It's Where My Story Begins: short pieces on a theme

I asked a few friends I know from the haiku world to share short prose pieces with me, so I could share them with others. Here they are — on the theme "Childhood Homes"


The House at 2141 Eunice Street
former northern border of Berkeley, California
  
by Alan Bern

2141 Eunice was the second of three family houses in which we lived in Berkeley, all three within one square block. It is the house I remember best as a young child, with the scary basement where the beer my father was making blew up.

Decades after leaving the third house and living away from Berkeley, I returned and moved with my family next door to the third house, where my parents still lived. I have lived in that house for over 30 years.

The man who bought my parents’ second house had let it run down, to the point that the front steps were so worn and splintered they had to be roped off. When the man died, his family began to restore it — this process went on for years, and eventually the construction company gave up. Then the family tore it down and built a new house.

Passing by on my neighborhood walk, I noticed that it looked like the former second house. When this house went on the market, I went to an open house; very spiffy, yet it was as if I were back in my second childhood house, almost a replica. I told the realtor, and all the prospective buyers who would listen, of the similarities. No one cared. The realtor became antsy, fearing that I was taking energy away from her selling the house.

I told them it was a ghost house. In a good way, of course.


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Second Block, Third House Down
Akron, Ohio

by Barbara Tate

An older replica of my younger self, I lock myself away filling the hours, rewinding memories of Flint Avenue, second block, third house down. The pungent smell of the Goodyear Tire and Rubber Company, where Grandpa worked, hung heavy in the air if the breeze was right.

Through an archway from the living room was the large dining room where Grandpa's desk had its place and I was assigned the bottom drawer for my treasures. I remember Grandpa's pens, ink bottles, and the desk pad with a blotter where, once in a while, he would allow me to fill a pen. It was at this desk where I was encouraged to fill page after page of scribbles no one but me could read, and where I later practiced my letters when I began school.

There was a window seat where Grandma's canaries sang, and lace curtains hung on the windows. It was where Grandma kept her easel, oil paints, and canvasses, where I helped her make a braided rug, and where we put together a puzzle on the table. It was a room where Grandpa read me stories and Grandma recited poetry and read me the complete text of "The Song of Hiawatha."  It was a sunshine room.

Now I need a pause to take a breath, and return my heartbeat to normal as I recall Flint Ave., second block, third house down, and remember I was happy then.


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Nowhere Zen New Jersey*
North Brunswick, New Jersey, USA

by Carole Herzog-Johnston

In the 1950s, Cleremont Avenue was white concrete with a line of tar running down the middle, tar that melted hot in summers. Our street was so safe; we could squat down in the middle, pull that tar like taffy and sculpt tiny animals from it. Maple trees and sycamores lined up like dancers along the avenue, swirling green, swaying rain, inviting us to climb.

Backyards, divided by yew hedges and rows of roses, were imaginary worlds inhabited by dragons and Davy Crocket. We chattered and bellowed from house to house, calling each other out into the day on chalk-covered sidewalks where we hopscotched, sailed paper boats in puddles, made mud pies. Kids skipped, skated, and cartwheeled on green lawns, shrieking like banshees, pilfering marigolds from gardens, catching fireflies in glass jars.

Names were like a ship’s manifest from Ellis Island: Herzog, Paladino, Szabadick, Busby. My father told me we were all equal and no one was better than anyone else. We mixed it up with innocent, joyful abandon.

* A line from Allen Ginsberg


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Growing Up
Duluth, Minnesota

by Jo Balistreri

Growing up on the second floor of Grandma and Grandpa’s house at 1027 Lake Avenue South provided a childhood of wonder. Not only did I have the love of an extended family, but also a life of adventure.

Surrounded on three sides by Lake Superior, the only way to the mainland was to walk or drive over the famous Aerial Lift Bridge. The iron ore ships that required passage under the bridge signaled their approach with three guttural horn blasts. The bridge answered with a wailing siren. A slow process, this dialog permeated the air and gave us kids ample time to run to the harbor, climb up on the cement piers, and watch the steel girders rise into space, allowing the enormous ships to pass through. Because the harbor sat in a bowl of hills, thick fog often descended. The fog horn was another voice of our childhood, mysterious and lonely as it helped lost ships and visited our dreams.

Music also played a major role in my life. My grandma was a concert pianist and Grandpa played violin with the symphony. At night we’d gather in the living room to hear them practice. My sister and I would color, and mother knit. Dad read the paper. When it was time for bed, Grandpa would play Träumerei, or a Brahms lullaby. Childhood, a medley of sound, is the golden thread that still runs through my life.


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The Rosary, Lucerne Street
Kent, United Kingdom

by Joanna M. Weston

Set among the hop fields of Kent was a small village with a post office/general store, and a pub. From the single street, I would open the green painted wooden gate, go past pink rambler roses tangled with goldenrod, and walk up a path of worn red bricks to the black front door. It was an old house, built in Kentish style with a two-storey uncompromising front, and a roof that sloped down almost to the ground at the back. Red brick and red tiled, all faded.

The rooms were small, with a front parlor and a kitchen complete with a deep "copper" for washing sheets, an uneven brick floor, and scrubbed wooden table. Here Mother piled washing, did the ironing with old flat-irons, made meringues or bread. The shallow stone sink sat below the window, which gave a view through crowding winter jasmine of hop fields, pasture with sheep, and orchards.


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Childhood Memories
Manaus, Amazonas, Brazil

by Rosa Clement

My story begins in an old wooden house that had three bedrooms, a living room, and a kitchen where most of the action happened. It was located in a small dead end street near downtown, where everybody was a friend of everybody. It was natural to borrow a cup of sugar from our neighbor and pay it back sometime later.

My mom raised chickens and ducks in our backyard, and we kids often pampered one of them in our lap. In those days we walked to go everywhere — to the supermarket, to the church, to school — because they were all close to home.

My sister and I spent long hours gardening and playing with the neighborhood boys and girls after returning from school. There were no cars in this small street and we had lots of space to play. It was a sweet time.


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A Nest
Chillum, Maryland

by Theresa A. Cancro

It looks so small now, but the boxy 1950s house seemed big to me, encircled by a neat, white picket fence. There was a playhouse out back that Daddy had built for us kids, complete with a pot-bellied stove. On snowy days, we'd gather inside with friends and roast marshmallows or sip steamy cups of hot cocoa.

One spring, I watched in fascination from our living room window as three blue eggs hatched in a tidy nest deep within the pyracantha bush. Over the next two weeks, I was glued to that window to catch glimpses of the baby robins and their mother in nonstop feedings. Then one afternoon when I came home from school, I found they had fledged.


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Plants and Planets
Ithaca, New York

by Tom Clausen

My father worked at Cornell University, studying and teaching about plants. As a young child I thought plants must be quite important since that was how he got money to allow our family to live. In a sense I thought my existence was at least in part due to plants. But I began to recognize that people at Cornell were interested in all sorts of things. Our neighbor worked there too and he studied atoms, apparently. I was amazed at all that was going on over there.

My parents took me to the Fuertes Observatory one night to look in a huge telescope to see the surface of the moon. It was incredible to go up the spiral staircase and put my eye to the eyepiece and see that far away that close up. They had glass photo slides of planets and nebulae and I was now able to look into the night sky to see constellations and planets. I even heard that there was no known end to space. In one science unit at school they talked about the Big Bang when the universe began.

To this day I do not understand it any better than I did then, but apparently that was when it all began.


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I Believe in Miracles
Moldavia, Romania

by Virginia Popescu

I have my first clear memories from a very young age — I was about three years old back then. I still see my mother, under the old walnut tree, carefully holding a soft boiled egg in her left hand, and in her right hand she held a wooden spoon.

Under the walnut, there was a long table with two benches on each side. On one of them, we used to sit down, the three of us kids, waiting for the Holy Communion, with our mouths wide open and staring at the wonderful egg.

In the middle of the table, on a wooden platter, a yellow maize porridge was shining in all majesty, sliced with a thread.

“Did you get porridge?” Mom was asking us, standing. “Yes,” we were all answering in one shout.

That’s when the ritual started. With the spoon handle, Mom was taking a bit of the white of the egg and a bit of the yolk, carefully feeding her starving children.

This was all happening after the Second World War, which had brought, together with all the other disasters, a terrible famine to Moldavia. My mother told us that the people who had a few sacks of corn in their barns were considered wealthy.

“You’ve had enough?" She was asking us, with a voice that wouldn’t have accepted any comments, and we were all answering as in the army: “Yes!”

Then, her face was glowing with happiness.

I see her clearly, a sacred image. Thin, pale, with big black eyes, with her dark hair swept back. I wonder now, after all these years, what my mother and father were eating. Maybe the rest of maize porridge left on the wooden platter.

Later on I read in the New Testament the episode of the five loaves of bread and of the five fish, without being too surprised by this miracle.

I always thought the egg that my mother was using to feed her three children was more amazing.

Things We Like: a collective list, by 57 contributors

The idea for this list came from my dear friend Kathleen Thompson who shares her own Like List (and also her Dislike List) in her new book, The Project-Driven Life: How to Figure Out What You Want to be When You Grow Up.

I like . . . . saying the word aubergine; old photographs of my mom; my thick, wavy hair; forsythia blooming in December; trees, pictures of trees, sculptures of trees, thinking of trees; the sound of the singing bowl; hearing an "old" song, singing along, and knowing all the words; balancing my uncertainties against Neruda's The Book of Questions; dirt under my fingernails; the exhalations of whales and the acceptance of crows; my garden Buddha beside the black gnomes; taking my winter coat out of the closet; seeing the moon with a planet close by; wild turkeys outside the kitchen window; getting up in the morning with no aches and pains; a new ball of yarn, preferably a slightly variegated shade of blue or purple . . . or maybe red; a phone call from my kids, any time; the first snow of the season, and having someone else shovel it off the sidewalks; waterfalls!  — anywhere, any size — tiny to towering.

I like . . . . putting my face close to my horse's nostrils and breathing in his exhalations; telling my horse all about my day when I get to the barn after work; getting a letter in the mail from a beloved friend — even better when it has drawing on the envelope or dried flowers inside; telling people stories about my father; handmade art of almost any type; chamber music in 25-minute doses; warm boots on a cold day; long talks with a friend about everything and nothing; trying out new recipes; having a poem I've written accepted for publication; reading in bed; early morning bird song; late evenings with fire on the clouds; summer grass waving against a blue sky; ripe fruit from our orchard; deliberately mispronounciating words just to see if anyone is brave enough to correct me; holding a dying person's hand and marveling again: how is it possible to be that beautiful?; reading the poem "in Just-" by E. E. Cummings, because its perfection couldn't be more perfect and sometimes I need to remember that there are things in this world that are just exactly perfect.

I like . . . . my brown skin; my ass; making radical theatre; waking and baking; garlic; the way that building hip-hop beats feels both scientific and spiritual; watching dolphins cavort in the surf; the sign for "I love you" in American Sign Language; watching the dance of northern lights at dusk; the smell of a new book when I open its cover for the first time; the panoply of colors cast by the sun through stained glass; sleeping on boats, in a tent, on the couch with War and Peace fallen to my chest; surf-polished lettered-olive shells on the beach, in my pocket, by the basketful; turtles, marine and terrestrial, totemic and fetishistic; the smell of basements; wondering in whose houses my used books once lived; compasses that seem to be alive in my hand, my direction always changing; the curve of an open canoe; how a Thermos keeps my tea warm all day; feeling alone and in charge of my solitude; my mother's words on paper: for your birthday, the moon and stars . . . wish I could give you more.

I like . . . . strawberry jello mixed with vanilla ice cream; competitive Scrabble games; Gabrielle Münter's paintings; learning etymologies of English words; Wednesday's New York Times crossword puzzle; Leonard Cohen; playing poker; British New Wave films; a pixie haircut; Keuka Lake nights, the sky black with bats; roller skating freely in my dreams; the New York red-tailed hawk, Pale Male; smoked whitefish on a sesame bagel; any music written by George Gershwin; Gustav Klimt paintings; being up early enough to see a pink sky at sunrise; paddling a kayak alone on a river; purchasing what promises to be a great novel in a bookstore; putting on a cotton T-shirt fresh from the dryer; de-cluttering my home; the movie previews before the main feature; animal crackers before bed; the haiku path in Honey Run, Ohio; brass bells — of which I have many and of various sizes; ice skating; drafting pencils with no. 7 lead; daisies; walking through a mangrove forest.

I like . . . . sparrows in the honeysuckle; Grandma's crocheted tablecloth; icicles in sunlight; a good tomato; finishing a poem; watching the sky at my feet, in a puddle, after rainfall; red nailpolish; listening to the radio while in a taxi; learning about Japanese traditions; sleeping in a train at night, in the upper bed; the sound of a chickadee tapping a seed; how bumblebees stir the purple wisteria; candling duck eggs on a rainy day; the play of sunlight on a hummingbird’s throat; first sight of the shrimp boats coming home; the clucking of chickens going to roost; eating someone else's cooking; a cat's judgment; a hug from a kind stranger; root beer delivered by a carhop; thrift-store treasures that no one else noticed; passionate kisses in my mind; the word puce; rain-kissed hair; bright red wool socks.

I like . . . . the wind on my neck after a haircut; strolling through the streets of London; getting to the bus stop just as the right bus arrives; hotel bedrooms, hotel breakfast rooms, and hotel bars; the last blackbird song before nightfall; a winter’s morning, when hoar frost has subtly changed the shape of the world; flower meadows full of butterflies that don’t mind being photographed; the gentle grip of a rock-wallaby's hands; singing the very low notes; Noel Coward’s arch, clever, vivisecting lyrics; the small thrill when the car starts right up on a cold morning, and another when the heater kicks in; the fiddle and banjo music for a square dance, and the giggles of little kids trying to keep up with the caller’s cues; near-monochromatic frosty mornings, orchard and lawn sugar-coated in sparkling silvery grey, punctuated by the few hold-out yellow winter-banana apples and the brilliant-red cardinal pecking under the icy feeder; friends — some are lost, some are found.

I like . . . . having my 75-year-old mother do my hair; knowing that I made a really good decision even if it does hurt sometimes; the sound of my cat snoring; anything that makes me laugh out loud; working a jigsaw puzzle in front of a crackling fire while sipping a glass of pinot noir; reading bedtime stories to my grandkids; that sinking feeling that happens when waves lap over your feet and the warm sand washes away beneath them; the infinite possibilities when I am starting to write a new novel; beautifully illustrated children's books; doll-sized tea sets; watching my dog's tail twirl like a cheerleader's pom pom as she runs toward me; singing in a group; whistling while recalling my grandmother whistling; independent bookstores, used bookstores, big bookstores, little bookstores, knowing there are still bookstores; going for a walk when the sky is dropping lace doilies.

I like . . . . the smell of particular crabapple blossoms; the stories shadows tell; tapioca on the tongue; having my hair stroked absentmindedly; friendly comments from strangers; artichoke hearts; walking on carpets of pine needles in the woods; the hiss of a lantern at night in a lakeside cabin; Grandpa and Grandma; gospel songs; looking at old photos, remembering; knowing that an abandoned dog has been rescued; watching the fire grow after spending a lot of time lighting it; stepping onto solid ground after being on a plane; taking off a pair of tight shoes and walking barefoot; singing in the shower; going to certain shows alone, sitting in the darkened theatre, and not having to talk to anyone; doing historical research; Shakespeare; driving really fast and a little bit recklessly; staying at home in my nightshirt all day long; wearing black clothes, all the time.

I like . . . . my grandson's smile, his red hair, his blue eyes, his laugh; telling jokes; my dead people — I remember them in my heart; cooking for friends; creating art, all sorts; exercising at the gym and breathing more deeply when I'm finished; singing full volume in the car, alone and out-of-tune; writing limericks during a dull meeting; chocolate cake for breakfast; the cat purring on my desk while I write a poem; a hot bath at the end of a long day; moonrise in the desert; two out, bottom of the ninth, the game on the line; a Turner seascape — the swirling dark of it; the coast of Cornwall; the breathless rush of mountain streams; calculations that go one hundred percent right; winning a bet on myself, against myself; free books; landscapes through my camera's eye; new notebooks to write in; my job, which allows me to laugh with people every day; the sound of siblings giggling together.

I like . . . . my sister's loyalty; Dave Brubeck's Take Five; sliced mango; the yip of a coyote; wearing my grandma's amethyst ring, grateful that we have the same finger size; wearing 10-year-old shoes to walk with my 10-year-old dog; finding letters, while cleaning the attic, that were sent to me by my first love; swimming in brackish water; remembering to take out the recycling; injera bread; listening to my loved ones play music; peeling clementines; biking down a well-trodden path; the word trodden; sweaters so cozy you want to sleep in them; the interior of a living room reflected in a window at night, light and darkness coexisting inside the same rectangle; kneading clay; flying kites; watching an old movie with new friends; laughing too hard for it to be good for your ribs; climbing onto roofs; anything Scandinavian.

I like . . . . getting up before everyone else and going to bed before everyone else; arriving at a place of insight when life is difficult; anything I can wear on my feet; knowing I have wonderful friends who love me; the sound of wind chimes when the wind is from the east; fine-point pens; sheets that have dried in the sun; organizing the piles of papers on my desk; arriving home from a trip and settling into my regular routine; hearing my sister's voice on my answering machine; seeing the red-bellied woodpecker come to our feeder; accompanying “golden oldies” for the Senior Community Chorus when they sing at area retirement and nursing homes; rough-sorting books in preparation for the Friends of the Library booksale; the first cigar of the day; knowing that every day is a blessing. 

I like . . . planning menus with elaborate dishes that I will never prepare since I reject recipes with more than ten ingredients, but that I love to consider when I am lying awake at 3:21 in the morning; staying in the shower too long even though I know I should conserve water, but I am so caught up in the enveloping cascade, I have trouble persuading myself to get on with it and get out; drawing cats (because I'm good at that); doing karate; writing, and dancing, and spending time with my family; learning all sorts of new things; playing the guitar; doing algebra; napping; Brian Wilson's falsetto; my brother's imitation of Neil Diamond; the novel To Make Others Happy, by Patrick Robbins; the joy of simple things; daydreaming; feeling the strong and steady beat of my own heart; manual typewriters; slow dancing to the old tunes, cheek to cheek with my beloved; conspiratorial whispering.

I like . . . . having clocks from the Lab of Ornithology, in every room, announcing the hour with genuine birdsong; hearing the Western Meadowlark, the state bird of Kansas, every day at 5 p.m. sharp; talking to animals without using any words; being retired and not always having to know what day of the week it is; getting my sister to laugh about something silly; watching my mother's home movies from the 1950s; admiring my collection of 18 watches, deciding which one to wear or carry in my pocket today; pulling money out of the ATM machine — it is so warm; recalling one of my first memories (peeling the bark off a sycamore tree and revealing tiny red ants); eating crèmes brûlée; having inspired conversation with good friends while sharing food and drink; intellectual stimulation; positive people who spread their good energy around; reading the last chapter of a novel first; finding hopscotch grids chalked on the sidewalk; writing with purple ink; anything that was written by Grace Paley; my mother's nearly illegible handwriting; being alive; making lists of favorite things.

With gratitude to all the contributors:

Alan Catlin

Alice Damp

Ana Drobot 

Barbara Cartwright

Barbara Hay

Barbara Tate

Beal St. George

Carol Kammen

Caroline Gates-Lupton

Catherine Rigutto

David J. Kelly

Deanalís Resto

Edith Gallagher

Edna S. Brown

Ferris Gilli

Gabrielle Vehar

Garima Behal

Jan Benson

Jo Balistreri

Joan Corr

Joan McNerney

Joann Grisetti

Joanna M. Weston

Josh Gates-Lupton

Judith Sornberger

Judy Cogan

June Wolfman

Karen O'Leary

Karla Linn Merrifield

Kathleen Thompson

Lance Robertson

Laura Gates-Lupton

Margaret Jones

Marty Blue Waters

Maureen Sudlow

Michael Lakin

Mihal Ronen

Mort Levinson

Nancy Osborn

Olivier Schopfer

Pat Geyer

Patrick Robbins

Peggy Haine

Phyllis Lee

Rebecca Gates-Lupton

Rosa Clement

Roxanne VanWormer

Sara Robbins

Saskya van Nouhuys

Sherron Brown

Siouxsie Easter

Sue Norvell

Susan Lesser

Theresa A. Cancro

Tricia Knoll

Weiwei Luo

Zee Zahava

Shoe Stories: short-short pieces on a theme

My brother Frank left his shoes in the living room. My size 6 shoes fit easily inside his size 10s, so I put them on, my feet inside my shoes inside Frank's shoes. Frank returned, looking for his shoes. They were hidden in plain sight, right where he expected not to find them.

- Anne Taft

My mother had a shoe collection that would rival Imelda Marcos. An entire closet was devoted to her shoes racks, each pair fitted into its color-coordinated place. I can remember as a little girl opening the door to this magic kingdom, the delicious scent of leather and shoe powder wafting into my nostrils. Navy and black patent leather were big favorites and took up several of the racks,  all accessorized with gold braid, brass buttons, silver clips, tiny tassels and linen bows. But there also were rows of beige, taupe, white, maroon and pink. Low and medium heels, spike heels, wedges but never flats and never, never anything that said "man-made uppers." I did not inherit my mother's sense of style. Perhaps I was afraid to compete. Clunky boots, sneakers, and comfortable walking shoes fill my few shoe racks. Mostly I am happy with my choice. I have avoided the bunions, hammer toes, and misshapen feet that plagued my mother. But just once I would like to feel like a glamorous queen, floating on a high-heeled sequined cloud.

- Annie Wexler

My mother had narrow feet with a steep arch. Size 7 AAA or 7 AAAA. This was not a size found at A.S. Beck or Thom McAn so twice a year she took the bus to Saks Fifth Avenue for their unadvertised basement clearance. There she combed stock for their signature Fenton Last, shoes that came with any number of A's after the size. Shoes crafted from fine leather without a seam, elegantly molded to caress a regal foot. Showcased on 3 inch heels and trimmed with refined accents. She returned home with the look of a tigress, satisfied.

- Carol Miller

In the 1930s, my father sold shoes at a New York City department store. Because he had reddish blonde hair and blue eyes, people often assumed he wasn't Jewish. But he was. As he told the story, women would approach him confidently and ask, "Young man, would you please wait on me? I don't want any of those Jews touching my feet." My father never showed annoyance or complained to his supervisors, but as he proudly put it, "I sold them shoes that crippled them." True passive aggressive revenge.

- Deirdre Silverman

I make my own rules when it comes to shoes — rules for myself, that is. Now, I do have the classic woman's "shoe fetish," to be sure, but my collection has changed over the years, according to my changing cycles. For example, in the early '90s I decided that my over-injured and bunion-plagued feet deserved a break. So I decided that, except for when I was wearing costume shoes in a show, there would be no more high heels for me. And once I quit the theatre, that was the end of them completely. In 2000, I became a strict vegan, which meant that all of my lovely leather shoes were off-limits. And so I (reluctantly, it must be told) gave them up … all except my dancing shoes — ballet slippers, jazz booties, character shoes, and taps — those I could not part with. I never wear them anymore, but they will always (at least for right now) have a place in my home, memories never to be forgotten.

- Gabrielle Vehar

Since I can recall I have suffered from love-of-shoes affliction. My first pair of red shoes was magical for me. I wore them proudly to church with my black and white checked dress, red pocketbook, and white gloves. Hair in a ponytail and straight-cut bangs, my mind's eye can still visualize this. Then of course the platform heels of the '70s: corduroy on the  sides and blue and green flowers over my toes. Then there were red patent leather clogs that screamed "notice me!" Straps, laces, buckles, velcro. On the sides, front, and/or rear. Shiny, soft, fabric, plastic as gummy bears (jelly sandals). All colors and sizes. Some days are just simply made for Vibram soles.

- Grace Celeste

My son is 15 months old, and "shoe" is one of his favorite words. "Shoe!" he says, catching sight of one. He points with his index finger, triumphant. "Shoe shoe shoe shoe!" He is right every time. Suddenly, his life is rich with nouns — shoe, dog, owl, apple, fish — that can be lifted out of a baby’s blurry haze of impressions. He can name things that used to be nameless; he can summon meaning from a world that used to be chaos. Shoe!

- Gwen Glazer

Ouch, you brought up a touchy subject! Being born with hammer toes, I’ve worn “ugly” shoes most of my life. As a child I liked Hush Puppies but had to wear brown oxford tie-ups for more support. I purposely scuffed them up as much as possible. My gleaming patent leather Mary Janes were only for church or for visiting. Saddle shoes came to the rescue. Those white and blue lovelies, difficult to polish but very cool. Thongs were out of the question but I wore cotton wedges to Coney Island. Anything was “good enough for the beach.”  

- Joan McNerney

It seemed a long walk alone, and I was only six. No one knew where I was or what I was about to do. I had a purpose, and it took bravery. I stood in my little girl flower cut-out buckle shoes for a long time after I rang the bell. Finally a long-legged black-robed figure leaned down with a pleated tight-fitting bonnet to ask what I wanted. It was not often that anyone rang the convent bell. "I want to make a donation," I said. She ushered me quietly into a soft carpeted parlor. I had never been inside, and the parlor was a surprise. After what felt like another long time another figure peeked out of her bonnet with a different voice asking what I might want. I sat on the floor, took off one of my pretty shoes, reached in, took them out. Two coins in my held-out palm, my eleven cents.

- Kath Abela Wilson

My mom used to buy our sneakers at the IGA supermarket when we were little. I thought that's where shoes were sold. The question was always "red or blue?"

- Kathleen Morrow

"Oooh! should I get these? What do you think? For dancing!" I'm falling asleep from the stuffy old-things air of the Salvation Army store, dazed as I wander up and down the shoe section. Is my mother really asking me if she should buy one more pair of "dancing shoes"? These ones are strappy high heels. Black. They would well accompany a glittery flamenco dress, perhaps. "Don't you already have a couple pairs of dance shoes?" I ask, trying not to point out the obvious, that when a person only manages to go dancing a couple times a year she really doesn't need more than two pairs of dancing shoes. Really, not more than one pair, to be fair. "Which ones do you mean?" Her reply softens my heart and I realize that my mother's stock pile of fancy high heel shoes is an important line of contact to the idea of going out dancing, the hoped for reality of every Friday night under a disco ball. I can't take that away from her. I wish, too, that it were true. "Oh, you're right," I say. "I'm not sure that you do have any quite like these. Get them!"

- Leah Grady Sayvetz

There are no shoes like the ones "you had before." Those favorite shoes that you wore every day, or the favorites that you wore for special occasions, cannot be replaced — not on your feet or in your heart. Anything new is a challenge. This is especially true for shoes. Those old ones are so comfortable, so easy to get into, so familiar. New ones are prisons on the feet, so harsh and stiff and so confining. And so you must look to the future, not to the past. Persevere. Put them on every day, if only for an hour or two. Visualize yourself walking on a cloud – walking on air. Walking happily into tomorrow.

- Linda Keeler

When I was little I had a pair of Buster Brown saddle shoes that I wore everywhere, except to church on Sundays when I wore black patent leather shoes. I liked my Buster Browns, but for some reason I thought they inhibited my running ability. I kept seeing ads on our Magnavox television for Keds and Red Ball Jets, and my friend Neil always wore sneakers. He usually beat me running down the hill, and I wanted to pass him at least once, so I begged my mother to buy me a pair of PF Flyers.

- Liz Burns

The secondhand thrift shop housed a flea-market of shoes; bruised cowboy boots, black ballerina flats, and orange-sequined bedroom slippers. But, there they are — earth-gray Birkenstock sandals with a little life left in the suede. I buy them, $7.50, and wear them out of the store leaving rubber flip-flops behind. Immediately I feel green! I disdain meat and jet fuel. I covet raising chickens.

- Louise Vignaux 

      

Men don't wear shoes — they wear cowboy boots. At least that's what I thought until I was six years old. My father travelled all the way to Wichita to have his custom boots made. When he got a new pair, they would sit on the dining room table for days so we could all admire them. He wore his old boots to work on the farm; his not-too-shabby ones when he got cleaned up; and his new ones when he went to something fancy, which was a very rare event. It was the choir director at our church who finally dispelled my false assumption about men and boots. He crossed his legs one Sunday morning, sitting in his special chair on the stage near the pulpit, and I was shocked to see a pale skinny leg poke out above his thin black socks and then catch sight of his shiny black shoes. No boots riding up his calves. No leather tooling patterns to admire. It was very sad. My daddy got such a kick out of this when I told him about it.

- Marty Blue Waters

It’s easy to imagine lying flat on my back in the dusty street of some high plains boom town, bullet hole through the tin star pinned to my vest. Arms splayed, toes of my boots pointed toward Heaven. The smell of horse dung, a door creaks, a shutter slams, wind whistles, sagebrush tumbles, bounces down a deserted alleyway. When actually, I’m in a park on a blanket on the grass, shoes as a pillow, gazing at faces in the clouds, while nearby, children play with a toy sailboat in a pond and giggle at frogs jumping off lily pads. 

- Michael Gillan Maxwell                      

Even the painstakingly documented renovation of the historic railroad hotel’s lobby offers no explanation of one artifact: a pair of bronzed boots. My own memory keeps wanting to say "booties," as images pop up of soft leather, shaped by its tender caress around a baby’s first steps, then fossilized in semi-shiny metal. But the bent, scuffed lobby boots never were soft nor tender, no one ever lovingly urged them forward from embrace to embrace. Do they memorialize the toil of a track layer or coal shoveler, switchman or freight loader? The “rags” first steps toward a magnate’s riches?

- Nancy Gabriel

I give up. My feet do not end in pointed triangles. Nor are they raised, toe down / heel up, 75 degrees off the floor. I remember tottering on my just 3-inch heels. I was 17. My father laughed. I clung to the wall and practiced, ignoring the moans of my muscles and toes, until I mastered the art of walking on these stilts — probably viewed as flats by women who sport today's 6-inch stilettos. Oh, don't do this to your poor feet, I want to tell them now, or they'll get even with you in 20, 30, even 40 years. Is it worth turning a hard-hat's head, or whetting the appetite of a masochist who envisions you with a whip in your hand? Designers make fools of us, and we dive head first — or should I say feet first — into the pool of idiocy. Having become (years ago, actually) une femme d'un certain age, I slip into my round-toed flats, sigh with pleasure at the absence of pain and pinch, and take on the day.

- Nina Miller

Shoes! Oh how I love thee! Shoes and bags, but shoes have always been my favorite (please don't tell bags). The soundtrack of my life would have to be set to shoe songs of all sorts, but now a list of some of my favorite shoes: white vinyl go-go boots that ripped down one side mid-concert and left me "walking" like I wore one flipper; red and gold leather cowboy boots that were ruined when I left them out in the rain; plaid platform oxfords, à la Bay City Rollers; purple suede Keens that are ripped to shreds and currently discontinued; silver, diamond, holographic Reeboks; Candie's fuck-me shoes (lilac); knee-high buttery leather cowboy boots with lacy overlay designs; Doc Martens — black.

- Paula Culver

My father was taking me to the discount store to buy winter boots, and I had already declared war. At age 11, I knew what I wanted; black patent leather, a one-inch heel and an elastic gore on the outside. Who cared if they let the snow in, who cared if I froze walking to school? I was too old for baby stuff. He stopped in front of a line-up of army green rubber. Metal buckles, reinforced toes, felt lining. Budding maturity be damned — I whined, I begged, I kicked the counter. His voice rose and I knew I was . . . defeated. 

-  Paula Peters Marra

I am hard on shoes. My lifestyle includes mud, dogs, long walks through mud with dogs, and hard work on my feet — always wearing shoes. I never, ever go barefoot. I buy shoes for function and comfort, not for fashion. Occasionally these three things come together in a shoe or boot or sandal, but that's just a happenstance, not a requirement. I like to buy black shoes or boots or sandals, but most of my sneakers have been white. They soon become a dirty grey — sometimes bordering on black. I have been known to buy men's sneakers, I can wear a men's size 7, to get a black pair I want, but they don't fit exactly right. I've worn them anyway, until they were completely worn out. I do this with all of my shoes — I wear them until there's nothing left. I'm the same way with cars. I don't keep them clean, I don't care what they look like, and when I'm done with them there's nothing left but a dirty stain on the ground.

- Sara Robbins

To a 17-year-old, four hours lasted longest in the Bradlees shoe department. Time moved slowly, putting tickets on discount footwear with a little gun, then writing the size on the other side in black crayon. Racks and racks of women’s flats. Men’s boots. Baby booties. Cheap sneakers for all.  Mismatched, goofy, animal-faced slippers at

Christmastime. Incorrigible piles of flip flops in June.  Pretending to know how to use the size measure on runny-nosed children when mothers asked and then hovered, not

watching. By my 19th birthday, I knew peoples' shoe sizes just by glancing at their feet. It was a good party trick!

- Stacey Murphy

For me: clunky brown leather oxfords with laces. Other girls my age got to wear Mary Janes; matte chocolate leather for school, patent leather for Sundays and parties. It was partly because Mom vowed I'd never suffer foot trouble from ill-fitting shoes, and partly because, being very small for my age, my choices were severely limited in the early '50s. Times changed, and adult styles became available in smaller sizes. I reveled in penny loafers, saddle shoes, and Capezios — "ballet flats" to the modern age. I was even able to find black suede pumps with a heel! — all of 1 1/2" — when I was in high school. Heaven. Times have changed again. Women are taller, their feet larger, and once more the choices have narrowed for me. But luckily I have a new weapon — internet shoe shopping.

- Sue Norvell

I love my old Danskos — they've been around for six or so years, and they're all beat up, but I just can't part with them. The fact that they are patent leather hides their scrapes and cracks; the fact that they have scrapes and cracks is all right since they remain shiny. They are in-between shoes — good for cool days but not cold, okay in wet leaves but not rain. Easy to put on, easy to kick off. And so comfortable. Danskos were originally made to be surgeon's shoes, designed for people who are on their feet all day. Most of the nurses I work with wear sneakers, but there are a few Dansko loyalists among us. We hang on to our old pairs, keeping them in boxes in our closets even though they've tromped around the hospital for years. We won't wear them again but how are we supposed to toss out all that history, all that comfort, all those stories?

- Summer Killian

During the "Blizzard of '66," the Washington, D.C. area where I grew up was inundated. To the delight of us kids, blowing and drifting snow shuttered our schools for days. My best friend and I longed to go out and play, but the drifts were too high. My father, a "weekend carpenter," told us he had a solution. We heard him sawing and sanding in the basement. When he finally emerged with plywood-and-rope snowshoes, we were skeptical. But once we'd strapped them onto our boots, we could walk freely over even the highest drifts.

- Theresa A. Cancro

Favorite sandals: My art deco retro color-blocked red and powder blue open-toed flats with strong rubber treads. Rosalind Russell could have worn them. Favorite most comfortable shoes: My slip-on waterproof easy black Merrill fancy thongs. I usually can't wear anything between my toes but these I can wear. I wore them every day to walk to the beach. Once I got to the beach I slipped them right off and walked deliciously barefoot. All time favorite: No shoes. Barefoot on the sand, nothing like it. Luscious soft sand embracing the soles of my feet like reflexology, like the best foot massage ever. Then, walking along the ocean while the gentle waves wash over my feet, always a surprise, hydrotherapy, the best feeling in the world, complete and utter freedom. This is primordial touch of foot on earth, on sand, on water, on holy ground, on ancient land. Little birds walking on the beach, on the edge of the water, seagulls eating breakfast on the sand, diving down deep, and me, another creature, walking, looking, touching, loving the world.

- Yvonne Fisher

Number Play: a collective list, all about numbers

1 earplug on the floor of our car after my husband took the kids to the Weird Al concert

5 text messages from my husband, asking if our son's baseball game was rained out

6 minutes before I remember to take the tea bag out of the mug

10 times my thoughts have wandered today to contemplating my life's purpose, and I still don't have an answer

4 keyboards sitting in my office, but only 1 works

26 papers push-pinned to my bulletin board, and the only one that makes any sense is the postcard that says "I am ready for fun"

4 humungous legal texts, that I was given to read on my first day of work 5 years ago, still sitting on my desk, unopened

2 children selling lemonade on the corner

1 homeless person in front of the farmers' market, holding a sign that says "I'm hungry"

10 Mary Oliver books on my poetry shelf

5 garden gloves with holes in the thumbs in my garden basket

3 pennies in my vest pocket clink like there are more

1 white handkerchief to remind me of my mother

2 hummingbirds vie for territory at the hummingbird feeder

2 failed marriages — the third one is, indeed, a charm

8 children who deplete and complete me

7 graduations down, one to go

25 Buddhas all there to remind me to stay in my practice

1 postcard that I keep meaning to send but like too much to give up

1 motorcycle helmet that makes me happy just to look at, but even happier when I put it on and ride

1 cut glass piece from my mother's old lighter that I now use for tiny little flowers

1 sink full of dirty dishes from last night and this morning, reminding me that I live alone and can wash them any old time

8 minutes late the chimes of my grandfather clock

19 years my old cat has been with me all the way and back again

66 times around the sun for me it will be tomorrow

2.5 Pee-Wee Herman dolls in the house 

0 space left in my closet

92 new picture book for the library, thanks to a rich lady

2 endangered turtles in the marsh

5 harpists tuning up under the old apple trees

7 oak logs flushing shiitakes

100 seeds of Red Amaranth scattered to the wind

2 forks, dropped through the dock into the water of the harbor during lunch at Woods Hole, prompting a discussion of whether fish need forks

5 pieces of ornamental statuary standing under dripping pines

6 chickens huddling under the elderberry bushes while the hawk's shadow passes overhead

9 socks come out of the dryer, when I'm certain ten went in

47 of anything the universe wants to send me

500 perfect purple amethyst crystals in a vug

23 CDs found at the book sale on 25-cent day 

1 cake in the oven for 35 minutes; made with 3 bananas, 4 eggs, 38 walnuts and 1/2 cup yogurt 

1 very troublesome fly going back and forth across the room   

4 pears sitting in a bowl in the sun on the kitchen counter

200 pages left to read before Wednesday’s book group meeting

15 arbor vitae planted as a screen on the roof

2 worries that never seem to leave my mind

4 trips I want to plan and take with friends

3 shades of nail polish on my granddaughter's toes

5 cough drops left in the box and I'm still coughing

10 women hikers share a chocolate bar

5 moonlit bodies, stepping slowly into ink-shine river waves

124 sweaty people crammed into a room filled with sound and vibration, walls painted with condensation

8 hours of the night when I should be sleeping, but instead I stay awake and paint

7 years I’ve known you, and I’m still surprised

27 pink, turquoise, and gray knit squares that have not been sewn into an afghan

3 pairs of underpants drying

76 feminist Tarot cards

40 unsold copies of my haiku book

3 days off and I dread going back to work tomorrow

1 beach chair but no beach on my back porch 

2 sisters who also happen to be women I adore and I love spending time with 

3 rabbis at the mikvah conversion

2.5 hours of uninterrupted reading

1 woodpecker at the suet feeder and 1 dove in the birdbath 

1 elbow taking up the entire armrest on the plane even though it was meant to be shared

1 spot on the bench after 5 missed jump shots

2 dry pens, useless on my desk

6 days later our missing suitcase

2821 miles by plane to travel tomorrow

1 thank you note, featuring friendship quotes, on the fireplace mantle

8 shoes lined up at the front door

2 little girls playing on the front porch, pretending to be fairies on a stage

1 little boy at the library, reading a fairytale about a boy who found a penguin at his door and it began to follow him everywhere

572 hours watching the "Real Housewives" shows on TV and I am not ashamed

20 years of not drinking alcohol

3 failed attempts at reading Moby Dick all the way through

0 times flossing, despite all the dire warnings of many patient dental hygienists

1 glorious trip to Ireland that explained everything I still needed to know about myself

8 hours spent in the office on a fine spring day

5 sparrows pecking croissant crumbs in the garden of my favorite café

11 days until I fly to London

1 spotted fawn walking through our yard with its mom

1 large bucket of golf balls

4 winter tires sitting in the garage

12 buds blooming on the rosebush for my birthday

8 people at the family reunion helping Grandpa clean the fencerow

2 kittens ignore the mouse and go for the catnip

1 Matron of Honor frowning at the groom with unspoken message

1 piece left of the apple cake in the pan

64 years of "come day / go day"

1 true love never forgotten

43 years of sleeping in the same bed together

910 new trees planted this spring

2 friends weeding

1 sore stubbed toe

1469 weeds in the garden

10 plants (Solomon's Seal) that need transplanting

7 grandchildren to warm my heart

3 friends I consider my "besties" outside of Ithaca

3 friends I consider my "besties" in the Ithaca area

3 degrees I obtained from schools, all of them useless

2 holey sneakers waiting to be replaced

4 sisters sitting together on the beach

5 purple delphiniums standing watch over the garden

1200 Lego bricks littering the front hall  

8 bridge players, eager to drink coffee and eat cake, all overbid their hands

 3 black cats shedding on the mauve velvet chair just before company comes

6 button-down shirts, waiting to be ironed, smell like mold

7 ticks to find on the dog

2 2015 calendars to fill 

3 years until I retire 

10,497 messages in my work server inbox 

1,776 messages in my personal server inbox

4 hot pink reminder sticky notes, 2 gold sticky notes, 3 green sticky notes, 1 cyan sticky note, and 11 lime sticky notes on my desk 

3 times I awoke last night to write down more things

5 pairs of hiking boots drying from the rain

6 women hiding under the black rims of their hats

3 mosquito bites

3 stink bugs liberated to the outside this Spring

1 white cat whisker found on the carpet

 22 years I spent full-time in school

 24 leg curls a week at 50 lbs. each

 0 times I’ve bet on the lottery

1 worn, very loved plush bunny resting on the bed

5 people standing outside an electronics store that closed because of an electrical blowout

33 monarch butterflies, golden in the sun, roosting in a silver maple

20,010 raindrops falling amid the hum of air conditioners

4 sunbeams caught in a chandelier's crystal, draping rainbows across an otherwise drab day

1 mayfly squashed between the pages of a "lifelong learning" catalog

7 days until my birthday, and 'til I send off all those pages representing my life's work, so far

369 pages in my manuscript now, a gorgeous number not likely to stick

1 ingenious and illegal tattoo on my daughter's wrist, a first as of yesterday, the latest autonomous act announced after the fact

9 bridge pencils, little used, impossible to sharpen

1 croissant, once a month

3 complete dinner services

25 arrowheads sifted out from the beach where I grew up

4 years, 10 months, 3 weeks, 3 days, and 12 ½ hours since my friend Fred died of coronary heart failure, but who’s counting?

5 times this week my mother has asked me if I lived in the same house she lives in

2 letters I wish I had never written

52 chipped piano keys need a good scrubbing

8 wooden spokes are a blur as the foot on the spinning wheel pedal nods up and down

2 strands of hair intertwine in a locket; short black, long brown 

7 white ducks bobbing in the flooded yard

4 cables for i-things in a u-shape

12 minutes till the pasta is done

10 smoke rings just because I can

108 Maha-mantras to walk around the village

6 keys for . . . . I-don't-know-what

4 4th grade classmates acting out the parts of Little Women at recess

10 trips to learn the streets of Venice

5 minutes each day to remind myself of the beauty of silence and breath

1 big dog still looking for his buddy after 2 years

3 people on the bus, all immersed in their cell phones

10 shades of red that have adorned my hair

1 heart beating wildly with life

2 miles from my house to yummy pizza

9 fingers that know how to be helpful and 1 that is re-learning

4 days of being 70

2 tomato plants I planted, actually growing

16 weeks and 4 days pregnant, time is swishing by

4 songs we played for the baby last night as we introduced him or her to Fleetwood Mac

3 dorsal fins surface just off the bow of the boat

35 years since the first day we met

10 items on my "To Do" list, of which 8 of them were on the list from yesterday

18 pairs of unique plaid patterned underwear on the clothesline in the back yard

1 tick found attached on my leg yesterday and no idea of where I picked it up

39 photos of the sunset and it's afterglow taken last night

3 blue bird houses serving as homes for 6 tree swallows

4 crows eating crackers until the 5th crow arrives

67 — the birthday that shook into being my existential crisis

12 wooden beads decorate my dreadlocks

20 ounces of water left at the end of the day when I promised myself to drink 24

74 stairs on the trail at Treman State Park, and every single one is grueling 

4 separate times we "ran into each other" before we decided to plan a visit

1 lovely Mallika, my first grandchild, who just celebrated her first birthday at my house

270 (approximately) students whose homework I check each week

15 hours, on average, that I drive every week

1 million things (at least) that I want to, and have to, do before I leave Japan for a visit to the U. S. in July. 

2 Lunar Bars eaten when I only needed one

3 laminated "Nut Free Zone posters" on the school wall

32 children in red Peace Squad T-shirts, proudly on display

1 new back pack without a place to put a pencil

101 Hamilton & 33 Theresa Place, only two houses for my childhood dreams

112 1/2 Mesa Lane — I walked down 244 stairs to the beach each day knowing I would not be here forever

15 years with the love of my life after 27 with our best friend

5 years old my first poem oh the moon oh the stars oh the sun

12 years old, the last year of my innocence

10 pairs of shoes calling "not me" as I sort for the Salvation Army

4 leaf clovers, so many childhood hours spent searching for them

1 lover-cat riding on my shoulder

2 ex-lovers living on

7 siblings, 6 of whom survived, the 5th of them was my father

3 beautiful sunsets

3 people in my immediate family

12 primroses casting their aroma

12 houseplants waiting to be watered

5 sneezes in a row, no more no less, every time

2 purple mountains in the distance make for the valley between the place where they meet

1 very sore body taking a bath

2 old friends comfortable in silence

7 password attempts, 3 more to go

1 really big moon shining through the window keeping me awake

20 blocks in New York City makes a mile

1 precious relationship

1 wooden fence to protect a sidewalk garden, but someone left the gate open

900,000,000 times I've wanted to change something about myself

+++

Thank you to all the contributors:

Alice Damp

Alison Van Dyke

Amber Donofrio

Andrea Staffeld

Annie Wexler

Barbara Cartwright

Barbara Kane Lewis

Barbara Tate

Cady Fontana 

Carol Miller 

Carole Johnston

Dave Read

Deirdre Silverman

Esmé Saccuccimorano

Gabrielle Vehar

Grace Celeste

Jayalalita

Jennifer Groff

Joann Grisetti

Johannes S. H. Bjerg 

Julie Bloss Kelsey

Kate Halliday

Kath Abela Wilson

Kathleen Morrow

Kathy May

Katie Lynne Watkins

Kris Kondo

Laura Levinson

Laurie Petersen

Leah Grady Sayvetz

Linda Keeler

Linda Pope

Lisa Schwartz

Liz Burns

Louise Vignaux

Margaret Chula

Margaret Dennis

Mary Roberts

Maura Stephens

Meryl Young

Miriam Sagan

Molly Sutton

Nancy Osborn

Nicola Morris

Olivier Schopfer

Pat Geyer

Priscilla Walker

Rainbow Crow

Rob Sullivan

Robin White

Sandi Pray

Sara Robbins

Sherron Brown

Stacey Murphy

Sue Crowley

Summer Killian

Susan Lang

Susan Lesser

Teresa Wagner

Theresa A. Cancro

Tom Clausen

Vibeke Laier

Zee Zahava