S.
Government.
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Poem
There is a House
by James David Caudill, Graduate, Associate in Science ’76, Coast Guard Veteran, North Carolina
There is a House, on down my lane
with weathered board, and broken pane
No footsteps sound, in dusty halls
No trappings hang, from moldy walls
Its yard is thick, and over grown
No hint of care, that it has known
What pain and pleasure, has it seen?
No clue as, who, had lived within
The lesson lost, while in our youth
Is just to know, this simple truth
From mansion high, upon the steep
to humble shack, down by the sheep
No patents known, that man can find
That slows the aging, hand of time ...
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Photo
Camera: Cannon EOS Rebel XSI; Lens: Canon Zoom Lens EF 75-300mm 1:4-5.6; F-Stop: f/5.6; Exposure time: 1/60 sec; ISO: 1600; Flash: Off
Original Dimensions: 4272x2848 pixels
Nuclear Toad
by Robbie Lowry, Student, Associates in Nuclear Technology, Navy, Virginia
This toad was captured near a bridge exiting the very secluded Naval Nuclear Power Training
command site in Goose Creek, South Carolina.
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Fiction
Stone Passing
by Ron Milos, Staff, Office of Information and Technology Services, New York
Mr. Milos is the author of two novels, The Kush and Strings.
Every so often, after a Sunday supper, Uncle Arnie would get up, wipe his hands on
his overalls and walk over to the great cupboard in the corner. He unlocked the thick
glass doors and took down a small homemade box. “Yes sir, it might be older than time
itself.”
Uncle Arnie would place the cherry box in the middle of the table and slowly open it.
A stone, round and black with faint scratchings on it, was nestled in dark blue velvet.
It was Uncle Arnie’s only treasure. It had been passed down from father to son since
our family set foot in the valley.
“It’s as smooth as a river stone, but ain’t no rivers round here. It’s dark as night, but it
ain’t coal. It’s marked by man, but can’t be read.” This chant had been recited since
the stone had first been found in the corn fields by Hollerers Road generations ago.
Uncle Arnie carefully lifted it up and continued, “No one knows what it means, not
even them boys at the university. It’s a puzzlement all right.” He solemnly passed it
around the table.
We traced the cuttings with our fingers and felt a mysterious link with the unknown
past.
Those times were always special to me and became an expected tradition. It was a
shared mystery that belonged only to us and set us apart from everyone else. The ritual
was a weekend reaffirmation of the home and our family bond.
Uncle Arnie died when I was fourteen. My brother left home for the Army soon afterward. The farm fell into disrepair and we began to sell land to survive. My sisters
married and moved away. By the time I entered college, I had forgotten the stone.
In my junior year, I enrolled in a course entitled, Ancient Chinese Civilization. It was
interesting, but what held my interest most was the foreign exchange student. Her
name was Li-Fen, but she went by Janice. I liked her Chinese name better.
Li-Fen was exotic and mysterious. Her accent was enchanting and she stared intently
at me with big black eyes. I did everything I could to be with her. I studied hard to
impress her and generally made an ass of myself.
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It was when we were learning about the Yuan Dynasty that I remembered the stone.
The Yuan or Mongol Dynasty ruled China from 1279 to 1368 stretching from Western
Europe to India, Korea, and the Western part of Russia. Suppose, just suppose that
the Mongols thrust out into the northeastern tip of Siberia. It’s not a great stretch to
theorize that they crossed the Bering Strait to Alaska and from Alaska, southeast to the
family farm.
Maybe not a settlement, but certainly scouts or one or two hardy explorers. What they
would leave behind would be minimal, small, and not easily recognizable. Maybe, just
maybe the markings on the family stone could be ancient Chinese and Uncle Arnie
was right after all! I had seen enough Chinese characters in my textbooks to realize
the similarity of the remembered designs carved in the stone. This could be proof that
we had Chinese walking in the cornfield! More importantly, Li-Fen surely would be
excited to know that her ancestors traveled as far as my farm. The stone would bring
us closer than I already imagined we were. I had only to get the stone and surprise her.
Spring break arrived slowly that year. I hitched a ride as far as I could and thumbed the
rest of the way. Mother was happy to see me, since I hadn’t been home in two years.
She hugged me tight in her delight and resisted my efforts to break free. I could see the
cupboard behind her and bore the squeezing and babbling while I looked for the box
containing the stone.
Finally she let go and I raced passed her. I couldn’t find it. It was gone! I frantically
looked behind each plate, in the drawers, and on top. It wasn’t there!
“What are you looking for dear?”
“The stone, Uncle Arnie’s stone.”
“Oh, that thing. We buried it with him.”
“You, you did what? You buried it? Where in the grave? In the coffin? I don’t remember seeing it!”
“He was so attached to that silly thing. We placed it near his hand when we closed the
coffin. Didn’t want anyone to see it, you know.”
“Silly thing? What, what do you mean silly?”
“Dear, it was just a rock, but it meant so much to Arnie, we couldn’t hurt him.”
“What do you mean ’just a rock’”? You didn’t think it was writing?”
“Of course not, but your Uncle took care of this family so we took care of him.”
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“But I believed it, Mom. I thought you all did. I thought it was something special,
something that made us... I don’t know, made us closer as a family, made us matter.”
My mother only now realized that I was serious and rushed in to repair the damage,
“But it was special, dear. It did bind us. By pretending to believe Arnie, we paid him
back for all his love and work. And by going along with it, we bound ourselves together
in a small family ceremony.”
“Well, I believed him. I still do!” I skulked to my old room.
I fell asleep and woke up in the late afternoon. My mother was making noise in the
kitchen. For a fleeting moment I felt the security of those past Sundays. I slipped out
the house to walk off my disappointment of not getting the stone and my embarrassment for being such a fool. I found myself at the family cemetery.
Below were Uncle Arnie and the stone, which had been the key to Li-Fen’s heart. I
had played the scenario out many times. I held it out to her and she gazed at it in wonderment. Her eyes would hold admiration for its discoverer. It would bring us together in intensive research that would eventually lead us to her bed. I ripped a chunk
of sod and threw it away.
I fingered the hole left in the ground. In the bigger hole beneath was the stone. There
was something special about it; maybe so special ordinary people couldn’t recognize its
worth. All was lost forever. Well, wait a minute, not lost. I picked up fist of dirt. The
stone is down there. It hasn’t been destroyed. It’s just impossible to get to. Well, maybe
not impossible. Difficult to get at, yes, but not impossible. Getting to it would require
a lot of digging, a lot of hard work. Not the kind someone would think of doing, but
something that could be done. It’s not as if it would be stealing, it is the family’s stone
and only Uncle Arnie and I give it any value. And, after all, the stone had been dug up
once before. Uncle Arnie’s gone; nothing below but bone and pickled flesh. No disrespect, but rather respect for what he believed in.
The decision came without further thought. I scrambled for the barn, for the shovel
hanging in the corner, but my mother’s voice stopped me before I reached it.
“Supper, supper time.”
The table was big with just the two of us.
“Where did you go dear?”
“Out for a walk, out to the cemetery.”
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“That’s very nice. I’m sure they appreciated it.”
I told mother I needed to walk the land, that it was good being home. She was happy
that I was taking an interest in the farm. I retrieved the shovel and a crowbar. I hid
them behind the old well.
I spent the early night telling Mother everything I thought she would enjoy about my
college life. I omitted Li-Fen from the conversation. I knew she would drain me dry
if she thought I had a romantic interest. We watched television. I kissed her cheek and
excused myself to “study” a little before turning in. It seemed a long time before the
house settled down and I was sure Mother was asleep.
In the moon light, I cut out patches of sod and pealed them back exposing the dark
brown earth beneath. The ground was fairly loose after the spring rains; the digging
wasn’t as hard as I had expected. With each shovelful, I felt myself nearer to Li-Fen.
The shovel hit the top of the vault with a jolting suddenness that shot up my arms. I
began to scrape the last layers of dirt. The rasping of the shovel blade on concrete
seemed to jump out of the hole and race into the countryside. I stopped at the loudness.
An owl hooted in the distance and the wind sliced itself on the branches overhead. I
used hands to brush off the remaining earth. The vault was coarse; my hands began
to bleed. I felt the ground above for the crowbar and moved into a small opening I had
carved in the side of the grave. The lid was heavy, but I managed to move it slightly.
Wet, heavy, fetid air curled out of the opening. I lifted, grunted, and slid the lid into
the trench I had dug on the side. Moisture clung to the walls. Mold was eating the finish
of the coffin. I reached in and grabbed a damp handle with one hand and pried the top
with the other. It opened easily. What was in the coffin was not my Uncle Arnie. My
uncle had been strong, but the only powerful thing left was the sweet smell of chemicals and leather. Skin had fallen onto his skull, stretching his mouth, exposing teeth
and black gum. Not a grin, not a painful grimace, but rather slow astonishment at final
death. His eyelids had receded exposing gray hollows. The powerful giant I once knew
in my youth was no more. I did not know this skeletal caricature.
There, near the right hand was the box. I opened it, and in the dark felt the coolness of
the stone. I arose to climb out, hesitated and placed the empty box back by his hand. I
didn’t know who I was fooling. I shut the coffin lid and jumped out.
Two hours later I replaced the sod onto the grave. Not perfect, but the rest of the spring
rains would heal the cracks, soften the bumps, and cover my night’s work. I gathered
up my tools and ran to the house, the stone heavy in my pocket.
I crept into my dark bedroom, found my backpack and hid the stone deep in the bottom.
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Tomorrow I would leave as quickly as possible.
Mother was disappointed to see me go so soon, but I couldn’t stay any longer, not with
the knowledge of the look Li-Fen would have when I gave the stone to her.
I didn’t go to the dorm upon return. I immediately started to look for Li-Fen. I finally
found her in the cafeteria drinking soda and talking to other Asian students.
“Li-Fen, I have something important to show you.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now, please!”
Li-Fen excused herself from the group and followed me to an empty table. She waited
as I dug inside my backpack.
“This is something that is going to change the course of Chinese history.”
“Yes?”
My hand touched the stone. My moment of triumph. I looked into her eyes. I didn’t
want to miss her enlightenment. “Look at this! It was found on our farm!”
“A rock?”
“No, no. Don’t you see it?”
“See what?”
“The writing! The Chinese characters: proof that your ancestors were here before
Christopher Columbus.”
“What? You know this from this rock? I am sorry, but I see nothing.”
“What do you mean? Look, ancient Chinese writing, here.” I looked at the rock in my
hand for the first time in years. “Here, old Chinese characters.” I turned the lump over
and over searching for my memories and seeing only dull plow marks. “Ancient characters carved by some... writing, writing on the stone, a message of some sort, writing...”
I looked at her trying to explain what had been there for so many years.
Janice looked down, confused, uncertain what to do about the rock held out to her. “I
do not know this. It is just a stone. Please, please excuse me.” She hurriedly went back
to her friends.
I stood numb in my embarrassment, not moving, hardly breathing, and hoping not
to be noticed. Damn Arnie! Damn his soul after all. It took a great effort to move,
to acknowledge this new reality. The foundation of my life crumbled. My family...
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me, were no longer special. My childhood had indeed been a hoax and now publicly
exposed. I am a great fool for believing. The door seemed to drift further away with
each loud step. I did not look at the table where Janice whispered to her friends. I dare
not hear what she had to say. Finally I was outside. The rock was huge in my hand. I
tossed it in the foundation being dug for the cafeteria addition and sought shelter in my
room.
I left college not long after and came back home to the farm. It’s quiet and with the aid
of government subsidies, I am making out all right. I met a girl at the grocer and we go
to the movies and socials. I wear brown and tan clothes and try to remember to smile.
Mother’s happy.
I’m fine during the day, but Uncle Arnie visits me often at night. He doesn’t say anything, just stares. He has black eyes now.
***
“Yes, thank you for bringing this to my attention.” Dr. Prince turned the stone over in
his hand, “Please notify your foreman to stop all work. This looks promising. I believe
it’s an edge sharpener dating to 800 AD. This would be the first one discovered this far
south. We will want to go through the entire area carefully now. This is quite a find!”
The worker hurried out of the office, happy that he followed orders to look for anything
unusual, excited over the down time that was sure to come.
Dr. Prince sat back and held the stone carefully. Each mark could represent the scrape
of raw metal. His theory of a bronze age in North America could be furthered with this
artifact. He would no longer be a minor chuckle at State Archeological meetings; this
stone could bring fame and a chair in a major university.
His thesis on metal working in North America originally had been formed more to
capture an unexplored niche than for belief. But after ten years of defending his paper,
he had come to believe it: persistency forced into reality. And now, now there seemed
to be actual proof. This stone tool was proof. Greatness was finally his.
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Photo
Camera: Sony DSC-R1; F-Stop: f4.5 @ 1/60, spot metering; ISO: 400; Sepiatoned in post-processing via Photoshop Elements
Old-Fashioned Love
by Cecil Vernon Crumrine, Jr., Graduate, Bachelor’s in Business ’86 and Master’s in Liberal Studies
’06, Texas
Mother and daughter playing in the park, Dallas, Texas – October 2009
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Non-Fiction
On a Chilly Autumn Afternoon in my Mother’s
Car, We went for a Visit
by Jennifer Dauccio, Student, Bachelor’s in Liberal Arts, New York
Mom was searching for street signs. She had trouble navigating the roads, not that she
got lost but she would get nervous driving because she didn’t know where streets lay
about around the city. I would always tell her that the city is interlocking and you can
never get lost, but Mom still cautiously rode the streets. As we approached the one
way that led to Francis House, leaves from the trees flew up in frenzy from the wind
as the car turned into the driveway of the nursing home.
The Nuns ran Francis House for the terminally ill who couldn’t afford a bed at any
fancy hospital or rehabilitation center.We parked and Mom sighed.Without looking at
me, she asked me once more, “Are you sure you are okay with going in?”
“Yeah...” I said, but I really wasn’t. We made our way to the entrance and stepped
inside. It was quaint and comfortable enough.
A Nun greeted us or at least, I figured she was a Nun being that she didn’t don the
usual garb, but was dressed plainly and wore a crucifix on a chain around her neck.
Her graying hair was tied behind her head and her face was warm. Someone you
would expect to see when you came to a dwelling where Death roamed the halls.
“Please sign in. I’m sure, Mary, um…” as she checked the register, “…Reagan will be
happy to see you.” She chimed. Mom just winced and said thank you and I followed
her down the hall a short way. I could feel the butterflies in my gut. What had it been,
eighteen years? I was twenty-four and I hadn’t seen this woman since I was six. It’s
a lifetime really. In that amount of time, both of my sisters were born, one was now
seventeen and the other was thirteen. For them, this person never existed, never was
part of their lives, but for me it was different.
By six you have developed a memory, according to Freud, and I actually have to agree.
I remember a lot about being six. I remember going to first grade. I remember Christmas where I got a Barbie Careers board game. She could be a pilot, an astronaut, a
teacher, a doctor, or even a princess: you name it; she was a woman and could do anything she desired.
I remember my maternal grandfather lived with us for a month after his car accident.
He went off the road the week of Christmas. It took the doctors a month to realize
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he had lung cancer that metastasized to his liver. I remember his wake and his funeral.
I wrote in my journal for a first grade writing project, several times about him in his
casket.
Though, death never seems to cease. Which is good, it keeps the cosmic balance at bay.
How can you grieve if the one you grieve lives forever? Death is what it is, and you move
on, at least at one point or another. I was six when I last saw my mother’s mother. For
the longest time my Dad would call her the “old crow.” My mom thought it was “too
derogatory” and she didn’t want us repeating it. It was as punishable as saying “HELL” or
the “F” word.
I didn’t understand at the time why it mattered, why we couldn’t call her a bad name.
I didn’t understand why she left us, why she didn’t want to be in our lives. Mom said
it was because Mary wanted to control every aspect of our lives down to what underwear we wore. Mom just couldn’t handle Mary’s harsh psychosis.Yet, I always felt that a
mother, a grandmother will do what is possible to be part of her family even if it meant
she had to yield to someone else, put away her stubborn ways and compromise. Sadly,
compromising was not her way and so she missed out on having Mom and grandchildren
in her life.
So, even though, it was a tough transition at first to not have Mary around, we moved
on. Though, as it goes, eventually things come to a full circle. As time goes on, we all
must deal with the past no matter how long we run from it, but I still wanted to run. As
we approached the room, I felt uneasy. I didn’t know this woman. Not anymore at least
and for what it is worth I doubt I ever did, and I never will.
We entered the room. The walls were dingy. The sun shone through the blinds and cast
an eerie shadow of the naked shrub that was in front of the window in the courtyard.
The blankets were white as well, but were as drab as the walls. The place was newly
remodeled, yet the room was cold and uninviting. Or maybe it was just because Death
was in the air?
Mom approached Mary’s bed. “Mother, this is Jennifer. Do you remember Jennifer? My
eldest daughter?” She talked slowly and loud, almost screamed. The woman in the sheets
looked nothing as I remembered. No makeup, her hair was in tangles and was chalk
white, and she looked like she weighed nothing. She was no longer vibrant, no longer
healthy looking. No longer tan!
Her face used to be covered in makeup. My brother and I used to coin her as the “eye
makeup queen” for she wore so much eye shadow, you couldn’t tell where her eyelids
started or stopped. She used to bleach her hair and cut it like Marilyn Monroe. She wore
expensive clothes, or at least she did when she was fifty-three in 1989.
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However today she looked like no one. She was an empty vessel. Any answers we wanted
were gone with the dead. The cancer had eaten her whole, inside and then out. Mom
asked her if she was warm enough. She seemed to remember Mom, knew it was her, but
me, she had no idea who I was; and how could she? I was much larger than I was as a sixyear old. It happens though. Time changes people. Apparently time changed Mary too.
Maybe not in the way we wanted her to change. We wanted her to come to us so we
could exact some form of forgiveness, my family is Catholic, and it is what we do. My
mom was my age when she first lost her mother. She was 24 and had two young children
with one on the way. Her father had died and all she had was her husband, children and
in-laws. That doesn’t replace what a blood parent can provide and now, here she was
again, losing her mother though this time it was not to selfishness, but to cancer.
I sat in a chair by the bed. She stared at me a few times with glares of confusion and wonderment. It was “Ok”, my mom said to me, “She thought your brother was your dad, it’s
the confusion. The cancer has eaten at her brain.” Can cancer actually eat? Is it a monster
that invades its host and controls what’s left inside until it is nothing? Or is cancer a
riddle? It takes a while for some, like Mary to succumb to it? We will never know if she
wanted redemption, maybe her corpse-like appearance was her redemption?
When the nurse came in, he was gentle and apologetic. He introduced himself to me
and commented about “how lovely it was” that all three generations of Reagans were in
the room. My mom corrected him saying that her mother was remarried and that my
mom and I were not Reagans.
He went to Mary and asked how she was. Mom had noticed that the bed was wet and
asked the nurse, whose name I did not hear, to check her catheter. It was no longer
inside. He said he would have to replace it and began to put her into the dorsal recumbent position where the legs are raised and the knees are bent for better access to the
bladder.
This is where I drew the line. “Mom, I’m going to go outside.” My mom was a little flabbergasted. She said that all three of us are girls, so there was nothing to be ashamed of.
I think it was more that she didn’t want to be left in that room alone.
Then the nurse stated, “It’s alright, it’s not very invasive and it will not take too long, you
don’t have to leave.” The nurse was perplexed that I did not want to remain in the room
for the procedure, but I didn’t know this woman. Why would I want to be in the room
when he exposes her personal parts? My mom gave me a glance like she understood,
but was surprised that it had bothered me. I exited the room and went to the bathroom.
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I splashed a little water on my face. This visit bothered me more than I expected it to.
What did I plan to gain from a dying woman? Grievances? An apology for missing out on
my childhood? I had two grandparents, my dad’s parents, and though they too were now
passed on, they actually lived in my memory more than she did. I just felt awkward and
confused. Mary was here physically, but she was gone before I even arrived.
When I exited the bathroom and returned to the room, I saw that the door was still
closed, so the “procedure” was still on going. “Quick, my left eye.”
Across the hall a door was open to another patient’s room. She was asleep but the television was on. Her room was decorated with bedding, furniture and window coverings
circa 1960’s. I could tell at first glance that she was loved. Even though the room was
empty besides the little lady, she had cards, flowers, a stuffed animal and pictures all over
the room. Though the room was a dingy white tone, the essence of her was throughout
the room and you could tell that her family visited often just by the pure abundance of
items that covered the dainty hospital-like room.
It made me think about Mary’s room. It was lackluster and there were barely any personal items. There were a few photos of our family, mostly photos of decades past,
nothing too current. However, there was a family photo from my wedding that had my
mother’s handwriting on the back and this surprised her since she never sent these to
Mary, but she did send them to her cousin Debi from California. Mom was annoyed,
but amazed that these photos were in the room. Mary’s husband Dan visited often and
it was possible that he had brought the photos not for Mary for she sat on death’s door
and had no idea what was transpiring, but he did this more likely to appease us, though
if it was, it was in vain.
I made my way down the hall where a volunteer directed me to the sunroom. The
sunroom was large with huge windows and a decent sized kitchen. The furniture was
mismatched and old, but felt warm and inviting. They were preparing lunch and I could
smell the Spanish rice warming on the stove; it smelled wonderful and like home.
I sat on the couch across the way from the television. I was pretty comfortable watching
the view out the window even though the View was on television. I loved Syracuse in the
fall. The city houses all lined up in a row, with the sun shining brightly through the heavy
clouds upon the green grass and the autumn leaves dancing in the air. It was calming and
it too seemed to calm me. Then, as I turned my head to the left, I heard my name called
and Mom appeared.
“You can come back now, he’s done.” Mom is about 6 ½ inches shorter than I am as
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well as an undisclosed amount of weight less, but we still have similar features. It made
me wonder if she ever thought the same thing with her own mother. We made our way
back to the room. I couldn’t look at Mary anymore. It pained me to see the loss on the
bed. Not just of human life, but of possibilities, of what could never be, or never was.
Mom spoon-fed a few bites of Spanish rice and a few bites of chocolate pudding to Mary
before she was in too much pain to eat anymore. My mom covered her up with a blanket
and told her mother that we were leaving.
She kissed her mother on the forehead. I just watched and stared. There was nothing left
for me to do. I was just an innocent bystander there to witness a daughter taking care
of her mother. I thought to myself, God I want to be this forgiving and mature. I saw
strength in my mother then, maybe for a moment, but it was there.
When we entered the car, Mom thanked me for coming with her. She also said, with a
tear in her voice, “Let’s never let this happen between us…”
“Mom,” I replied, “Of course it won’t.” She smirked and we left the parking lot.
That night, Mary passed away.
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Art
Pencil, ink, and paper, 9x12"
Your Light, Meet My light
by Jenn DeWald, Student, Bachelor’s in Nursing, New York
Created at Winnipeg Folk fest. Inspired by the beautiful people, sky, and music; I make art to inspire
others and capture the light in all beings.
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Poem
Flickering Comprehension
by Victoria Chadwick, Student, Associates in Nursing, Texas
I spy your trespassing form
in the shadows of my heart
Tiptoeing through blanketing mists
and kicking up the dark
My rows so carefully laid
make a hopscotch game for you
You pick my Bachelor Buttons
bejeweled in dazzling dew
As sunrise plays her fiddle
in a campfire kind of glow
You dance like a radiant gypsy
aflame with the pulse of her bow
Sudden, you hear some deep call
like a thieving rabbit you dart
But I spy your trespassing form
in the shadows of my heart
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Inspired by the following sentiments expressed by Albert Einstein:
“The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all
true art and science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause
to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead: his eyes are closed.” 1
“Try and penetrate with our limited means the secrets of nature and you will find that,
behind all the discernible concatenations, there remains something subtle, intangible
and inexplicable. Veneration for this force beyond anything that we can comprehend is
my religion. To that extent I am, in point of fact, religious.” 2
1Albert Einstein in Mein Weltbild (1931), as quoted in Introduction to Philosophy (1935) -by George
Thomas White Patrick and Frank Miller Chapman, p. 44
2Albert Einstein in response to atheist Alfred Kerr, winter 1927, as quoted in The Diary of a Cosmopolitan
(1971) by H. G. Kessler
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Photo
Camera: Canon EOS Rebel T3; Focal Length: 36mm; F-Stop: f/4.5; ISO: 160
Gambling with Pollution
by Manuel Yanez, Captain, U.S. Army, Graduate, Associates in Nursing ’98 and Bachelor’s in Nursing ’11; Student, Master’s in Nursing, California
I care about our environment and the air we breathe.
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Poem
Croton Dawn
by Marlene Newman, Graduate, Associates in Liberal Arts ‘72, New York
Stumps of trees
ringed round
the grass
Inside
tall trees
dead trees
leaved trees
And grass
sweet grass
home to crawling bugs
and spiders
Birds at sunrise
hiding in branches
calling clear cardinal calls
from mockingbirds
who tease the watcher’s eye
Rushing water
beating rocks
against the Hudson’s shore
smoothing stone
washing away the land
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Art
Oil on Linen, W 41.5" x H 29.5"
Tango Under the Moon and Stars
by Elizabeth Paige Martin-Harre, Student, Associates in Nursing, Guam
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Poem
What They Don’t Know
by Joshua Rambo, Army, Student, Associates in Liberal Arts, Marland
I am preparing to leave the service, after 11 years, 3 combat tours in Iraq, and over 10% of my life
spent fighting in the desert. This has become who I am, or more accurately I became the soldier in
the poem. The cost is high, but the rewards are much vaster than most will ever realize.
Their Pictures hang upon my wall,
so they can get through their day.
I guess it won’t be long at all,
When we come home,
'till I see them all again,
from where’re we roam,
I can barely remember when
some clap and cheer,
the last time I saw them smile.
others point and jeer.
All I know is it’s been a while
They ask us things about what it’s like,
To serve my country I’ve been gone,
Leaving out the tales of hell,
man it seems so very long.
we tell them all about the hikes.
things that we should never tell.
Four months is all it’s been,
god, I can remember when,
But once in a while our lips do slip
when time moved slow,
and we tell them all about the trip.
when kids didn’t know,
The kids we saw playing in the fields,
the troubles that surround us,
for ones our troops would stop and yield.
their biggest care was the school bus.
The men we killed, shot dead in the streets,
Now it’s guns and war and land mines too,
We tell of brothers left behind,
instead of field trips to the zoo.
All day long we throw grenades,
pulverized like butchers meat.
hoping for them to keep in mind.
When all we used to do was play.
The cost WE pay to live free,
We fight and die,
and share this gift called Liberty.
and most don’t know why.
It’s better that way,
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Photo
Camera: Nikon D80; Lens: AF-S DX zoom - Nikkor 18 - 55mm; F-Stop: f5 @ 1/60;
ISO: 100; Location: Florida
Beach Log
by Kinisha Watkins, Student, Master’s in Nursing, Indiana
Image is original color with no post processing other than resizing. Original image is 3300 x 4200
pixels. It is the end of a log that I thought had a very interesting texture.
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Poem
Toward the Certain Sun
by Brian Thomas, Graduate, Bachelor’s in Liberal Studies ’91, Colorado
Thought inspired by events in Newtown, CT and Henan, China one day in December 2012
when
bullets fly
and blades flash
the earth stops
turning
for some
slows for others
and keeps right on spinning for far too many
suddenly
rearranging
hearts
and minds
across a
colder
confused world
and forever
altering
carefully
cultivated
landscapes of
trust
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so let us
in the mourning spin
face the rise
of a warming sun
let us
commit to
turning the soil
and dropping
our hard tears
on the new seeds
we must plant
if we are to have
a distant harvest
of hope and healing
under the certain sun
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Photo
Camera: Nikon D80; F-Stop: 3.2 @ 1/60; ISO: 200; Coverted to black and white with vignette edges
Perfection: Suanne and Sophia
by Laurie Kenny, Graduate, Associates in Nursing ’99; Student, Bachelor’s in Nursing, Connecticut
My niece’s hand holding her three-day-old baby’s foot.
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Poem
Elegy
by Robert Galin, Graduate, Bachelor’s in Liberal Studies ’94, Colorado
Drab, the green wooden slats glazed by the elements, and man
Old men, hats askew against the wind,
coats with threads like hope dangling
Young women, strollers rocking back and forth
back and forth, but baby cries;
Middle-aged soul, long hair matted to his head,
scraggly beard jutting out like false pride
unlike the glassine eyes, red with cold and booze.
Asleep, but not.
Vietnam. Long time ago.
Where were you in the war, Daddy?
But, no children, injured, no home at home.
Names of the dead stretched long, black stone
stretching longer from hell to heaven.
Him, not dead, walking into death.
Silently his soul wretches, dry painful spasms
fighting life. Sleeping on the glazed boards
life retreating from fetal limbs.
Snow nestles softly in the canyons of the blanket,
deep crevices.
White marble Monuments
of mourned sons stand silent, not far;
this son is noticed little.
Stone cold.
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Art
Oils, Hard Wood (old table top), W 47" x H 30"
Old Guitarist
by Eddie Rodriguez, Student, Associates in Nursing, North Carolina
Pablo Picasso has always been one of my favorite artists. I created this painting many years ago for a
college class and love it so much that we have it hanging in a common area of our home.
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Poem
Troy
by Dr. Marck L. Beggs, Faculty, Liberal Arts, Arkansas
Dr. Beggs is the author of three collections of poems (Godworm, Libido Café, and Catastrophic Chords), the last
two of which were published by Salmon Poetry in Ireland. He is the primary song-writer and vocalist in the
psychedelic folk duo, Bohemian Sauce.
for Helen
What any of us know about beauty
To the icon within his heart.
Could dance on the head of a pin
And follow the hallucination of death
And his three-headed mistress.
Beneath that golden helmet,
Your eyes are the sad, deep mirrors
In which we see our own terrible hearts.
Yet you stand there
We should have protected you. We
should have
Wounded by memory. Bloody
As birth. Beautiful as raw sunlight
Splitting grey clouds.
Held you back from the world.
But can any man prevent the sun?
The great lie of history
For every arrow piercing a heel
Is that we crave peace. We crave
Is a man contemplating a lost woman.
Beauty at the brutal price of loss:
A man’s life for a fair cheek,
So how do I tell you any of this?
I feel you at night, remember your words.
The slaughter of oxen for a god’s favor.
I smell you down to the bones
The salted wind pocketing a man’s face
And I would have you unlocked.
Across the ocean never blinds him
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Photo
Camera: Nikon D90; Lens: Tokina ARX 100; F-Stop: 5.6 1 sec; ISO: 100
The Flame
by Roberto Macairan, Graduate, Associates in Nursing, Florida
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Poem
Falling Up
by Dr. Katherine Nelson-Born, Faculty, Liberal Arts, Florida
Dr. Nelson-Born also holds an MFA in Creative Writing, Poetry, from Virginia Commonwealth
University. She has always been a poet at heart and in practice.
A gust of wind flips up leaf skirts,
flames lifting heavenward. Breezy ballerinas
twirl across a blue stage sprinkled with Midas-kissed dust.
Sunlight twinkling dispels ragweed into jeweled skies
alive with crackling blades chasing grackles like damsels in distress.
It’s a dance gone wild with spiraling gyres and gyrating ospreys
eyeballing the merriment from above.
Across the universe
otherwise known as my backyard,
march yellow Marigolds bursting from their borders,
gunning for the sun. Another blast of cold air
rips off the heads of bright red
bat-faced flowers, still grinning as they spin off
over roof tops, breaking free of gravity,
falling up.
Perhaps eternity looks this way—a funhouse mirror
dwarfing infinity into a bowl curved into itself,
a clown’s grin stretched across a multitude of infinities,
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able to gobble up several Milky Ways in a single gulp.
And me? Well, you see-I’m the blue fairy out chasing Monarch butterflies
late for flight to Mexico. You’ll find me,
fifty-something hips gyrating into chorus-girl kicks
at heaps of leaves begging to be disturbed, re-distributed,
sent sailing back up into the sky from whence they fell.
Fellow aliens in this alien world, I am Glinda and Elphaba
and I clash with everything. Like the leaves
set free from earth’s orbit, ablaze like meteors,
I am just another case of cosmic debris
firing across the universe.
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Photo
Camera: Canon PowerShot S110; F-Stop: 2.8; ISO: 200; Computer -converted to black and white
Roxas Boulevard Street Urchin
by William J. McElligott, Graduate, Bachelor’s in Liberal Studies ‘12; Student, Master’s in Liberal Studies, Florida
A street beggar in Manila, Philippines, on Roxas Boulevard taken during my three-year tour with
the U.S. Embassy’s Defense Attaché Office. My driver told me the tattoo on the child’s upper right
arm indicates this young person is “owned” by a crime syndicate.
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Poem
Through the Years
by Tiziano Thomas Dossena, Graduate, Bachelor’s in Liberal Studies ’77, New York
Mr. Dossena has published two books and is currently the editorial director of L’Idea Magazine.
Through the years
You have shown me devotion
And your memories of us
Kept alive
The spark
Never smothered nor reduced.
I left without realizing
The loss that I would cause you
The lonesomeness I’d bequeath you
Proud and stubborn fool
I thought more than I felt
I felt more than I knew
I knew more than I believed
I did not believe enough.
My youth betrayed us
and for that I often cry.
Now, however, I see your smile
And tomorrow also smiles.
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Photo
Camera: Canon EOS 20D; Focal Length: 17 mm; F-Stop: f/5.6; Shutter Speed: 1/60; ISO: 200; Cropped and converted to black and white in
Adobe Photoshop.
Barnstorming
by Stephen Tytko, Office of Information and Technology Services, New York
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Photo
Bruges in Oil
by Michael Strickler, Graduate, Bachelor’s in Liberal Studies ’95; Student, Master’s in Liberal Studies, Florida
April 2012 photo of Bruges, Belgium market canal enhanced with a digital brush and perspective
transform technique that gives it an impressionistic look that makes it appears as an oil painting.
Image was transferred to canvas on wooden frame and giclee coated. Techniques used came from
Excelsior’s Center for Professional Development course, Intermediate Photoshop CS6 course.
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Oil on canvas, W 40" x H 22"
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Photo
Camera: Olympus FE4000,X920,X925; Focal Length: 7.6 mm; F-Stop: f/3.4; Shutter Speed: 1/30; ISO: 125
Uluru at Sunrise
by Dr. Maureen Cardoza, RN, Faculty, Graduate Nursing Program, New York
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Center for Professional Development
Excelsior College offers a number of online writing, publishing, and photography courses.
These six week programs are offered monthly by expert instructors and cost only $95 USD.
Sample writing courses include:
*Pleasures of Poetry
*Writing Essentials
*Writing for Children
*Writeriffic: Creativity Training for Writers
*Advanced Fiction Writing
*The Keys to Effective Editing
*Publish and Sell Your E-books
*Introduction to Internet writing Markets
*The Craft of Magazine Writing
*How to Make Money From Your Writing
Sample photography courses include:
*Secrets of Better Photography
*Discover Digital Photography
*Photoshop CS4, CS5, and CS6
*Photoshop Element 10 and 11 for the Digital Photographer
*Photographing Nature with Your Digital Camera
*Photographing People with Your Digital Camera
*Travel Photography for the Digital Camera
*Introduction to Digital Scrapbooking
Discover all our programs and enroll now.
Visit us at www.excelsior.edu/cpdsc
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Excelsior ReView • 57
Hudson Whitman publishes high-quality nonfiction books and multi-media
projects that celebrate human endeavors. For more information, go to
www.hudsonwhitman.com
As knowledge blossoms, ability flourishes and wisdom thrives.
Expand your writing skills with the Excelsior College Online Writing Lab!
Grammar Essentials
The Essay Zone
The Research Corridor
The Writers Studio
Avoiding Plagiarism Tutorial
Visit us at www.excelsior.edu/owl
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