The Bluebird Word

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The Rock Garden

10 January 2023 /

Nonfiction by Ron Theel

This time, I need a rock, not just any rock, but the right shape and size rock to finish the stone bench I’m making for my backyard. Usually, I find rocks easily. I forage the edges of farmers’ fields. I scavenge the curbs of newer-home neighborhoods, tracking my quarry, old stone leftovers from rebuilt patios and walkways. I bring these home like well-deserved trophies.

I’ve always appreciated stone, its beauty and durability. Things made from stone have simple lines and natural elegance. Stone endures without maintenance. No painting, staining, or waterproofing is required. I spent college summers working for a small company specializing in “stonescaping.” I learned how to use rocks and stones to beautify backyard landscapes by creating features such as waterless ponds and dry streambeds.

Today, I need Craigslist for help with the hunt. I scour headings like “free stuff” and “gardening.” That’s how I met Ilka. I saw her post, “landscaping rocks for sale, $20 each, your choice.” An email and text exchange later, I have the address and drive up to a small ranch-style home painted Easter-egg purple, nestled on top of a hill. Rocks surround her home and front yard. Tons of granite, sandstone, limestone, and more. Stacks of rocks line both sides of the driveway. The backyard is an overgrown field dotted with clusters of rocks like wild grapes waiting to be picked.

As I walk up the driveway, a woman approaches. She’s statuesque with timeless natural beauty: a tanned face framed by long, slightly graying, blonde hair, chiseled, high cheekbones, and turquoise eyes. She speaks in a deep voice, “I’m Ilka. I grow rocks in my yard. All kinds of them. They just pop through the ground like mushrooms after a spring shower. Let me know if you need help.”

I know where the rocks really come from. Ilka’s property rests upon drumlins, small hills of rocks and gravel deposited millions of years ago by receding glaciers. The alternate freezing and thawing of the ground during winter pushes new rocks to the surface every spring. I say nothing of this to Ilka. I’m sure she secretly knows that rocks cannot be grown.

It does not take long for me to find the perfect rock for the bench. It’s a large slab of limestone, beautifully imprinted with tiny seashells and fossils. Ilka helps me hoist the rock into the back of my SUV. “Come back in spring,” she calls. “I’ll have many more rocks.”

That night, I dream of Ilka, the Druid Queen. Ilka, the Earth Mother. I see her dancing and leaping across the yard, beneath a frosty autumn moon, weaving in and out of the rock piles. I hear her chanting an ancient runic rhyme, calling forth next year’s crop.

Ron Theel is an educator, mixed media artist, and freelance writer. His work has appeared in Lake Life and in the November 2022 issue of The Bluebird Word.

Photo by Patti Black on Unsplash

Snow

8 January 2023 /

Poetry by Charlene Lyon

Snow is gravity pulling crystals
which knit into a blanket
tucked under
the sleeping trees.

A muffled, fluffy quiet.
Interrupted by scrunch scrunch boots
and the woodpecker knocking
on doors for brunch.

Charlene Lyon is a writer and poet from Cleveland, Ohio. Her work has appeared in Cleveland Magazine, Northern Ohio Live, Sun Newspapers and elsewhere. Her poetry will be featured in June as part of Standing Rock Cultural Arts’ 30th anniversary calendar in Kent, Ohio. She enjoys a good espresso and walking under trees with her beloved husband.

Photo by Chris on Unsplash

Hide and Seek with Robin

6 January 2023 /

Poetry by Lilyth Coglan

He came to visit me in September as I pulled out the weeds
I was late to gardening this season
I felt him tutting at me under his red breast
Then he left for a while
Till November arrived
I guarded the cat away from him
Telling her “He is my Robin now stay away”
He bobs his head in and out the tree
Merrily bouncing along the fence
Always chirpy, always happy
I wondered why
Then I realise,
Winter is soon to arrive.

Lilyth Coglan is a poet and a writer from Hull in the UK. Locally she has been on the radio and news sharing poetry and spoken word, and was part of a female arts festival called She Festival in lock down 2020. She writes about mental health, life, love and politics.

Photo by Rajesh Kavasseri on Unsplash

Faculty Recital

4 January 2023 /

Nonfiction by Pama Lee Bennett

The college students straggle in, wearing shorts and graphic T-shirts. They no longer wear protective masks, nor do I. A teacher in jeans and a faded top posts a “quick response” code on the wall, and students crowd in to scan their attendance with their smart phones. I take a seat alone in the recital hall, on the aisle in the left section, where I will be able to see not only the featured flutist, but also my pianist friend’s hands as she accompanies her. The flutist, pretty, dark-haired, and unadorned in a black blouse and black trousers, enters the stage, followed by my blonde friend in a black, long-sleeved dress. They begin, and I lean forward slightly, listening, appreciative of the tone and skill of the flutist. It is my first concert in two years.

I enjoy the first several numbers: the “Andante Pastorale et Scherzettino,” by Taffanel; “Les Folies d’Espagne,” by Marias; the “Aria” by Dohnányi. The audience is still and attentive, the flute and my friend’s virtuoso piano filling the once-empty air. Even the unfamiliar tones of the Chinese variations, by Chen Yi, interest me. And then the flutist exchanges her soprano instrument for an alto flute, and they begin playing Arvo Pärt’s, “Spiegel im Spiegel,” and the low, slow, sustained notes reach deep into my being and bring me to tears. Missing pieces of my soul silently enter the room and tentatively float to where I am seated and hover above me, pieces that had left me behind when life became distanced and isolated.

Later, backstage, I hug my friend, and I am introduced to the flutist. I say how moved I was by “Spiegel im Spiegel.” She asks if I’ve ever heard an alto flute before. I say yes, once, at a master class given by the British flutist Trevor Wye.  She exclaims, “I bought this flute from him!” I stare at her, then we smile. My missing pieces begin to fall gently back into place.

Pama Lee Bennett is a speech pathologist living in Sioux City, IA. She plays in a Renaissance recorder ensemble. She has taught at summer English language camps in Poland, and at a school there in 2019. Her poems have appeared in Bogg, Evening Street Review, Dash, and Tipton Poetry Journal.

Photo by Leohoho on Unsplash

The Gift

2 January 2023 /

Special Selection for the 2022/2023 Winter Holiday Issue

Nonfiction by Cindy Jones

The brunch dishes lingered on the dining table. Clothes half-out of overnight bags and pillows lined the walls. Someone had cleared away last night’s wine glasses from the coffee table. Aaron Neville quietly sang “Please Come Home for Christmas.” I nudged two friends from their private patio conversation that it was time to come in.

He sat crossed-legged on the floor next to the tree, wavy hair the color of sunlit wheat and strawberries, locks falling into his eyes, wearing a too-small Santa hat and the softest red shirt, not bright enough to be crimson, not brown enough to be burgundy, it was carmine I think. I loved him in that shirt. He made jokes, called out names and passed gifts across the room to our daughter and friends, our hearts filled with laughter and the warmth of belonging.

That might have been our 15th Christmas or our 25th, they are a jumble in my head.

My hands moved the yarn over with the hook, and under and then pulled up a loop. I worked quickly through the simple repetitive motions, counting stitches as I sat alone in the radiation waiting room or rested in bed for months at home. The evidence of my obsession was a pile of crocheted scarves and wraps that threatened to collapse when I tossed on the latest one.

My daughter laid the old camping blanket down and slid the Douglas fir across the back seat. Through my rearview, its tip leaned out the open window, bending in the wind. I dreaded dragging up the ornaments from the garage and recounting the stories that went with each one. Christmas had abandoned me in a new house in a new town. What remained were gamma rays cooking me from the inside, my daughter leaving for her father’s house and me wandering the deserted hallways of my past, tripping over the shattered dreams and broken trust.

I walked down my dark hallway, pulled a new skein of yarn randomly from my basket and got back in bed.

“I made it safely Mom,” she texted, “I’ll miss you for Christmas.”

I pulled the covers higher and reached for my hook and yarn. Long lengths of gray drifted from light shades to dark, morphing into sections of carmine, and pops of yellow, warm as Christmas lights. I began to work, quickly and mindlessly at first and then the movements became slower and slower, and more deliberate.

The sensation wafted stealthily through my bedroom window, open even in December, settling in the middle of my chest before I could stop it, blanketing me like a newly fallen snow over the rage and devastation that festered inside.

I stilled my hands from the over-under, closed my eyes to the colors, quieted my mind from the counting, inhaled the sweet belonging that lived in me, and tasted the unexpected gift of grace.

Dear Louis, Today I am filled with the spirit of Christmas. I thought of you when I saw these colors.  

After I wrapped the scarf in tissue paper and placed it in a small shipping box, I imagined his hand reaching in to lift it out, my note falling to the floor. I saw him raise his arms and slide it around his neck, brushing across his stubble to the small fine hairs on the back, as my lips used to do. 

Cindy Jones is currently living her best life in Mazatlán, Mexico while navigating Stage IV cancer. She spends her days walking on the beach, enjoying live music, writing creative nonfiction and photographing the external world in ways that reveal our inner landscapes.

Photo by Evie Fjord on Unsplash

Christmas Tree Thrown Away

1 January 2023 /

Special Selection for the 2022/2023 Winter Holiday Issue

Poetry by Mona Mehas

Still, it lies there in the snow
All shimmer and crystal shining,
Icicles dangling all a-glow,
And with each branch, entwining.

The balls that were hung so carefully
Are now scattered upon the ground
And fallen there, disdainfully
Are candy canes with stripes around.

The lights that twinkled ever so bright
To all the world for seeing
No longer light up Winter’s nights,
Nor the souls of human beings.

The garland, and popcorn strings, and bows,
Along with children’s delight –
They’ve all tumbled to Angels’ snows,
Brilliant colors absorbed in white.

And last but not least, the star, so great,
Has been tossed aside, no doubt,
For it’s broken – count them – in pieces of eight,
As the New Year, it’s opened and let Christmas out.

Mona Mehas (she/her) writes about growing up poor, accumulating grief, and climate change. A retired teacher in Indiana, she’s at her laptop most days. She’s published in Words & Whispers, Grim and Gilded, and others. In 2020, she watched every Star Trek show and movie in chronological order. Find her on Twitter @Patienc77732097.

man hiking in snowy mountain
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Mount Kenashi

29 December 2022 /

Special Selection for the 2022/2023 Winter Holiday Issue

Nonfiction by Victoria Clayton

Dear Mount Kenashi,

Our journey together started years before I first met you in the winter of ‘16. It was our first-time being introduced and to be honest, I wasn’t particularly enamored by you. You seemed cold and aloof, mysterious, and strange. To get to know you seemed rather arduous. Other things sparked my interest more, the warm embrace of hot spring waters, easy on the eyes snow-covered landscapes and sweet tasting fruits – all much more charming and needing less effort on my part.

For a few days we brushed shoulders, caught on the edges of one another’s existence. To be honest, I thought you were slightly brash and coupled with my inexperience I found myself constantly tripping over myself around you. However, I will admit, we did have a few good runs together but nothing like how others gushed of you. After that brief encounter we parted ways, said our pleasant goodbyes and despite my best intentions I never really expected to see you again. It wasn’t love at first sight, or ride. And I left you, with some fond memories and large indifference; but still, I did promise to call you again, someday.

Years passed by and my desire to see you grew further from my mind. Then this summer, I met some people who knew you. They spoke of your wonder, your warmth, and I knew I had to see you again. Five years later, to the day I found myself in the exact same spot, but this time round, I decided that I would try and get to know you.

It started like any dream would with snowy skies and easy rides. Green fueled adrenaline rushed through my being, and I couldn’t get enough of you. I rose early every morning to come and be with you until the last hours of daylight slipped below the horizon. For a short while the smooth, effortless gliding through the uncomplicated terrain of a new love as light as the morning’s freshly fallen snow was all I needed.

That was, until we hit our first challenge. Everyone who witnessed our whirlwind thought we were ready. Oh, how wrong they were. Ill-prepared for this first confrontation, we ended free-falling down the side of a slippery slope with nothing under our feet to grip on to. The honeymoon had hardened, and your colder side was revealed. Feeling humiliated and hurt I stumbled back into the arms of an old companion and warmed my weary body in healing waters. The next day, persuaded to reconcile, we tried again to find a solution, but neither of us had changed. I walked away tired and bruised; I needed a break.

In our time apart, I dreamt of you every night, your softness, your serenity. In waking hours, I tried to distract myself from thinking of you yet always found myself back, lost daydreaming in old albums. Determined to make it work I came back to see you. This time there was no blizzard or storm just blue skies propping up the illusion of harmony. I still dared not to reapproach the path of where we both got lost. I just wanted to have fun with you again. So, we did, all while ignoring the elephant in the room or rather the tanuki on the mountain.

Victoria Clayton is an artist, writer and wanderer living and working in western Japan.

flight sky bird blue
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Parting Gift

27 December 2022 /

Special Selection for the 2022/2023 Winter Holiday Issue

Nonfiction by Marianne Lonsdale

I cooked dinner for Dad in early December, warming up canned baked beans, cut up hot dogs and a little ketchup in a pot. The television news blared from the family room accompanied by Dad’s hacking cough. Dad took up smoking again after Mom, his wife of 62 years, died four years earlier. I pushed open a window to diffuse the constant stream of second-hand smoke but worried the cold air would chill him.

I’d given up on cooking anything other than dishes with hot dogs or ground beef—Dad considered pretty much everything else an extravagance. Individual bowls of iceberg lettuce served as my attempt at something healthy and green. I whipped up his favorite salad dressing, equal parts mayonnaise and ketchup.

I put our plates on the table and we took the same spots that we’d been sitting in since we’d moved to this house when I was five years old. Dad at the head, and me to his right. We missed having my mom at the other end and being surrounded by my sister and six brothers.

He spooned the goopy dressing over the beans mix and the salad, ate quickly and handed me his plate.

“Is there more?” he asked.

He’d weighed in at just 130 pounds at his last doctor’s visit. I wasn’t sure what he ate on the nights that I or one of my siblings were not at the house, and it made me happy to see him with an appetite and eating with gusto.

“Thank you for cooking,” he said. “I really like seeing you. I appreciate your coming.”

Dad said the same few sentences to me on each visit and not much else. His world had shrunk to the walls of his house and his memories of his wife, my mother.

Mom’s death disoriented him; he still cried every time I visited. He was so lonely but had little tolerance for visitors. He was even ready for me to leave after about 90 minutes, usually heading up the few stairs to his bedroom without saying goodnight.

He objected to any help. We’d forced a housecleaner on him and he refused to pay her. He sometimes smelled. He’d just begun using a walker after several falls, including one getting out of the sports car he’d bought at age 86, and he lay on the street as cars sped by until some man eventually stopped and helped him up. But every now and then he’d perk up.

“What’s that bird?” Dad asked after he’d taken his last bite of beans. I took a few steps to the freezer, hoping he’d enjoy the vanilla ice cream I’d brought.

What the heck was he talking about? I stared at him; even his eyes, deep brown with hazel highlights, seemed to have faded, filmy and dull.

“The one that people think brings babies?”

“A stork?” I asked and brought two bowls of ice cream to the table. “Do you mean a stork?”

“That’s it! I knew you’d know.” Dad beamed.

“When you were born, the nurse brought me to the nursery in the hospital. All these babies were in clear plastic boxes, lined up. On the wall behind them was a painting of this huge stork—that bird had the most incredible brown eyes. So big and warm and beautiful. The nurse pointed you out to me and I just stared. My girl had the same eyes. So beautiful. Do you remember me calling you Birdseye? Do you remember that nickname?”

I’d hated that nickname. My sister was Princess and I was Birdseye. The name was ugly. I was jealous of Princess. I wondered why my Dad called me Birdseye but never asked why. Questions weren’t much tolerated in our household.

This story had never been told. I was near 60 years old and Dad was 89. He shared this memory with so much love. He said so little these days, like every thought was difficult to pull out.

His story surprised me. I’d never considered that the name might be one of affection. Dad had an unpredictable temper and I’d often assumed that he found humor in being mean and teasing. And I’d shut down, cutting him out of many events of my life, and not sharing how I felt with him. Now I wonder how many times he and I misunderstood each other, blocking so much love that we might have shared.

I didn’t know that would be our last dinner together, or that hospice care would start for Dad in a couple of weeks, and that he’d die on December 27th. I am so grateful that this parting gift, the truth of the nickname, flew from him to me and I better know how much he loved me, right from the start.

Marianne Lonsdale writes personal essays, fiction, and literary interviews. Her work has been published in Literary Mama, Grown and Flown, Pulse and has aired on public radio. She lives in Oakland, California.

cooked turkey on black round pan
Photo by EKATERINA BOLOVTSOVA on Pexels.com

Help?

25 December 2022 /

Special Selection for the 2022/2023 Winter Holiday Issue

Fiction by Kraig Kiehl

She knew this was going to be a terribly busy day. They always were this time of year. Gail took off her wreath earrings, since they got in the way of the headset, and accessed the call database. Her day began.

Gail answered the first call, “Emergency Hotline, what is the location of your emergency?”

A woman on the line whispered, “I’m in the garage.”

Gail knew the steps that followed: she had handled many calls like this in her almost 40-year career.

“Ok, sweetie, please stay on the line with me. Is anyone hurt?”

“No, not really – just my feelings.”

“Ma’am, what is the nature of your emergency?”

“I’ve never cooked a turkey, and my mother-in-law says I won’t be able to do it. And I can’t cook a turkey, but I want to.”

“Can you help me?” the woman pleaded in a whisper.

Gail could help her and did. She had worked in this role since the early 1980s. There was no one better in the business. She was armed with a degree in home economics from the state college, a teaching certificate, and over 30 years’ experience as a teacher at the largest high school in Blair City. The kids called her Mrs. G – short for Mrs. Gail. She was retired now and spent more time with her kids, grandkids soon hopefully, but the community needed her today.

She was the lead dispatcher for the Butterbaster Turkey Hotline. It was Christmas Day and although Thanksgiving kicked her butt each year, it seemed like people needed her more on this special holiday.

She completed her notes for the last call, took a sip of water, and reached to pick up another call. The room was buzzing with activity; over 50 other good citizens, in cubicles, in a large room were busy at work; the people needed them.

“Emergency Hotline, what is the nature of your emergency?”

“Mom, it’s me. Why are you not answering your cell phone?” the female caller asked.

“Tara, honey, I’m at work, and the calls are coming in. What can I help with?”

“Mom, I tried the Supercenter like you asked to get our turkey on points, but they were out of turkeys. Dad’s not helping; he is watching Christmas Day bowl games with Uncle Barry. You know this may be a big night for me.”

“Honey, just go over to Martin’s. I know the manager, and he promised to put a nice turkey aside for us. So just take Daddy’s gas card with you to get the discount. Make sure it’s a thawed bird – we are running out of time. I will talk to you later.”

Buzz, Buzz. “Hi, honey, how’s it going?”

“Mom, it’s terrible. Dad and Uncle Barry are going crazy. State is down by 10 points.”

“No, honey. How did the turkey work out for you?”

“Mom, that’s the thing. Martin’s manager promised to hold your turkey until 11. He had to give it away. Stores are closing. What should I do?”

“Well, well…” Gail stammered.

“You are always more worried about other people’s holidays than our family. I just don’t understand,” Tara said with a sigh.

“Honey, you know that’s not true. What I do is important.”

“Yes, Mom. It is.” Tara said.

“Now, listen. Go down to Sanderson’s and see Joey Rabowski.”

“Who?” Tara asked.

“Joey Rabowski. Your Dad and I went to high school with him. Your Dad always called him Little Joe – not sure he liked that. Joey and I dated before I met your dad. He has always had a thing for me.”

“Oh, Mom, that’s gross.”

“Honey, it’s fine. Joey says he always keeps a turkey for me every year just in case I need it. He also gives me chocolate on Valentine’s Day, but don’t tell your dad.”

“Ok,” Tara said reluctantly.

“Go see Joey. They close soon, so hurry.”

Gail closed her flip-phone and wondered, was Tara right? Did she care more about other families than her own?

I really may have ruined my holiday this year, Gail thought.

“Emergency Hotline, what is the nature of your emergency?” Gail asked, a little less confidently than the calls earlier in the day.

“Hi. No emergency. We just called to get your advice on recipes for side dishes for our turkey. We are cooking a turducken in our outdoor oil fryer.”

“Well,” Gail said, “that is certainly a popular way to cook a turkey, not our recommendation, but a popular way. You are surely going to be fine, as long as you are following the directions.”

“We are…” the caller said and began to trail off.

“Sometimes people don’t thaw the turkeys, and they try to cook them froze– .”

Gail heard an explosion on the line, and the caller screamed.

“Ma’am, are you ok?” Gail questioned.

“Um, um. The turkducken exploded, was shot from the fryer, and is on fire in our front lawn. What should we do?”

“Call the fire department and rush over to Sanderson’s. I hear they have turkeys. They may be frozen but see if they have thawed ones in the back. Little Joe, um, Mr. Rabowski can help you.”

Gail disconnected the call.

“Emergency Hotline, what is the nature of your emergency?” Gail asked.

“Mom, it’s me. We got a turkey. Your old boyfriend hooked us up. He had a 20-pound turkey set aside for you and gave us extra cranberry sauce.”

“Oh, honey, that’s wonderful. We will be fine.”

“Mom, ah, one thing. The turkey is frozen,” Tara confessed.

Her day was not turning out the way she expected. Her husband and brother-in-law had drunk a case of Schlitz beer while watching State lose to Southern. Tara was already at the house.

“Emergency Hotline, what is the nature of your emergency?” the operator asked.

“Ethel, this is Gail. I need some help.”

Kraig Kiehl is an American writer of short stories and fiction prose. Kraig is a retired military officer, a former college professor, and currently an executive for the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. Kraig lives in Pennsylvania with his wife, Renae, and two needy dogs.

Photo by Valentina Dominguez on Unsplash

Children’s Cookies

23 December 2022 /

Special Selection for the 2022/2023 Winter Holiday Issue

Poetry by Will Neuenfeldt

Baked snowflakes
naked on their trays
await little cousins
armed with butter knives,
ready to blanket the batch
with freshly dyed ice.
The first trays are pristine
with green Tannenbaum’s
adorn with ribbon and stars
while Frosty holds a pipe
in his parabolic smile.
Only then they delve into
Betty Crocker’s nightmare
as frosting blends brown,
sprinkles flurry onto linoleum,
and the older boy is scolded for
the phallus he penned
onto Frosty’s best friend.
Like the sheets of snow
covering the Holiday landscape
they are unique but
thankfully edible and sweet.

Will Neuenfeldt studied English at Gustavus Adolphus College and his poems are published in Capsule Stories, Open, and Red Flag Poetry. He lives in Cottage Grove, MN, home of the dude who played Steven Stifler in those American Pie movies and a house Teddy Roosevelt slept in.

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