Wednesday, December 31, 2014

I Remember 2014: a collective list

I remember the day when I remembered earlier days: going to a fair and getting little metal frogs that clicked; my mother explaining what a consolation prize was; walking with my grandmother to the shoe repair shop; the delicate oranges and lavenders of the persimmons, so ripe they had fallen onto the sidewalk; the house that was right here, but now it's gone.

I remember my grandson's birthday cake with one tiny candle.

I remember my presentation of haiku and haibun at the Hyderabad Literary Festival.

I remember hiking on the Finger Lakes Trail in October, walking on a carpet of golden leaves that crunched under my feet.

I remember when the thermometer hit 90 last summer and I thought "I prefer winter to this" and now I wonder "what was I thinking?"

I remember walking along the Seine River at night, seeing lights twinkle on the bridges, and boats cruising up and down, and feeling so far away from my home in Ithaca.

I remember being sick all last winter.

I remember coming downstairs and finding my cat dead.

I remember watching the full moon eclipse.

I remember parting with my daughter in the San Francisco rain.

I remember the delicate feathery milkweed seeds drifting away in the breeze.

I remember celebrating the 40th anniversary of my writing group, Five Women Poets.

I remember seeing a bouquet of birds outside my window: nuthatch, junco, titmouse, wren, chickadee dee dee dee, mourning dove, red cardinal, red-bellied woodpecker.

I remember the silent sobs, caught in our throats, the wet of our tears running down our cheeks, the thud of the earth hitting your coffin, the cold damp air we were all left to stand in, while you just lay there, already somewhere else.

I remember seeing some blue sky, way off to the east, and thinking: now I remember what the days used to look like.

I remember how angry I was with you then, until I forgot and I loved you anew.

I remember when I decided to participate in the Rutabaga Curl at the Ithaca Farmers Market, and singing in the Rutabaga Choir. 

I remember how great it felt to realize that exercise has made me so much stronger than I have been in years. 

I remember learning about the significance of the new moon. 

I remember going to the Labor Day picnic and singing labor songs that were written by Woody Guthrie.

I remember celebrating 20 years together by doing 20 brand new things, most of which were DIY projects, just like us.

I remember seeing my kitten across the road for the first time and knowing she belonged with us at #12.

I remember my grumpy old cat (who is the best grumpy old cat in the world) pretending she didn't like the new kitten, but I knew she was really truly deeply in love.

I remember my pink birthday rose surviving the green fly attack and blooming not just once in the year but twice.

I remember my first morning glory, opening a pure blue trumpet to the sun.

I remember your hand in mine when you pulled me out to see the super moon.

I remember the summer stars serenaded by cricket song, filling me with so many poems and with love for this earth.

I remember gazing up at the stars every night, walking my puppy and thinking everything is just right, despite everything that is not.

I remember going to work, day after day, with a heavy heart, and still giving it everything.

I remember thinking about my mother just as often as I have always done.

I remember all the days I made time to look for windmills and the hundreds of pictures I took of them.

I remember how I drove to Paris to meet a friend I hadn't seen in 42 years.

I remember the monsoon rain drumming on the roof of our holiday cottage in El Nido.

I remember hugging my dear husband each and every day, as I've always done for the past 26 years.

I remember the moment when I seriously took up reading again and caught up, too, with my writing.

I remember 2 large black crows filling up the side yard with noise.

I remember become closer to my mother, in a way we had never been before, after she moved into her new apartment in my town.

I remember my hands shaking from that awful pain in my back.

I remember seeing my husband in a dream, telling me he would take care of everything.

I remember receiving a piece of Halloween candy from another grown-up.

I remember playing my flute in the cold, with the pep band, to cheer on our losing football team.

I remember sitting by a warm fire with a book, and my family, and being utterly happy.

I remember visiting an art museum with my grandmother, and having long discussions with her about history and art.

I remember our trip to Italy: an apricot sunset over the city of Spoleto, the bells of the Duomo chiming in the background; the oppressively heavy smell of sausages wafting through the streets of Norcia; kissing you on the Ponte delle Torri.

I remember my daughter leaving; I remember my daughter returning.

I remember the early lettuce.

I remember fire circles, friends, full moons, new moons, good movies, great music, strawberries, and peaches.

I remember being absolutely positive that there was no possible way for a problem to resolve itself — until it worked itself out beautifully, only to present more seemingly impossible problems that are, hopefully, still working themselves out.

I remember when my husband had surgery: I was worried, I was a good nurse, I was awed by the generosity of our friends, I admired his strength and positive attitude.

I remember when my brother and his kids came to visit from Japan and I was filled with so much love for my niece and nephew whom I hardly know.

I remember the time I made my own pumpkin-spice latte and it was so much better than what you get at Starbucks. 

I remember our grandbaby's giggles as she let go and stepped into her future.

I remember the chilling sound of metal crunching as my car "met" another car.

I remember the sunlight dancing through the willow branches.

I remember being encircled by the red rash of Lyme disease.

I remember enjoying my days on the beach, under the umbrella, pen in hand working crossword puzzles with my sister.

I remember being surprised and elated that no one snatched the Schubertii Allium from my sidewalk garden.

I remember feeling that my life had shifted, that I was living in a parallel universe; the names were the same but everything else was different.

I remember when I finally discovered the groundhog that was eating all the greens from my garden.

I remember getting stung six times on my right foot after stepping on a yellow jacket nest.

I remember standing in the lake with the cool water up to my neck on a very hot August day, talking with a little boy about his pebble collection.

I remember sitting on my cat Sofia, who I thought was just a lump in the down comforter on my bed.

I remember that I finally came to terms with living in a retirement home.

I remember accepting the fact that my older sister may never love me the way that I have wanted her to, all my life.

I remember celebrating 20 years of living a sober life.

I remember that I tried to talk less, but I didn't succeed.

I remember a shy calico cat following me down the street for several blocks, pausing to hide every time I turned around to say hello.

I remember driving home, the day was bleary and grey, and then seemingly out of nowhere the sun appeared and bathed the world in golden light.

I remember coming into the room for something but forgetting what it was.

I remember the excitement of holding the proofs of my first poetry book.

I remember 50 years of married life with all its ups and downs.

I remember a trip to Cairns, and gathering seashells in the rain.

I remember celebrating love with my son and his bride on a beautiful July day, with the lake spread out before us, and everyone and everything was glistening.

I remember 2014 was the year when I was going to learn American Mah Jongg, and also Spanish, but time is running out.

I remember I left one job and walked right into another one that same day, and now really believe the phrase "when one door closes another opens."

I remember laughing with my sistah for no apparent reason, the best laughter of all.

I remember going to Stewart Park every night for the glorious sunsets and the occasional heron.

I remember losing my anger and then finding it again.

I remember lovely Sunday afternoon gatherings that lifted my spirits and inspired me in new ways.

I remember thinking about what Leonard Cohen's voice used to sound like. 

I remember turning 60 at Monument Valley among red rock monoliths, infinitely older than human life.

I remember my student comparing his pueblo to King Arthur’s court.

I remember how mad I was when you pointed out my neck is wrinkled.

I remember staying up all night reading the Tarot cards next to my account book when I got a 4% cut in pay.

I remember turning a corner in the autumn wind and not caring about the headlines or my own story.

I remember the color draining from her face as she learned of the sudden death of the friend who, decades before, had saved her from suicide.

I remember the purple whiff of scent before I'd seen the first lilac blossom.

I remember the changeover from child to peer as our 12-year-old granddaughter grabbed the snow shovel & dug in without being asked.

I remember the moment when I realized that what I see as your impatience is really unbearable fear and pain.

I remember standing tall among the Redwoods.

I remember the evolution of Freddy into top cat after his best friend Stanley died.

I remember the warm response of the neighborhood after we installed a Little Free Library in front of our house.

I remember the albino squirrel who arrived on the street.

I remember wondering if I might have been Scandinavian in another life.

I remember the opportunity to click the "refresh" button on my own life, letting go, letting go, letting go.

I remember working on my dissertation (dissertating, dissertating, dissertating) — draft after draft, endless editing, questions about grammar, wondering if it would ever be over — and then the final draft emerged, I  successfully defended my dissertation, utter joyfulness, this part of my life is completed, I feel blessed. 

I remember devising new strategies for coping with pain.

I remember the excitement of driving across country with a dear friend.

I remember the satisfaction of finishing at least a few of the Sunday Times puzzles.

I remember seeing "Guardians of the Galaxy" — reluctantly — in the movie theatre, and loving it so much I went back two more times.

I remember seeing my daughter off to 6th grade (middle school) and then taking to my bed, sobbing.

I remember the first time my daughter told me I embarrassed her and then throwing a "Mom, you embarrass me" party, cake and all.

I remember moving in with my beloved in August and finally feeling, in the middle of December, that our home is ours, not just his.

I remember hearing the first stirrings of "I am okay."

I remember declaring that this was the year that would make or break me as a writer.

I remember thinking how lucky I was to have seen Satchel Paige pitch at a Miami Sun Socks game, so long ago.

I remember when the cactus bloomed, nine pink flowers at once, and a few days later the red cactus bloomed.

I remember discovering a boyfriend was the cure for grieving that had gone on for 6 years.

I remember finding out my daughter is expecting twins, and that I cried with both delight and fear.

I remember losing a postcard with a poem I wrote for a friend, and being unable to reconstruct the way it went.

I remember finding a red mushroom under the bushes beside the mailbox.

I remember most what I learned this year, that love keeps you young forever.

I remember watching bodies move in a crowded room and anticipating the memory of that moment, anticipating this moment in which I am writing, and thinking how young I was, and how I would never be quite that young again.

I remember seeing my hands smooth and black with charcoal dust from hours of work in the studio, like the dark sculpted hands of Rodin's bronze figures — if I could go back in time to meet him, I would show him my hands and not what they had drawn. 

I remember coming home after I went away to college, dragging my suitcase off the train like Odysseus heaving his ship to shore, and making out my house's smell, which had previously been my default, for the first time.

I remember installing an elaborate underground watering system for my veggie garden and then it rained all summer.

I remember watching crows on a feeding frenzy after the field corn was harvested.

I remember driving through a thousand acre prison farm in southern Texas where signs warned us that "hitchhikers may be escaping prisoners."

I remember picking nettles from my clothes and checking thoroughly for deer ticks.

I remember watching meteorites shooting across the sky.

I remember seeing those 200 snow geese for one wondrous hour.

I remember writing 28 poems in a day.

I remember the moment when I started to feel old — not elderly, but old.

I remember how often I forgot things.

I remember that happiness eluded me a little too often.

I remember the day of the Ithaca Festival parade when my father fell and fractured his lower spine and we weren't sure he was going to recover (but he did!).

I remember that it was 80 degrees one day in November and then it snowed 2 days later.

I remember my cat brought in a baby bird that was still alive and I held it gently in my hands until it died 5 minutes later.

I remember when my brother was diagnosed with epilepsy at the same time that my mother had a cancer scare.

I remember making a 102 point word in a game of Words with Friends.

I remember when Simeon's was hit by a tractor-trailer truck.

I remember the haze over the moon on Halloween night.

I remember leaving heart-shaped rocks on the wall by the trail, for others, for myself.

I remember appreciating the ADA compliance of Hershey Park as I drove around on my electric scooter with my broken leg.

I remember a look of terror in your eyes that I hope you never feel again.

I remember seeing a house made of grass, right in the middle of the street, when I was far from home.

I remember the long summer sunset as we walked under the trees at Tanglewood.

I remember the short sharpness of our fight and the long sadness that followed.

I remember Mama, those mornings when the cat rubbed against the frame of her photo that sits on my desk.

I remember a year of change, sadness, death, letting go, hard and easy decisions, new beginnings.

I remember my garden plants got moved so that I'm not sure what's what anymore.

I remember various realignments in our family; a death shifts the balance of power.

I remember our cat's voice changing — she now howls instead of meowing and it's not pretty.

I remember the cardboard box — moving it here, sending it there, emptying it, stashing it, storing it, labeling it, recycling it.

I remember editing, editing, and more editing, as I worked on my new documentary film.

I remember the pleasures of directing a Senior Theatre Troupe: rehearsals, performances, so many laughs.

I remember riding bicycles with my grandparents on Cape Cod — sometimes my grandpa even stood up to get more momentum — and my grandmother wore her blue visor and a look of fierce determination.

I remember walking around the shrines and temples of Nikko, in Japan,  and the schoolchildren who practiced their English with us.

I remember finding out we were going to have a baby — the major thrill that brought us — and then the light through the window on our staircase, streaming in on the afternoon I miscarried.

I remember the morning I rode a camel over the rolling dunes of the Sahara, and the sunrise as it ascended over the growing horizon.

I remember my grandson saying "I am an angel and you are too," but I have no idea who ever talked to him about angels.

I remember when I was weeping because my little cat Fiona was going to die before morning and then she didn't after all, and hasn't yet.

I remember thinking that a whole fairytale world can be found in a paper-cutting by H. C. Andersen — a dream picture of the dance of life.

I remember that the rooms were very still and the spring sunshine crept in to touch the kitten; she had been out licking the dewdrops in the garden and now she strolled on with a lighter heart.

I remember reading my stories at the Spring Writes Festival to a room filled with loving, attentive people, laughing and crying along with me — remembering my mother.

I remember the greatest Chanukah gift I could ever imagine: no fracking in New York State — our precious, sacred land, preserved and honored, unfracked, Hallelujah.

I remember walking on the beach in Ogunquit, Maine and the expanse of sky and ocean so exquisite and peaceful I could cry.

I remember being told that I can have an art show of my strange drawings, framed and put up on the walls of Moosewood Restaurant, for all to see.

I remember hearing a friend tell me it disturbs her to see me wearing mis-matched socks.

I remember the sorrow of losing two good friends who suddenly dropped out of my life without any explanation.

I remember the day I realized that my hands looked different — older.

I remember hearing my mother say she was frightened, the shock of that, because she always seemed totally fearless to me.

I remember how rude I was to a flim-flam man on the telephone; no matter how bogus he was I regret yelling at him.

I remember dropping off 5 huge garbage bags, filled with black clothes, at the Thrifty Shopper store, and feeling much lighter and brighter afterwards.

I remember thinking "this is the last time I will see her" but it wasn't.

I remember the frustration of having four different pairs of eye glasses but none of the prescriptions were exactly right.

I remember the joy of creating a new tradition: giving each other good morning and good night kisses, not on the lips but at the third eye.

I remember learning a new chant: "Hello moment, I am here."

Thank you to all the contributors:

Angelee Deodhar
Anne Wexler
Antonia Matthew
Barbara Brazill
Barbara Cartwright
Barbara Kane Lewis 
Caroline Skanne
Ella Wagemakers
Gabrielle Vehar
Joan McNerney
Karina Burbank
Katherine May
Kelly Morris
Laura Levinson
Laura Rosenfeld
Lee Wagner
Linda Keeler
Liz Burns
Margaret Dennis
Martha Blue Waters
Maude Rith
Maureen Sudlow 
Meryl Young
Michael Lakin
Mike Schaff
Miriam Sagan
Nancy Gabriel
Natalie Detert
Nicole Ja
Nina Miller
Paula Culver
Peggy Miller
Phoebe Shalloway
Rainbow Crow
Rob Sullivan
Sara Robbins
Sharon K. Yntema
Stacey Murphy
Stacie Leone
Sue Crowley
Sue Norvell
Sue Perlgut
Summer Killian
Susan Lesser
Vibeke Laier
Yvonne Fisher
Zee Zahava

Monday, November 24, 2014

I am Waiting: a collective list

I am waiting to remember

I am waiting for everything and for nothing at all

I am waiting for the ocean to toss the perfect shell up on the shore

I am waiting for my new walking shoes to come in the mail

I am waiting until I finish work before I have a cup of hot tea

I am waiting for the last leaf to fall before I rake

I am waiting for the mail to come and I hope I get a juicy letter from a friend

I am waiting for a chance encounter with Tyne Daly

I am waiting to be reunited with a certain set of keys

I am waiting to discover the perfect notebook but in the meantime, I hold auditions

I am waiting for a return email regarding my inquiry into being a volunteer clown in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade; apparently I am not the only person prepared to do my part in oversized shoes and polka dots

I am waiting for an uncluttered moment to put pencil to paper

I am waiting for this country to have a government by and for the people

I am waiting to see how it will be when you've left

I am waiting — still! — to feel grown up

I am waiting for you to make me laugh

I am waiting for that perfect B-flat on my euphonium

I am waiting to find out how to jump out of bed wide awake

I am waiting to be cast as an alien in the next Star Wars movie

I am waiting for a wandering bear to upend the seed cans some fine night

I am waiting for the roof repairs to be finished so the thumping overhead will finally cease

I am waiting for a fun night of playing pinochle with friends who won't care whether or not I've cleaned the house

I am waiting (in my imagination) on a warm sandy beach with my face turned up to brilliant sunshine

I am waiting for an idea, any idea, worthy of my notebook and this pen

I am waiting until I remember and then I'm leaving

I am waiting for the weather to be comfortable enough to travel to Pennsylvania and I'm waiting for the trip to be fabulous

I am waiting for the grief from my father's death to carry me away

I am waiting to finish Adam Bede so I can start another George Eliot book

I am waiting to sound like a native when I speak French

I am waiting to find a pair of leather boots that look pretty and don't pinch my toes

I am waiting for a new refrigerator to arrive so we can finally buy and freeze ice cream again

I am waiting to realize my true potential and to become my most authentic self

I am waiting to get busy living — time is important

I am waiting for my hands to be dirty with ink and paint again

I am waiting to stop cooking the same things over and over

I am waiting and reminding myself "all in due time"

I am waiting for my children to have children 

I am waiting to learn what I am meant to be

I am waiting to grow tired of imagining ways to fix up the house

I am waiting to see the play "Waiting for Godot" at long last

I am waiting in lines, incessantly

I am waiting for snowflakes on the pond

I am waiting for the right kitty to come to me

I am waiting to see a redpoll at my feeder again

I am waiting to get organized, after all these decades

I am waiting for another day spent with friends at the park by the lake

I am waiting to see my three grown children in one room again

I am waiting for a good grapefruit season

I am waiting to buy a new microwave

I am waiting to clean the litter box until someone else does it

I am waiting for everyone to love me a lot, all of the time

I am waiting to start dancing again

I am waiting for my older sister to cherish me

I am waiting for the message in the bottle to bring clear instruction as I meditate

I am waiting to join the unseen ones around me, in lovely communication

I am waiting because he is always late and thinks he will intuitively know without a timepiece

I am waiting for rhubarb again

I am waiting (and excited) to figure out what I'm going to do with the rest of my life

I am waiting to find a new rhythm

I am waiting to figure out if being an artist is going to help me find a path, or if being an artist is the path

I am waiting for truths to speak from my present, and mysteries to unfold from my future

I am waiting to repaint my house — rainbows of colors, fresh coats, new start

I am waiting to shed shyness like an old coat

I am waiting for a perfectly interchangeable, everything coordinates "I can get dressed in five minutes and always look perfect" wardrobe

I am waiting for my mind to clear

I am waiting for a French Bulldog to manifest

I am waiting for silence and inspiration

I am waiting for my cardiac ablation to take effect

I am waiting for my daughter to be offered a job teaching creative writing at the college near my home

I am waiting for hope to replace defeatism

I am waiting to find the right-colored wooly bear to tell me exactly how bad this winter will be

I am waiting for a kale recipe that won't disappoint me

I am waiting for the motivation to get up off my duff

I am waiting for my lost blue sock to reappear

I am waiting for the squirrels to stop eating my daffodil bulbs

I am waiting for the attic to re-arrange itself

I am waiting for my mind to learn the past tense in Italian

I am waiting for the end of the story that is my life

I am waiting for my father to appear in my dreams

I am waiting for my ukelele to go out of tune

I am waiting for my next breath

I am waiting for the cat to start paying his way

I am waiting for my mother to say she is sorry for abandoning her three children

I am waiting for my interest in sports to arrive

I am waiting to dig into downsizing with commitment

I am waiting to see how much money I can give away this year

I am waiting for my seven-year-old dog to figure out that outside is for pooping

I am waiting to feel good enough to travel again

I am waiting to stop being phobic about snakes

I am waiting to talk more often than I'm listening

I am waiting more patiently than you know

I am waiting instead of doing

I am waiting to wake up thin

I am waiting for clarity and inspiration and certainty

I am waiting for a day to spend doing nothing except crafts

I am waiting to find the perfect sweater

I am waiting for the chives to spring up in the kitchen garden again

I am waiting for the dog to stop stealing peanut butter jars from the counter and taking them outside — how does he manage to unscrew the caps?

I am waiting to be with my husband again; we have been separated before but not from his passing on this earth

I am waiting to begin a new life in Ithaca, to make new friends here, and to see what my musical background will lead to in this city 

I am waiting to see our granddaughter grow up

I am waiting to begin sailing again

I am waiting to begin walking without help

I am waiting for a gas fireplace to be installed to keep our cats warm

I am waiting for my spouse to be healthy again

I am waiting to learn why I am here on earth

I am waiting for a birthday card from my son, again

I am waiting for a thousandth chance

I am waiting in the dark, in hiding, impatiently

I am waiting for a miracle

I am waiting for my love to return

I am waiting for sunrise so I can get up

I am waiting for my big break

I am waiting for my elderly dog to pass in her sleep

I am waiting for spring and a grandchild coming in April

I am waiting for the pear on the counter to ripen

I am waiting for the next Netflix movie to arrive

I am waiting for my book collections to become as valuable as vinyl records have now become

I am waiting for the Tompkins County Public Library to notify me that one of my reserved books is available

I am waiting to see if my house spiders are going to move out for the winter

I am waiting until it gets warm enough to start my new project of running around the block every day

I am waiting to learn patience

I am waiting to turn 65 so I don't have to pay for a colonoscopy as part of my insurance deductible

I am waiting to hear if the spot found on my mom's chest x-ray is something serious

I am waiting, as I do every morning, for the silence of the empty house

I am waiting for the missing piece of this map to appear before I take one more step forward

I am waiting for you to kiss me again

I am waiting for love to bloom when he returns to the east coast and walks with me near Cayuga Lake

I am waiting for the carrots to finally get fully cooked in the soup

I am waiting for a warm day to clean the last two garden pots on the deck

I am waiting to see if my orchid survived being accidentally abandoned for three weeks

I am waiting to see how my life will change with two new hips

I am waiting for a plus sign, a blue line, a baby of mine

I am waiting to clean out the office because when it's ready I'll need to do some actual work in there

I am waiting for it to get published

I am waiting for the vet to call and say my little cat, Fiona, has totally recovered and there is nothing whatsoever to worry about because she will live for at least 83 more purringly happy years

I am waiting until tomorrow to buy cranberries for Thanksgiving, but no longer than that because one year the grocery store ran out of them

I am waiting to phone my brother even though I should have done it months ago, but we really don’t have anything to say to each other even though we always talk too long

I am waiting to collect Green Stamps once again; the taste of licking them

I am waiting to become invisible and silent as a desert

I am waiting to find the two marbles that must be under furniture — I've loved those marbles

I am waiting to play Jacks with my grandchild who is only two

I am waiting to balance my checkbook

I am waiting for "a long time" to be over, and I'm not sure how long a "long time" is

I am waiting until after Christmas to buy new long underwear because it might go on sale

I am waiting before pressing "send"

I am waiting for more of you to realize that I have a lot to offer

I am waiting to hear the zing the sunshine makes

I am waiting for the heart's door to close but I know it never will

I am waiting to remember all the little epiphanies I have had and then immediately forgotten

I am waiting to become my younger, bolder self 

I am waiting for the pleasure of reading a book from start to finish, all in one day

I am waiting for the day when I am no longer waiting for anything

I am waiting to begin again

Thank you to all these contributors:

Alex Crump
Amy Bartell
Anne Killian-Russo
Annie Wexler
Antonia Matthew
Barbara Brazill
Barbara Cartwright
Blue Waters
Carol Bossard
Elizabeth Burns
Gabrielle Vehar
Grace Celeste
Jackie Andrews
Janet Klock
Julia Ganson
Katherine May
Lee Wagner
Linda Keeler
Margaret Dennis
Margaret Snow
Mary Carter Ginn
Maryam Wilson 
Maude Rith
Merry Gale
Michael Schaff
Nancy Gabriel
Nancy Osborn
Natalie Detert
Nina Miller
Patrick Robbins
Paula Culver
Peggy Haine
Persis Parshall Vehar
Rainbow Crow
Rob Sullivan
Roxanne VanWormer
Sara Robbins
Sharon K. Yntema
Stacey Murphy
Stacey K. Payette
Sue Crowley
Sue Norvell
Summer Killian
Susan Lesser
Victoria Boynton
Will Fudeman
Xin Li
Zee Zahava

If you would like to read the poem "I am Waiting For," by Lawrence Ferlinghetti, go to this site:

If you would like to read about the "I am Waiting Poetry Series" that the Silver Birch Press is working on, go to this site: