I used to be embarrassed about living on the poor side of town-out in the country-where there were no sidewalks, lots of bugs and creatures (alligators in the yard at times) and with parents who were no fans of air conditioning. I was different-my family was different than a lot of my friends and their city-families.

But as I’ve grown older, matured, and more comfortable in my own skin, I have come to so appreciate the gifts of growing up where I did, and with a different kind of family.

As a kid, I had a really hard time sleeping. My dad would carry me on his hip on night walks through the pasture beside our house. There were no street lights to dim the glow of the stars. He taught me the names of the constellations and the phases of the moon. When I was tired from the astronomy lessons, we’d go back inside and I could finally fall asleep.

Now I live in a city where light pollution (and gray skies about 9 months out of the year) obstruct the night sky. It makes me miss the night skies of my youth in the Florida countryside! (anonymous)

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The summer I turned seventeen, I worked as a lifeguard on Thursday nights at a community pool. One night, one of the pool lights popped out of its socket, so it was out on the pool deck rather than in its proper place in the pool.

A little boy walked by and flicked (cold) water on the (hot) light. The glass shattered and the light burst into flame. The little boy cut his foot on the broken glass in his hasty retreat. He was wearing one of those swimsuits that has bits of foam sewn in to ensure buoyancy.

I remember sitting on stand and thinking, “I have not been trained to put out electrical fires.” (Fortunately, the fire went out on its own.)

More recently I have thought, “I don’t feel qualified to drive such a large truck,” “Am I enough of a grown up that I just signed my own lease?” and my favorite, “I haven’t any idea about how to teach (facilitate?) music class to a bunch of three- and four-year-olds.”

I highly suspect that I am in for a lifetime of feeling inept and egregiously underqualified. But maybe that is the point. That is the odyssey. (Amanda)

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One summer weekend in 1997, a family loaded up the car to drive to the beach. Not Crescent Beach, which would have been the typical destination–but all the way up to the Outer Banks in North Carolina. The girl and her younger brother in the backseat, and their mom and dad up front. For some reason, this girl was able to read in moving cars without feeling sick; and being unable to choose just 5 or 6 books to bring, she’d wedged a whole large paper shopping bag filled to the brim with them in the space where her nearly-teenage legs and feet should have gone. Today she cannot remember how many or which ones came in handy on the drive up or back, but she does recall the unexpectedly steep slope of the sandy beaches into the crashing waves, and the long bridges from island to island, and the park just off the side of the main road with its sign advertising “BUNGEE JUMP HERE,” where she climbed a seemingly endless amount of stairs before stepping off a platform at someone’s count of three, and coming away with a bird’s eye view over the inflated safety airbag below there among the coastline, and white t-shirt with the words, “shut up and JUMP” in bright blue lettering, and the now infamous quote her mom scribbled down so as not to forget the exact wording in the exhilaration of the moment: “This could be life changing!”

Maybe it was. (Emily M.)

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This story was written using the following quote from The Odyssey as inspiration:

“I longed for home, longed for the sight of home.”

I learned at least–what Home could be

By feeling far away yet still alone.

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“This seems a Home–

And Home is not–

But what that Place could be–

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But what that Place could be–

Afflicts me–as a Setting Sun

Where Dawn–knows how to be–“

said E-M-I-L-Y- © 1864 #944 [Emily Dickinson]

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Homeless at Home was me–

To see the world unfold was Home, on distant foreign shore.

In strangers world I welcome all–impossible at Home.

If Home is death, I want more “less” of death–

If death is Home, I wish it more a stranger’s gate–

A someday promise far away, but welcoming it as well.

If Home is “Here” as moments come,

Where Body does not drop away

Nor mind side-step the day,

I want this most, I long for this–

Bring–sight of Home–to me– (anonymous)

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It’s been ages since I’ve gone camping, so when some friends of mine suggested it, I jumped at the chance to get out of the city. We left on Friday evening, and despite the rush hour traffic, we got to our camp without much delay. It’s amazing how quickly the scenery changes from nothing but concrete to all trees and dirt, and just two hours from NYC. I love it.

Saturday morning we wake up (after spending the night in a somewhat droopy tent), and we’re ready to go hiking–yeah! And by hike, I mean a leisurely stroll through the woods, of course. We go to the camp office and find a map with a relatively easy three hour trail. “Just look for the Irish potato,” the camp director says. Right. “Make sure you go RIGHT at the Irish potato rock!”

After 30 minutes and passing numerous rocks that resemble potatoes, we finally come to the one that has got to be the Irish potato. A couple of photos later we veer to the right and continue on. An hour or so later we come to a major highway–an annoying reminder that we haven’t really escaped civilization. The trail blazes here are confusing. We can either cross the road and go straight, or turn right and follow the road. We figure we should cross because why would the trail lead us down the shoulder of a highway.

After narrowly missing cars traveling at high speeds we get across and notice an amusing note someone  has penned on the guard rail, “Don’t go this way!” Haha, that’s funny. Our fellow hikers were quite the jokesters. We then realize that the markers indicate that we must literally go straight up a mountain. The four of us are now climbing up a vertical cliff with a highway below us and no equipment of course. Now this is odd, because the camp people promised us leisure, but it’s cool–go us! We make it up pretty easily and laugh off our annoyance with the camp director who obviously didn’t know what she was talking about.

Four hours later, and countless vertical climbs later, we are out of food and water. To add insult to injury, we are being pelted with huge acorns every time the wind blows. Perhaps we have been following the wrong trail? I stop for a moment to catch my breath but as I look up and see another vertical climb straight ahead I start to hyperventilate. I am involuntarily crying and laughing at the same time. Now Cherry starts to freak out: “Where the fuck are we?!”

After we collect ourselves we decide the best thing to do is head toward whatever road we hear not too far away and hitch a ride back to camp. Kara is the only one with service and calls the camp to see if they can come get us or help in some way. Nothing. “We don’t know where you are and can’t come get you, did you turn right at the Irish potato?” What the hell! Jerks! On the hitchhiking front, no one is stopping, which isn’t surprising considering we’re on a bend on a high speed road with no shoulder to stop on.

Finally our hero–a state trooper stops! Sun glasses on, no smile, he agrees to give us a lift. The four of us are now crammed in the back of a police car trying hard not to burst out laughing. “So what happened to you guys?” he questioned. “We got lost.” “Yeah, you must have been on the Appalachian Trail,” he responds. “Where are you guys from anyway?” “Brooklyn…” Aha! Now he’s showing a slight smile.

We make it back, thanks to the man in uniform, who now has a good story to tell his buddies (as do we). To seek revenge on the idiotic camp director for giving us a useless map we sneak past the “no swimming” sign and took the most exhilarating dip in the beautifully moon-lit lake. What a ridiculous day. (anonymous)

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“How Wolves Are Born”

The wolves howled or at least I thought they did, I thought the wolves were howling. But they were not unfriendly, not the kind with fangs and matted hair. They were not like dogs, either, not like the skinny huskies pulling our sled, even though they both bear the whip of wind and ice chips. They are less alike than that. These wolves are more like siblings, something close, something warmer, something wise. They are something waiting in the woods but they won’t harm you.

If you’re in the cold and it’s really cold you’ll know it is because you’ll sweat, and you’ll see nothing. You’ll sweat but you won’t see it because your eyes are frozen shut, maybe from the crying or the ice chips in your eyes, or maybe you’ll be thinking of your hopeless father or your lost brother but not me, not this time. This time I am happy. My eyes and I are shut with joy and will not open because the cold gets in and things get sticky. Now the lashes stick together. It doesn’t matter.

Inside my boots and deep underneath the first think layer of unbreakable wool against my body underneath this heavy heavy parka I am warm and I am so warm I am sweating, but it feels good the way it’s hot and cold and sticks. I wonder if it’s the way the wolves feel underneath their heavy coats, but it doesn’t matter. The cold is in now, I can’t shake it, but it’s not bad it isn’t bad it isn’t bad.

He leans into the snow on his elbow, through his parka, he puts his elbow on the ice, but that’s not cracking that I hear or maybe it is but it isn’t bad. I am wrong—it’s not an elbow it’s a knee, he has his knee down through the snow and on the ice. Are those wolves? It’s either wolves or ice is cracking but neither one is bad, it’s just the way it is up here and you just get used to it. You get used to it like you get used to lovely sounds, like you get used to music.

I can barely see his knee, my eyes are frozen shut, but I know it’s there, I know he’s there the way I know the wolves are there, and that they aren’t like huskies even though I’ve never seen one. Like a wolf, I’ve never seen him with an elbow or a knee down but maybe it’s the cold and cold is crippling—these thoughts are dark and none of it is true because I know, I’ve been there, and when it’s really cold you sweat, it doesn’t cripple.

Somewhere underneath us ice is cracking but it’s a good kind—the earthly open, slough of skin, the room to breathe, and evidence. All of this is evidence. Evidence of a great big lake somewhere underneath us, somehow frozen. The sound of ice, the haunt of wolves, the sweaty skin and frozen eyes, the dark up here and lightness that it brings then takes your breath away. The elbows and the knees and how they look the same inside a parka. The skin on skin and skin on ice and snow on skin and wind whipping chips and dry clouds around our feet and when the mitt is off he takes my hand and this is how I know it’s real.

This is how it is in heat or cold or south or here, even up here the sting will go down through the sweaty skin and into bones and through the elbows, through the knees, until the entire skeletal system is changed into a wolf’s and then you sweat always in the cold because now your warmth will come from somewhere else, somewhere deeper. (Cassie McDaniel)

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We woke up at 3:30 in the morning after only a few hours of sleep, dragged ourselves to the drip coffee machine in the kitchen, and ten minutes later, with no time for showers or breakfast, trudged down the five flights of stairs with three giant suitcases and a backpack, all full to capacity of my little sister’s squished and squeezed earthly belongings, which I was returning to her in Florida after her unexpected health-related departure from her rented room in my Brooklyn apartment.
JFK airport is only a few miles away as the crow flies, but getting there via public transportation in the middle of the night becomes an almost two-hour journey through a tunnel-hiking, stair-climbing, stinky, sketchy labyrinth of train transfers.
Because of our bags, we opted to take the dark, urine-soaked elevator down to the C train. It may have not turned out to be such a horrible experience if Nick had not smiled and laughed while politely agreeing with the crazy, wild-eyed cart-man’s doomsday warnings on the way down in the elevator. The man was also smiling and laughing during the initial greeting and exchange, but somehow felt insulted by our return of smiles and laughs, and continued to scream, howl, and spit at us even after the elevator doors finally opened. He ran after us down to the train platform, followed us as we walked along the train platform, then when we stopped, circled around us and continued to scream in our faces for the rest of the tense 20 minute wait for the late-night train. With such a lack of sleep and a solely caffeine-fueled existence, my nerves did not recover from this and I was thrust into an uncomfortable daze-state that continued through and past the end of the rest of this story.
Fast-forward to landing-time. I’m alone now; Nick was helping me truck my bags only as far as the airport. The fasten seatbelt finally dings off, and I (and the rest of the full plane) quickly stand up from my aisle-seat to retrieve my bag from the overhead compartment. The lady behind me presses her rolling bag into my legs. I am 5 feet tall. A probably close to 7-foot-tall man in front of me whips his backpack around, hits me in the face with it, and then steps backwards, pinning me, and twisting my stance into a mangled s-shape. I know what to do, of course, because I am a pro at navigating New York City public trans at rush hour, and I am very comfortable with being pushed, sat on, and having to squeeze and squish and expand to make my way out or in the train door before it closes, and to have to fight for space to breathe. This man has never had these experiences. I know this after I gently lean forward into his bag with my head (my hands are locked down holding heavy luggage) to regain some of my space and save my head from being further squished. Any sensible New Yorker would understand and silently take a step forward or move his bag to the side. This giant southern man decides to react by leaping into a testosterone-driven battle-mode. He whips around, unaware that his giant bag is hitting my face again in the process, and glares at me. I am surprised by his glare, and politely and innocently say “oh, I can’t move back any more”. He keeps glaring at me, then all of a sudden starts SCREAMING about how I pushed him. Everyone becomes quiet and looks at this point. I interrupt his rant, embarrassed, and said “oh, your bag was pushed into my face.” He now continues to lecture little, squished, exhausted 5-foot me, “We do NOT PUSH. We use WORDS, ok? Use your WORDS, not VIOLENCE. We do not PUSH.”
At that point, everyone around was staring at me, including hateful looks from his idiot wife and their three small children. Nobody had seen what had actually happened, and I think from their disapproving looks and head-shakes they assumed I’d actually forcefully pushed this man with my hands instead of leaning gently forward. My mouth opened in shock, and I went through a list of what I could say. “You must not be from New York” ,“How am I supposed to use words if your bag is in my face?”, “Um, I didn’t push you”. I wondered what would have happened if I had said any of those things, instead of finally deciding on resigning to a simple “sorry”, out of exhaustion, and accepting the chorus of head shakes and “mmh nmm”s and “unbelievable”s from my fellow passengers. I pictured placing this guy on the urine-soaked elevator in Brooklyn with his wife and kids and screaming crazy man. We were stuck on the plane like that for another 5 minutes. (Jillian Logue)

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3^rd grade, State College, PA. I’m the new kid. I like reading books and climbing trees—and reading books about sneaky girls that live in trees. Luckily there were lots of big maple trees around to fantasize in. School sucked. No one liked me, except the teacher, that didn’t help. Every day at recess we played capture the flag. The most popular boy in the class was a tall blond 4^th grader named Travis. In the primitive 3^rd/4^th grade dating scene, he was highly popular. Years later I found out he got a girl from our class, Laura, pregnant at age 16. Anyway, he didn’t like me so the rest of the class didn’t like me. Of course he was on the opposite team. Like Conan, I ran everywhere, and thus was pretty good at capture the flag. Mid game, Travis is hightailing it towards the goal. I’m playing defense. He’s several feet away from the goal and out of nowhere I fly towards him. I was seriously pretty fast. I stop short a couple inches away, tap him on the arm from behind and say (in an absolutely delighted voice), “Travis, yr out.” He turns around and screams, “don’t touch me bitch!” Then proceeds to kick me so hard I fly and foot or so and fall down. The teacher saw everything and told Travis he had to spend the rest of recess inside. In protest, the rest of the class went inside with him. The rest of the year was pretty bad. Then in 4^th grade I had my big break. A pretty, rich girl with nice clothes, Tera, became my best friend. We were pretty much opposites, and used to sing that song “opposites attract” all the time. She had big boobs and was thus one of the most popular girls in school. There’s no real moral to this story except middle school can be pretty rough. (Erin Garber-Pearson)

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I sat outside under the biggest tree in my grandparents’ backyard. Trying to focus on making a flower necklace, for no one in particular, but having a hard time of it because of the flow of tears. We were all here earlier in the day visiting and giving well wishes, except me. I gave my poppop JR a homemade card. There was an angel on the front made with glitter glue and a message telling him how very much I loved him and wanted him to stop hurting. I told him to say goodbye to us. I didn’t read him my card. Instead I gave it to my mommom, and asked her to deliver it after we had gone for the day. It was an hour drive from our place to theirs, we were fifteen minutes away from home when my mom got the phone call. My Poppop had just passed away. My Dad turned the truck around and back we went. The tears started then and didn’t stop, I couldn’t get them to stop. What had I done? The night before our visit I tossed and turned in my bed, only after I got up and put my message in the card could I return to sleep. And now it looked as though he took my advice. So many thoughts ran through my head on the drive  back to Ephrata, how happy that he wasn’t suffering any longer. How horrible it would be to be without him. When we got to their house I went to the tree and started to busy myself afraid to face my mommom. My mom came to find me and asked me to come into the house. We hugged for a long time, my mommom and I. She told me she gave Poppop my card and had to read it to him, it took her a couple attempts. They both loved it, and it wasn’t long after that my mommom embraced him and told him he could let go and he did. My card was read aloud the day of his funeral and I placed it in his casket when I said my last goodbye. I don’t remember word for word the message but I remember the day he died and believing in the power of words. (Heather McGuinness)

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Today is Valentine’s Day and I am celebrating the love of living. I am my own Valentine.

Last week I took my friend to the clinic to have a cyst removed from her breast. I just found out it is cancer. Yesterday, I got an email that an old friend has esophogal cancer and is dying. This morning I got a call from a high school friend that a mutual school friend just died.

We are all in our fifties. What struck me is that they are ending life or dealing with that issue and I feel like I am just now getting to ground level and beginning my life. I finally have a good, healthy sense of myself and my worth. I have released old patterns and beliefs that no longer serve me and am learning new skills. I now feel ready to create a more amazing, passionate, and joyful life. And I have begun.

And yet today I felt the precariousness of life, the vulnerability of only knowing each moment, for that is truly all there is.

I am not afraid of death and actually feel it is quite beautiful (the grand illusion we never really die). But I am just beginning and I have so much to do, contribute, experience.

So washing a dish I appreciate the moment and the warm, bright sun streaming in. I look up into the clear blue sky and glimpse a hawk circling wide and soaring. Every moment becomes precious. (Susan)

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So I am going to be the one who writes about getting my heart broken for the first time (for real, not those times you think it happens only to realize you were wrong) because that is what my thoughts keep turning to when it says personal. So graduating college, went all 4 years without anything serious when it comes to relationships, until that last summer, and I start dating this guy–a friend of a friend, and I really like him. Jump ahead to the end of the summer when I am supposed to take the move to New York when of course I am hesitating. Anyways, I move to New York for a few months keeping a long distance relationship only to move back to Gainesville to be with him. We fall in love and so forth only to jump ahead a year later when I go away for a bit and get a phone call from him telling me it is over and he found someone else. So that is the short, he’s the bad guy version and I did nothing wrong version, that I care to retell. Took me a while to get over that first love, but no regrets and just waiting for the next heartbreak I suppose. (Laura)

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It was my 26?th birthday. I had spent a lovely evening drinking at the local tavern (Hotel Congress) with local friends and some out of town visitors who had adjourned to my house earlier. Once I was satisfactorily drunk I began my mile-ish long walk home, I peed several times in the park and was wearing heels I had dubbed “running heels” (in case  you know I would have a need to run in heels) when I arrived at home, my door was locked. I knocked and banged but no answer. I assume my pals were doing it in my bed and decided to head to studio to sleep there, another 1.5 miles away. On the way there I loudly chat on the phone and wander through streets. Upon arrival at my studio I realize I don’t have keys to that either. Spend time prying at doors, crawling under fences and clawing at windows. Clearly defeated I begin to hop back over the chain link fence behind the studio. When suddenly I get caught. The fence has snagged me and I was hanging a good ten feet in the air. Panicked I called a friend she was no help. 15 minutes later I peed myself. I called back said friend. She advised me to call a whole list of people. I settled on my ex-boyfriend twice removed. Surely I can’t embarrass myself in front of this fellow. Conversation went as followed.

me: “hey I need help.”

boy: (clearly asleep) “ok call me if you need help.”

me: “I just did.”

The boy arrived and helped me and my pee soaked pants off the fence. On the way home we get pulled over. I burst into tears. boy gets a ticket. At his home, his roommate assumes a break in, and pulls a shotgun on us. After that we did it (sexy pee smelling-sex) and he later told me that was the most passionate sex we had ever had. (mind you we dated for 8 years).

The next day I went home dejected in his Corona t-shirt [see scanned story for image of this shirt].

side note:

weeks later he asked me to split the cost of the ticket with him. (Sarah Hurwitz)

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I picked a day to get lost. It was Saturday the 24th and nothing in particular made this day different from any other that week, except that I saved it for me. Heather left for work around 7:30am like she always does, so I waited for Chester to do what he always does, whine and cry until I get up. Chester is a 4 month old English bulldog bred with a Papillion. He’s a “Boullion” and we love him. He is also the terror of our house and the entire neighborhood where we live. The Boullion chews, bites, rips, scratches, barks, and generally wreaks havoc on anything in his path. He is the reason why I don’t get to have days like the one I described above.

I picked that Saturday but evidently Chester picked a day earlier in the week of which I was not aware. So we go through the normal routine; get up, eat, feed both Boullion and the Hawhee Bear-our well-behaved dog Maggie-and I peer out the back window to look for possible reasons that may cause Chester to bark like hell. The coast is clear and outside they go. I now have approx. ten minutes before he finds something to get excited about, just enough time to have breakfast. And so this is how “my” day goes. Changing ever so slightly between lunch and dinner until it’s Heather’s shift. I love that time of day. That time becomes my studio time. (Chris McGinnis)

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It’s clear I’m a visitor here. Everyone is basically polite-on the surface anyway. The looks and stares confirm my outsider status, and as yet, I’m not sure exactly what is so deplorable about me aside from the fact that I’m a fat American. An offensive stereotype the world over. The kiss kiss greetings make me feel a little awkward, and sometimes completely insincere.

Will I feel this way everywhere I go? If so, I may stop traveling. That is super lame though. Allowing others’ judgments to influence my choices…lame.

How much of this is a construct in my head. Well, the old ladies glaring stare of disapproval leads me to believe I’m not making it up.

Next time I come I won’t bring the hat.

Next time I come I’ll speak more of their language.

Next time I come I’ll stay longer and feel more connected…

Yeah, I probably won’t come again. (anonymous)

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I open the curtains.

The walls are white. The dirtied windows with peeling paint let the sun in for only three hours each day. The days are cold as it is and the buildings lined like ants on the street exude an unlikely warmth–the bricks that seemed so cold in the summer months now serve as the protector from Mother Nature’s yearly wrath.

At dusk the cool light makes soft shadows on the wooden floors and the wind knocks on every window. The wood doors adjoining the three rooms are aged and warped and do not fully shut no matter how much pressure is exerted. Upstairs a neighbor vacuums–I will soon do the same.

The oven is on and a candle lit. The kitchen faces westward and receives the last bit of remaining light. Chimes from the Thai restaurant below synchronize with the wind.

The curtains are drawn. (anonymous)

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STORY FOR JUNIPER

Once their was a girl named Joon.

One day while playing outside, which she did a lot, she found an old book under a huge oak tree. When she opened the book, 1…, 2.., 3., 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, lots of trees sprung up around her. WHOA!

Then, just behind one of the trees, Joon saw him! A T-REX! Was she scared? Noo. She saw that he looked sad so she asked, “Are you OK T-Rex?” And she gave him a big hug. T-Rex had never had anybody be nice to him before so he hugged her back.

From that day on they were best friends, and when they played it was so fun.

One time they climbed way up high to the top of the mountain. At night they could almost touch the moon and stars. Another time they were swimming in the ocean with some fish when all of a sudden there was a shark! OH NO! T-Rex and Joon were very brave. T-Rex bit the shark until he swam away.

“Are you OK Joon?” said T-Rex and he gave her a big hug. “I’m OK T-Rex, thanks.”

Whenever she got into tricky situations, which she did a lot, she always knew her friend T-Rex would be there.

After a very busy day of flying airplanes and helicopters, Joon and T-Rex were very sleepy. So they put their heads on their pillow, pulled their blanket up, and closed their eyes.

Just before she went to sleep, Joon wondered what adventures they would have next. (Forrest)

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(Juniper)

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She was a shape shifter, bold and electric. A laugh, then a smile is all she was for those moments of joyous meeting. Later, a glowing bald head, the skin of which filled your whole eyes. That is, your whole mind. The laugh, still unbroken, carried her stubborn joy through our lives for some days hence–hundreds of days, in fact. Her shape thinned, weakened, tolerated another cold winter and then another glorious summer. She was her skinny fingers, when our hands held. The caverns of her eyes gave shelter, despite the horror of the change. She was a walking confession of illness, not allowed to retain her secrets, like most of the rest of us. One day she turned into her blanket, nearly invisible, wrapped up in woven colors that faded more slowly than her vitality.

She left, eventually, back to the east coast. Then she left again, this time alone. Her shape now: dark and humid, in a defined place. A perpetual shifting, blurring, of her matter. I was told, the eventuality of it all is paralyzing. But the shapes, oh the shapes, of her now–limitless, memories, soft and broken, creeping through time; illuminating the lives of us, the carriers. Now she is paper, too. (Parris)

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Every day Turbo and I go to the dog park. (Turbo is my dog.) One of these days I notice she isn’t following me. Turbo is just standing there…when I go to her I notice she keeps trying to bite something on her butt. There was this huge clump, I tried to pull it off, it didn’t budge. It looked like fur & shit. But just stuck. Called the vet, we brought her in & how fucking embarrassing–“um, Turbo’s fur caught her feces and created a net to hold it there, we just shaved it off.” The end. (Rebekah)

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(Margi)

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I worked for D.A.R.E. selling T-shirts, child safety kits, toys, and so forth. They would send us to Wal-Marts, Targets, Starbucks, etc. to set up a table to raise money for D.A.R.E. One day I was sent to a Wal-Mart in Orange Park, FL. The day was going well. I was doing my thing and doing well at that. I was having fun with people, messing with some that seemed to be in a good mood. I had my back to the road when I hear thut, thut, thut and continuing (something hitting the Wal-Mart windows) then BAM right in my back. I’ve been hit! I instantly thought it was a paint ball, not too bad but bad enough I knew a bruise was coming. I thought, “shit” I have my nice clothes on. I turn to see what is going on and see a gun barrel retreating behind a rising window on a gold Nissan truck peeling out leaving the scene. I turn back to see if paint ball splatter is all over the Wal-Mart windows, but nothing. I use the windows as a mirror to see if there is paint ball splatter on my back, but nothing again. So I’m thinking what could I have been hit with if not a paintball? I look down and what do I see, but pistachio nuts all over the place. I was hit with nuts out of a paintball gun, I think. So for the rest of the day I kept thinking they were coming back for round 2, but it never happened. (Matt)

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My eight year old Grandson and I have a great relationship. We’re always playing pranks on each other.

This past summer he really got me good. I was working in the yard and did not know he had come down to our house. I went inside to use the restroom (I call it my Reading Room). So I sat down on the toilet and began to read a magazine and do my business. I had no idea he had gotten into the tub behind the shower curtain with a hand held boat air horn. As I’m reading and doing what I came in there to do he let loose with the air horn. All I can say is that it was a good thing I was sitting where I was because it scared the sh–t out of me. I haven’t gotten him back yet, I’m waiting for something special. But he knows I’m gonna pay him back. Being a Grandpa is great. My grandchildren are a big part of my life and I really enjoy them. (Woody)

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I am enjoying my early Christmas vacation trip from Florida to the Wild West of Arizona and Oklahoma. To visit our two sons who live out West is truly the best present I could have. However, I miss our family back at home, most especially our two granddaughters Cameryn and Emersyn. They bring such joy and laughter to us.

I also miss our little cottage, the house I dreamed of for all my life. I miss the welcoming sight of the oak trees that touch branches over our road. I miss Peaches, our cat who is being boarded at a pet care facility and probably wondering if she has been abandoned.

I will savor every moment of our two week vacation and all the unique sights we will see. I will enjoy seeing home when we get there. (Marcia)

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While Forrest was in Brazil last summer, Juniper and I went to the Florida Museum of Natural History. We hadn’t been since she was a little baby and this time it was a lot more fun. But she wouldn’t go into the cave. It was too dark, and too scary. She didn’t like the thunder noise. But it captivated her. She talked about the cave and the “big thunder” for weeks afterward. She seemed like she regretted it.

We went back to the museum with Forrest when he got back. As long as she had her dad she was willing to try it. He asked her if she wanted to go in the cave. She thought about it for a minute and said yes. I think she was remembering how much she wished she had done it last time.

She still talks about the cave and the museum. I think she is still proud of herself. My most prized personality trait is my self-confidence and it’s the one that I hope Juniper gets above all else. And I love that her dad is her rock.

Sarah, Grammy and I are taking Juniper to the museum this afternoon. (Katie)

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I was born in Manhattan, NY and raised in Brooklyn, NY. Back when there were no computers and hardly any television sets. No violence, except brawls outside on the sidewalks at the local tavern over who won the shuffleboard game. The local business owners respected each other regardless of nationality or religion. There were no street gangs, you could walk to church or synagogue at night without fear of being attacked. One would ride the subway to roller and ice rinks without fear. I attended college in East Orange, New Jersey in 1947 and the same held true. However in the late 80’s the school had to shut down because neighborhood violence. It’s all just memories now. Sad isn’t it? Our young people, back in the 60’s and 70’s, got a head start on trying to resolve all this, now their children have the job. It’s beginning to turn around. I’m very proud of my children and grandchildren, who I love very much. Just maybe one of them will move to Brooklyn one day! (Dorothy)

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I never thought I would be away for so long, and now I don’t think I’ll ever be back. I was searching for light, the light you see in your warmest dream. It was just out of reach, and I kept reaching. It’s been twenty years and the light is still a dream. I saw it last night. It was in my girlfriend’s eyes. She was smiling a wan, sad smile, like the one you might have when you’ve just finished the last piece of pumpkin pie. She took my hand and walked me to a pier. We sat and watched the lights from a passing ship, and when it disappeared, so did she. (Jeff)

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I thought at first I had lost my mind…but by the third week the voices became clear. Evil and hatred can MASK itself; the most beautiful flower can be the most poisonous. These two, with their big, pouty eyes and cute bat ears, had been plotting for weeks. Their soft voices at first sounded like whimpers and purrs–then those sounds began to transform, until I understood what they were saying. As I slept, with one eye open, I heard every word form and every syllable transform into plans, plotting and perversion. They wanted what I had…for themselves. But I would not be a victim, I would not let them have their way. I roused from bed, GRABBED the butcher knife, and went in search of the KITTENS! (Josh)

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Breathing in and out my chest starts to ache, ah, youth, being free, feeling that endless “I will feel young and be able to do anything to my body forever feeling.” Breathing in and out. The ache is a good reminder these days that maybe invincibility is not in my cards. Heat builds but I am aware and connected to all the muscles in my body and they are doing what I ask for the time being. The music is loud and I can’t help it, I notice in the long stretch of mirror I have a great big goofy grin on my face. The old man in the building across the street enjoying the girls sweating and dancing seems to have the same smile on his face. How silly, how fun–brings so much joy to my life a couple hours a week! Funny when you look around and see the serious faces–the self conscious bodies–silly girls this is supposed to be fun relax, who cares!! (anonymous)

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