joyful!

February

The Unlikely Saviour

Devyani Borade

It tottered on its emaciated legs trying to regain some semblance of balance. It shook its head from side to side, as if unsure which way to go. Horns blasted at it from all sides, people shouted, waved, pointed, ignored, went about their work with no time to spare a thought for the confused unfortunate creature caught in the midst of their traffic snarl.

For the tenth time, the calf turned around to get back to where it had come from, and realised that the road back home had long faded into a mass of scurrying vehicles and humans. There seemed no beginning or end to it. It shivered and shook. The rain continued to lash mercilessly at its tender hide, opening up festering wounds that had been inflicted upon it just yesterday when its master had branded it with a hot iron rod. Was it just yesterday? It seemed like eons ago... but the pain had not diminished that far back into the recesses of its mind. The water droplets still stung like nettles.

Then it became aware of a new sensation, a few boys across the street were pelting it with stones! Oh, to be back in the safe shelter of its shed! Oh, to be back under the cosy warmth of its mother! Why didn’t these humans understand that other animals had as much of a right to live on God's good earth, as did they? For the tenth time, the little calf thanked God for not having being born a man.

There was shrill whistle from its side; a man in a painfully bright ensemble that hurt the calf’s sensitive eyes was walking towards it. The calf started to back away, fear making its legs swifter and stronger. Hours of exhaustion now drained away with the water off its back, as nature's providence of fight or flight came to bear. The vehicles had stopped. The men had stopped. The world seemed to have stopped.

Desperation lit its eyes. Its mind was numb and reflexes had taken over. The man continued to walk towards it. His lips were moving. For a moment, the calf stopped to listen. He was crooning something. It sounded gentle to the little one's ears. It hesitated. Looked at the approaching figure warily. Twitched its tail. Then as the man came nearer, it took one faltering step forward. The man was now nearly within touching distance. Suddenly the calf realised that its chance had gone! It was too late to run now... there was nowhere to run anyway... it was cornered from all sides by vehicles and this man, who was by this time looming large like a mountain in front of it. Then before it knew what was happening, the man had reached out, slipped a thin rope around the calf's neck and was leading him away to safety.

Hours later, the calf was frisking happily by its mother, the near death experience now all but erased from its innocent mind. Refuge can come in many forms, but none so welcome as that which is unexpected.

Jump Seat

Susan Verrochi

“Flight attendant, prepare for departure,” ordered first officer Dale Wolenski, his voice barely audible over the cabin PA system.

“Thank God,” Carolyn Little thought, as she lowered herself onto the jump seat. Flight 2739 had been sitting on the tarmac at Westchester County Airport now for an hour and a half. The rain had stopped a half hour ago, but then there was the inevitable backup of planes on the runway, waiting for takeoff. The passengers had gotten crankier by the minute, demanding beverages, blankets, pillows, use of the bathroom. More than one “client”, as she was now supposed to call them, had suggested that the airline should be giving out free booze as a make-good. Passengers never seemed to understand that the airline had no control over the weather.

Carolyn dimmed the cabin lights for takeoff, which was her final pre-flight duty. As she did, she reviewed her mental checklist. Baggage was stowed properly, though she’d let the little girl in 8A keep three stuffed animals on her lap after she’d promised to hold on to them tightly. Everyone’s seatbelts were securely fastened. Electronic devices had been turned off prior to departure, although she suspected the teen-aged boy in 5D still had his iPod turned on.

Tray tables and seatbacks were in the upright position. The large man in 10B had given her a problem with that, claiming that his seat wouldn’t go up all the way; that he’d tried pressing the button and nothing had happened. When Carolyn offered to try the mechanism herself, he’d relented. Probably he’d been angling for an upgrade to one of the front row seat, which passed for first class on this small plane. But on this tightly packed Canadair Regional Jet, those seats were all taken as well. All that remained was to take her place in the jump seat and fasten her own seatbelt, which she now did.

Flight 2739 was fully loaded. 1A, B and C, the last three seats on the plane, had been given to a family who’d been bumped up from coach when their seats had been given to standby passengers. The last minute arrivals’s connecting flight had been over an hour late and no one thought they'd arrive in time, but somehow they had. They were rewarded by plush leather seats and free cocktails, which the two parents had gratefully enjoyed. Carolyn smiled at the boy in the family; six or seven years old, she figured. His large glasses made him look like a little blonde bug. A good little boy, he’d asked for a glass of milk, which they didn’t have in the galley, and he’d happily settled for Sprite instead, grinning at Carolyn like a co-conspirator.

As they left the gate and taxied along the runway, gaining momentum, the veteran flight attendant surveyed the seats. It looked like one of the seats in the last row, 13, was empty. She thought she must be mistaken, though, as she glanced at the passenger manifest. 13D, the window, was Brian MacElroy and 13C, the aisle, was Elizabeth MacElroy, presumably the wife, mother or daughter of Brian. Both seats were taken, and both passengers had checked in. Odd. Elizabeth must be a very small woman, or a child, and she must be leaning over close to Brian to not be visible from Carolyn’s jump seat vantage point. Fear of flying, perhaps.

She felt the familiar lightness as the plane’s wheels left the runway. Even after twenty-two years of nearly constant travelling, the moment of lift off never failed to take Carolyn’s breath away. What was the quote, again? Something about “slipping the surly bonds of earth and dancing the skies on laughter-silvered wings.” It never failed to amaze her, and she was always happiest when the jump seat had a window view. The ground at night was a black velvet table, scattered with golden strings of rubies, emeralds and amber. She gazed to the south and saw the illuminated skyline of Manhattan below her as the aircraft climbed into the night sky.

Now, the plane banked sharply to the right and began heading west; Chicago was the final destination tonight. The ground lighting thinned as the aircraft climbed over the less populous areas of New York State. Ahead, she could just make out the lights of a small city near a bridge; Tarrytown, most likely.

Staring out of the window, her thoughts scattered, Carolyn’s eyes were drawn to the beautiful imagery of the night sky. The lights danced below her and formed into familiar shapes as the plane climbed higher and higher. Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open as she stared down into one particular grouping of lights.

That's not possible, thought Carolyn. It appeared that the lights were spelling out characters. A short straight line that looked like the number 1, then a squiggle that resembled a 3, and finally what looked like an open parenthesis: could it be a letter C? “13C”. She closed her eyes tightly and rubbed her forehead. Her eyes were playing tricks on her. It had been a long day in an even longer week. She’d been in eleven cities in the past five days, with only one night passed in her hometown of Cincinnati. She’d be deadheading back home tonight after she arrived in Chicago.

Opening her eyes again and gazing once more out the small round window fixed into the cabin door, Carolyn looked down at that same area just to the left of the bridge. “13C,” the golden shapes called out to her again. Below them, now, another message in lights was forming. “HELP”, was the message this time. Without another thought to the unreality of her situation, Carolyn unstrapped her safety belt and jumped to her feet. The seat hinge sprang back up into place as she rushed down the narrow aisle of the aircraft.

She reached row 13 in a few seconds. Fast asleep in seat D, his mouth slightly open, gentle snores emanating from his stuffy nose, was a man in his early thirties with a thick head of curly brown hair; Brian MacElroy. She remembered him now, a stout, grinning man with Down’s Syndrome boarding the plane with his elderly mother. Seat 13C, the aisle seat, was empty.

Carolyn wheeled around behind her, and using as calm a voice as she was able to muster, said to the college student seated in 13B, “Excuse me miss, was there a woman in this seat before?” The plane was still ascending fairly sharply, and the flight attendant had to grip the two seat cushions on either side of her firmly to remain standing upright.

“Yeah, there was an old lady there. I think she snuck in to the bathroom while you were talking to that guy,” she said, indicating the heavyset passenger in 10B. Carolyn turned around again to the back of the plane. The indicator on the restroom door said “Vacant,” which was probably why it hadn’t occurred to her before that someone was in the lavatory.

The flight attendant pulled open the door and peered, with some trepidation, into the small space beyond. The woman inside was small and gray. Her body, fully-clad in a mauve pantsuit, was slumped forward, partially onto the sink counter. There was a bruise on her forehead, just over her right eye, where she had made unfortunate contact with the water faucet.

Carolyn took in these details and then everything happened at once. She grabbed the phone at the rear of the aircraft and punched the button which connected her to the cockpit.

“Captain, return to base, we have a passenger requiring medical attention. Repeat, return to base – emergency medical situation in the cabin.” She disconnected from the cockpit without waiting for a reply, and punched another button on the phone which allowed her to address the entire cabin. With more calm in her voice than she felt, Carolyn announced,

“Attention passengers, is there a medical professional on board the plane? We have a sick passenger in the rear of the plane. If you are a medical professional, please report to the rear of the aircraft. We will be returning to Westchester County Airport immediately. Please remain in your seat with your seatbelts fastened unless you are a medical professional.” In one fluid motion, she slammed the phone down and reached into the restroom, grabbing Elizabeth MacElroy under her armpits. She lifted the woman, who weighed no more than ninety pounds, gently laid her on the aisle between the rear seats and began to administer chest compressions.

Out of her peripheral vision, she saw that nearly every passenger on the plane had twisted around to get a better view of the tragedy as it unfolded. She also saw, with a grateful heart, that the father from the late-arriving family in the first row was in the aisle, retrieving a case from the overhead bin. He arrived at the back of the plane, seconds later, informing Carolyn that he was a nurse practitioner, that she was doing a great job and that he would take over from here.

In 13D, Brian MacElroy slept on peacefully.

Exhausted, Carolyn slid from her squatting position down the rear wall of the plane and sat for just a moment, allowing a shuddering sigh to escape her lips as she issued a silent prayer. “Please God, do not let the mother of this man die on board this plane.” She proceeded to bargain, promising that she would attend church once again, that she would never smoke another cigarette, that she would stop judging the relative tightness and/or skimpiness of her sister-in-law’s clothing. All of this, if only Elizabeth MacElroy could have another day with her son.

As the plane banked, heading back to Westchester County Airport, Carolyn saw the color slowly return to the face of the old woman. Her eyes fluttered briefly, rolled closed again for an instant and then flew open wide. She began to cough, and now her cheeks were blessedly flush. She attempted to raise herself into a seated position, but Carolyn gently held her shoulders down.

“Just rest, Mrs. MacElroy, we’ll have you back on the ground shortly. You’ve been ill, you need to rest.”

“Is Brian alright?” she said with a hint of Scottish brogue.

“Yes, yes, he’s just fine. Sleeping peacefully,” and she pointed up to the woman’s son, still snoring away in 13D.

“Praise God,” said Elizabeth. “I felt nauseous, thought I was air sick. Brian took a Dramamine, but I didn’t,” she mumbled.

The nurse practitioner shushed her. “Try and rest now. You’re in good hands. We’ll get you to a hospital just as soon as we land.”

“Please, help me into my seat,” she said. Carolyn and the nurse gently lifted her back into 13C. As they did, there came a familiar clunk as the landing gear emerged from the belly of the jet. Kneeling in the aisle of the last row of the plane to fasten Mrs. McElroy’s seatbelt around her lap, Carolyn Little recalled the end of the poem she had thought of earlier. “And while with silent, lifting mind I've trod / The high untrespassed sanctity of space... / ...put out my hand, and touched the face of God.”*

The noise of the landing gear, or perhaps the applause of the nearby passengers, woke Brian McElroy out of his slumber.

“Mom!” he said, “Are we there already? Where’s your seatbelt? Why isn’t your seatbelt securely fastened?”

“Everything’s going to be alright Brian,” his mother assured him. “This nice lady was just helping me with it.”

Author Note:*These lines of poetry are from the poem “High Flight,” by John Gillespie Magee Jr., written in 1941 during the time he served in WWII as a fighter pilot. He died shortly after sending these words in a letter to his mother.

January

Against the Current

William Falo

Molly heard the stream, and the sound poured into her soul; it flowed deep into her heart and she saw Ryan struggling to breathe as his lungs filled up with the water of the icy Bering Sea. She slumped against the floor, and held her face in her hands as a flood of tears came.

She remembered the day Ryan took her away from potato farm life and Ashton, Idaho with dreams of making a fortune as a crab fisherman in Alaska. He died when a rogue wave swept him overboard. She returned, and he stayed behind in a grave in Dutch Harbor.

“Damn it,” Molly said as the door bell rang; she wanted to be alone in the empty home and its dusty memories. She peeked out and saw a man in a fancy suit. She opened the door and he greeted her with a smile, “Hi, I’m Paul Cummings from Ashton Real Estate. We would like to offer you a great deal on this house and land,” he said.

She remembered getting mail in Alaska from them but recycled it without opening it. “I’m definitely interested,” she said thinking of the sound of the stream out back. He left a card and said he would return later with some papers. Molly walked out back risking a panic attack. The potato fields her father toiled at stretched brown and open before her; bordered by clumps of trees and deeper woods. The sun began to fall, and darkness spread as a deer walked out into the field, and fireflies blinked messages to each other.

The stream seemed to become louder even though she didn’t move, and Molly hurried inside with her hands covering her ears. She crumpled on the floor, sobbing and calling, “God, why do you hate me?” A glass of wine and a sleeping pill gave her some respite until the sun leaked into the bedroom and woke her up.

The realtor came the next morning, “Hi, Mrs. Ritchie.”

“Miss,” she corrected him. He wanted to show her papers and maps so she cleared away all her knitting on the table; a hobby she started in Alaska while Ryan was at sea and continued for therapy. Molly put on her glasses, and saw the stream on the map. “I want to sell immediately.”

“Great, we can start the paperwork today,” he said. The money would enable her to move into an apartment without a pool, and live in comfort. He showed her their plans which included building houses right down to the edge of the stream. Then he smiled, “Then we’ll divert this stream and put in a strip mall.” He smiled constantly, and clapped his hands together while twirling his mustache.

“What’s this?” Molly pointed at a small square on the map adjacent to the stream.

“Probably a large shed, don’t forget to clean it out because we’ll have to knock it down.”

Then he packed up his things. “I’ll return soon, Miss Ritchie,” he said as they shook hands. Molly watched as he skipped down the driveway.

Her hands shook as she thought of walking toward the stream. She set out listening to music in her headphones to drown out the sound. The majestic Teton Mountain Range loomed on the horizon as she walked toward the shed and the stream. She thought of her father walking these fields growing potatoes and tilling the land.

The music helped but she noticed mist rising off the cool water and goose bumps crawled up her arms. The sun was up high, and the temperature climbed as she reached the reddish-brown building.

The door creaked open and sunlight streamed in from the dirty windows. She glanced around and gasped. Pictures hung on the walls with cobwebs dangling off of them. An easel held a painting covered by dust. Molly looked around in awe. She wiped off the painting; it showed a wolf walking by a stream presumably Henrys Fork right near here. There are wolves here, she wondered. Her mother had signed it. She died when Molly was five years old.

Molly took off her glasses and wiped her eyes. The pictures showed wildlife from nearby; an antelope leaping through the fields, a lynx with glowing yellow eyes, and a mountain lion ready to strike. One was of her father fly fishing with someone. A fly fishing rod and two nets leaned against the wall with a jar beneath them. They were the ones used by her father, and her to catch tadpoles.

With wet eyes she went outside. She saw the water, and panicked causing her to stumble androll down the bank until she splashed into the edge of the stream and then darkness filled her
vision. She opened her eyes and saw a man standing over her. “Are you okay?” he said. The man
held a fly fishing rod.

“I’m not sure,” she said.

“I found you in the water. I thought you were dead.” They were near the shed. He must have carried her here. She found her bent glasses and put them on. He said, “My name is Chad.”

“My parents used to live here. I’m Molly.”

“I used to fish with your father. I miss him. He did tell me about you.” The man looked to be in his forties with clear blue eyes. “What happened?”

“I have Aqua phobia ever since my husband died,” she looked down.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Do you need help?”

“No, I’m okay.” But when she tried to get up she stumbled. He walked her back as deer dotted the fields, and an owl hooted nearby. A wolf howled from the direction of nearby Yellowstone. Suddenly, near the house thousands of fireflies blinked rapidly in the trees; lighting up the woods. It was a magical moment. They both watched in amazement until it gradually dimmed.

“Have you ever seen anything like that before?” She asked Chad.

“Never, I wonder why they did that,” he said.

Molly shrugged her shoulders as she reached the house, “Thanks for helping me.”

“No problem. Have a good night, Molly.”

“Good night,” she said. She looked back, and waved as he faded into the darkness.

She took out her knitting, and thought of trying fly tying, until sleep claimed her. She dreamed of catching tadpoles with her father in the stream, then putting them in jars until they turned into frogs. She wasn’t afraid of the water then. She had a fleeting thought that the shed is in a great location for a fly fishing store.

The realtor knocked early in the morning with a briefcase.

“What’s all this?” She asked the giddy realtor. His hair was slicked back and he wore an even fancier suit.

“Pictures of the stream after were done with it.” Molly put on her bent glasses and looked at the picture. It showed a Starbucks, and other stores where the stream was located.

“What about the fisherman who fish there.”

“They can go somewhere else?”

“I think I need some more time before I decide to sell.”

His smile disappeared. “It’s too late. You can’t go against the current, many others are selling.” He quickly gathered up his papers.

“I’ll fight it,” she said. He left quickly and didn’t skip this time.

She sat down and wondered what to do. She couldn’t grow potatoes. She slowly walked toward the shed and dared to look at the stream. She saw Chad among other fisherman working a fly line on the far shore. She desired to talk to him. Remembering the fall, she gingerly stepped toward the shore. Her breathing sped up and she covered her glasses with her hands.

Chad saw her and yelled, “Wait, I’ll come there.” He waded across the foaming water and walked toward her. Eventually he reached her and held out his hand.

She took it and calmed down, “Molly, look there.”

In the water below her feet were tadpoles swimming against the current. From upstream two
mallards swam toward them followed by a string of ducklings. An otter splashed from somewhere down stream playing with an unseen object. The water was full of life.

Molly formed her shaking hands into a cup and scooped up water from the stream then poured it over her head reminiscent of a baptism.

IN THE GARDEN OF THE BLIND

by

Deidre Erin Lockhart

In the garden of the blind, where colors reign transparent, walks my sister. Cecilia. When Cecilia was born, Mother said I would be her eyes. What pride that bestowed upon a four-year-old! It took a few years for me to realize that being her eyes meant more than ensuring she did not trip or fall: being her eyes meant she saw the world through me. What I said was what she experienced. My words her reality. Her beauty.

Cecilia’s eyes.

How wrong Mother was.

The smell of lavender lifted poignant to my nostrils. I closed my eyes and walked as Cecilia. Did you know every color had a scent? Blue the hearty soup of the sea. Red a rose of course. Yellow lemon . . . I could go on.

This is Cecilia’s world. No garden ever looked like Cecilia’s. A wild jumble of colors and shapes. A spectacle arranged by flavor. One must walk Cecilia’s garden blind at least once.

There are other things one must experience with closed eyes. Betrayal for one. Cecilia could not see it. She knew it was there, but she looked away, letting sting and insult roll off her as easily as a rainbow faded unnoticed above her head.

There she was, an almost comical figure in a polka dot shirt and floral skirt – what saleslady did that to her? Her hands fell idle on the earth. She knew I approached.

“You sound sad, Sister.” She said.

“A little.” I confessed and eyed the top of her head. It tilted toward me, the angle odd.

“It smells like rain – the sun is gone, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” There were clouds. They didn’t look like rain clouds.

“Such a lovely morning. But the dahlia’s need rain. I almost hear them crying for it. Why were you crying, Amelia?”

Had I been crying? Or just depressed? “I don’t know. Maybe the end of summer.” I said and sunk to my knees beside her. She was right: the dahlia’s drooped. So did I. I shouldn’t be here. There were things I had not yet decided whether I would tell her. I touched the cool moist earth and closed my eyes. For a moment I was Cecilia.

“Everyone all right?” She asked. I watched her nimble fingers ferret out a weed, pluck it, and pad down the soil where it had grown.

“Yes. Dick’s home with the flu.”

She chuckled. “He loves to be coddled, doesn’t he?”

Cecilia’s eyes, mother said. I should tell her what I had seen. Yet . . .

“So hard to have summer ending.” She said. “But the aster’s will bloom. Not much scent to them though. The heather will be nice.” She folded earth around the base of a cabbage rose bush. “There is always something blooming after something dies. Nice thought, isn’t it?”

It was. What would bloom after what I saw? Was there good in that, too? I didn’t think so. Best not bring it up.

She tossed me a plump strawberry. It crushed in my hard palm and smeared red juice over my fingers. I peeked for something to rub it on and watched her sensitive touch probe the bush, then pluck another, wipe off the dirt, and plunk it in her mouth. Her lips flamed brilliant red. She looked beautiful – far younger than our fifty-odd years. Who would hurt her? Couldn’t he see she was fragile? Protective rage seared my breast, replacing the earlier depression, and suddenly I wanted to tell her. It was wrong to make a fool of her just because she couldn’t see!

“Justin called last night.” She said. Moving further down, she peeled the drying leaves off her favorite lilac bush, then snipped me a slip for my garden. I’d forgotten that I asked for one. “He’s doing well at his new post. Greg and I talked to him for an hour – I can only imagine the bill! But it was good to hear from him. It’s hard for Greg to have him gone. He was closest to Justin I think – but don’t tell the girls I said so.”

“How is Greg?” I hinted and watched her candid expression reveal nothing. If only I could think she knew already, then this would pass from me!

“This ‘empty nest’ thing is difficult for him after so long.”

That was all she thought. What was I supposed to do? Oh Mother, you didn’t prepare me for this! “Cecilia . . .”

Her hands stilled. Perhaps it was my tone. What was that tone? Was it the one I used when I treated her like an idiot? How long since I had let that frustration creep into my conversation with her?

“Don’t, Amelia.” Her voice was firm. Was it my tone to which she objected, or what she knew I was about to say? I saw her fingers – those long, soiled fingers – tremble. She knew. God help her, she knew. And now she knew I knew. I hadn’t meant to do that to her!

“What are you going to do?” I asked after a suffocating silence.

Her back stiffened, and her fingers straightened. She plunged them beneath the dirt and randomly attacked whatever they touched. I watched her uproot a precious patch of marigolds not yet opened.

“Nothing.”

“But you know . . .”

“Yes, I know.” Her lips quirked bitterly, “I’m not blind.”

“You’re going to let him get away with it? Let him mock you – ”

“He mocks himself. He knows that, Amelia. His heart is breaking over his sin. I feel it when I’m near him. He lumbers into the room, his walk so heavy I cannot bare to listen, then he cries out with synthetic cheer to fool me. Me who can see what no one else can, who can hear beneath the heart! No, Amelia, I shall not confront him. I’ll wait. He will tell me soon, then I can forgive him and he can heal.”

That didn’t seem right. I clamped my lips shut, but I had never been able to hold back from her. I’m sure she could hear my recrimination even as I sat mute.

A smile swirled across her lips, and she faced me again. “Go ahead.”

She made me so mad! I glared at her, then let my words strike her. “Where do you think he will be tonight – or tomorrow night? How can you sit here?”

She shook her head with amusement, and that little hint of frustration, which I had shown her, now shimmered from her blank eyes. “Impatient Amelia. Impulsive Amelia. Amelia, who does not have to listen and wait before she runs across the street. Amelia, who does not know how long it takes before a rose bush first blooms. Amelia, you cannot try to be me, nor I you. This is my way. And it’s my battle and my marriage. I built it like this garden. Watered and tended it for twenty some years. You think, I will throw it away because a few weeds snuck into the soil? Will I uproot them before the planted seeds are fully nurtured? No! I will wait and pray, and my Greg will face me.”

“And what will you do tonight?” I questioned softly around my breaking heart.
Her smile wobbled. “Probably cry awhile and pray awhile and sleep less.”

That wasn’t right. But it wasn’t my place either. Tears stung my cheeks, but they were cold. I looked up. I wasn’t crying: it was raining. She had been right. Perhaps she was right in this too, though I doubted it. Maybe I should walk her garden blind once more.

GROWN AND GONE

J.Kaval

The one day she appeared in our backyard near the garbage pit searching for food. The next day she was seen near the cattle shed playing with the newly born calf. Then she was found in the company of cows, goats, sheep and chickens in our compound. She was soon all around the house moving freely. She has adopted us.

Where did she come from? How did she get into our compound? Who were her parents? Which tribe did she belong to? We have no idea. We had no way to inquire more about her. Ours was a small farm fenced with barbed wire. Our immediate neighbors were a kilometer away. We were an elderly couple all by ourselves. We had two children one boy and a girl. Both of them were settled in foreign countries, son in US and daughter in UK. We needed company. We named our new arrival Panchami after our daughter.

Panchami was brown with white patches on her neck, abdomen and legs. She looked as if she had put on white socks. She was slim, her tail long and bushy, proclaiming her link to a royal lineage. Her face betrayed her distant relation to a noble family, her barking had traces of pedigree, her eyes and looks were fiery and fascinating as well.

Within a couple of weeks Panchami established herself. She marked the line of control and held her domain within the compound. No visitor was allowed inside without her warning bark. Casual beggars and mendicants kept away from the gate. Small time thieves and rag pickers did not dare to come near the fence. Cattle feeders and shepherds stayed away from the boundary. She allowed no intruder from any quarter. Infiltrators were chased away. Rodents and rats began to disappear from the farm. Snakes and rabbits were either driven out or killed. Stray animals stopped rambling in.

Panchami proved herself an able watch maid. We had to warn the passersby and the unwelcome guests with a board on the main gate. We also had to install a box for the postman and the newspaper boy who otherwise used to deliver goods at the doorstep. The meter reader from the electricity board stopped coming to the house. He did not want get bitten by her. She was friendly with the milkman Devanna who supplied her with a glass of fresh milk. She was also very fond of our housemaid Anju who occasionally gave her a bath and brushing.

At dawn and dusk Panchami would appear at the door of the kitchen for her share of meal from my wife. She ate whatever was offered. She would settle for a while in our portico. After a nap she would go on her rounds. She would see me off at the gate. She was punctual at the gate to greet me on my return from the nearby town. She could recognize the sound of our car. She was always sure to get a couple of biscuits. We did not put a collar around her neck. We never chained her. We had decided that she should grow like our children in freedom and responsibility. She was our Saakhumagalu (adopted daughter). But my wife never permitted her inside the house though I was more than willing to grant her even that freedom.

Panchamui grew faster than we had thought. She became tall, long, strong and shapely. She looked like a beautiful maiden.

As seasons went by we noticed Panchami venturing outside the barbed fencing. Gradually her absence became frequent and prolonged. But She would be at our side from nowhere at a mere call. One day she did not respond to our call, neither did she turn up for the evening meal, or show up in the morning. She just vanished. She had quietly disappeared just as she had appeared about ten months ago. The milkman Devanna reported hearing her howling in the woods called California, an enclave a few kilometers away from our farm where rich landlords lived with their pedigree dogs.

My wife whispered: “Panchami might have settled with her boy friend.”

“Yea, indeed, just like our children, grown and gone for ever leaving us alone.”

The Day the Grinch Stole Grandma

Marion Fenimore

Mildred usually rested during her Christmas shopping trip to the Uptown Mall if only to watch the ice skaters. The scene at the mall was as Christmassy as a Norman Rockwell painting. Green garland, decorated with twinkling lights, draped over the railings that surrounded all three levels of rink viewing. A huge poinsettia Christmas tree ceremoniously held court in the center of the ice. The skaters floated, flitted and sometimes fell around the tree. Mildred watched with an irritation she had never before experienced while Christmas shopping. Over the loudspeakers, while holiday music blared, Mildred’s eyes filled with salty tears and she sank deeper into herself.

For nearly all her married-mother life, Mildred T. Shearer created the wonderfulness of the Christmas season for her family. She alone was responsible for the memory making. Was it a good or great Christmas? The answer depended on the extent to which Mildred shopped, wrapped, cooked and fussed over her family. Now, sixty-eight years old, Mildred was tired. She loved her children and loved their children. There was no question about that. No, Mildred could not be accused of losing interest in her family—only in working so hard at Christmas.

Her eyes wandered above the ice rink and she saw a blurry vision of holiday shoppers. Lots of young mothers, some pushing strollers, others gripping lists and packages, paraded across the mezzanine and upper balconies. Mildred recalled the many years of prototyping that same behavior. Drop off kids at school, drive to mall, shop, return home, hide packages, start dinner, sit in pick-up line at school, and greet kids. It was fun, then, wasn’t it? Mildred smiled to herself, because with youth and vigor coursing through her in her twenties and thirties, it was all fun. Somehow, her heart felt lighter now. She closed her eyes, meditated on a prayer of gratitude for all her blessings - past, present and future. She can do this, she thought, at least for one more year. She can do this with God’s help. She will make a wonderful Christmas season for everyone depending on her. There will be gifts and trees, but there will also be love and the Light of Christ on earth.

Mildred squirmed uncomfortably on the wooden bench. Would it kill mall management to place a few comfortable chairs in the mall? The benches had no backs to rest against, so Mildred’s lower back ached not unexpectedly. She sighed heavily, stood tall, stretched her spine, rotated her shoulder blades and marched on.

Grandma’s Sermon

Deanna Hershiser

Paper, magazine, and photograph stacks fill each corner of my grandma's home. When we moved to town, Reggie and I excavated the tallest piles, reducing them some. Reggie focused on clearing Grandma's walkway between her bed and rocking chair.

He unburdened the enormous office desk, so her TV would fit on one edge and Grandma could watch her sermons, as she calls the preacher programs from Trinity Network. After she mails in her monthly contribution, the TV pastors send glow-in-the-dark Jesuses on key chains and descending dove nightlights.

My tithes and offerings go to our church, downtown, where a beautiful pipe organ plays. Reggie, the children, and I occupy half a pew Sunday mornings. I've asked Grandma to come with us. Part of me wishes she'd get involved there and make new friends, like we're doing. Another part of me shudders to imagine her in a service beside us. Who knows what she might do? I remember years ago my parents taking her to church. In the middle of the sermon, after the pastor made a point, Grandma applauded!

Mom and Dad and I sank in our seats.

My son and daughter in tow, I arrive on a Tuesday to go over Grandma's finances with her. She smiles, flustered, when we enter and makes her way with care back to her rocker. I pull a folding chair close. The children play with toys on the floor. I hope they won't get filthy.

I write Grandma's checks, enter numbers in the ledger, and hand her the checkbook so she can sign in her shaky script.

"There," Grandma says brightly. "That's a start on my day. Thank you."

"Mommy!" my son calls. He points to where my daughter climbs a stack of papers.

"No, honey," I say. I scoop her up. Her blond curls brush my arm.

"Mfn, Hee!" my tiny girl babbles. Her plump fist wads a newspaper clipping.

"Grandma," I say, prying the paper gently free. "Is that you?" I hand her the page.

Without reading the headline, I smile, because in the faded photograph Grandma looks young, dark-haired, gorgeous, and I think I favor her.

"Yes," Grandma says, cupping her likeness in a shaking palm. "I'm sorry to say, that was me."

"Hm?" I've gathered the children, wiped my daughter's nose, and now I stop to read the words above Grandma's picture.

"Local Woman Admits Affair with Mayor," the newspaper proclaims.

Grandma's head bows.

I swallow. "Grandma," I say. I set my hand on her shoulder and squeeze. "It was a long time ago."

"I ask the Lord's forgiveness every day," she whispers.

I walk slowly out to the car, my girl on my hip and my son trailing. The soft breeze lifts my daughter's tresses. She rubs her nose. My heart thrums, heavy.

Her small features, so fair, don't match Reggie's dark ones. They favor the assistant pastor from our last church, in the town we left behind.