Souls of the Station

By Stephanie  Heigh

Try to envision it.  A gray and dreary edifice at 5:00 AM.  The world’s asleep, and here in this bus terminal shadows seem to skulk in every corner.

Over there we see a college jock, his gangly limbs spread out so as to cover and protect his backpack.  He is dozing, but from his iPod emanates the muted screeching of heavy metal.

His body is tanned and admirably conditioned from endless workouts.  He  is blissfully oblivious to his surroundings.

Across the cheerless, poorly lighted waiting room a fatigued looking  young father feeds apple juice to his pride and joy, a cherubic little boy with a profusion of dark brown curls.  Next to them the weary mother, whose smiles belie her exhaustion, colors with her three year old daughter, a pretty but somewhat whiney child.

“What a lovely picture, Sweetie,” croons Mama.  “Can you color one for Daddy now?”

At that moment a suited , thirtyish executive type enters haltingly, looks around, and hesitates.  Soon he spies a long,

splintered wooden bench.  At one end an ancient crone is curled in the fetal position, all grime and ragged clothing.  Deep in her tremulous slumber she escapes the intruders surrounding her. This is her turf - has been for a long time.

On the same bench perches a bouncy teenager munching on a pear.  Her hair is half purple, half emerald green. Pear juice drips down her chin, and she is completely unaware of the startling beauty of her porcelain skin and angel eyes.

After surreptitiously testing the seat for dirt with a snow white handkerchief, the  yuppie gingerly sits down.  What is he doing in a bus station anyway?  Two  hours to wait before his bus is to depart.  Two long hours.  He pulls a laptop from his shiny leather briefcase and begins to work, his eyes nervously darting back and forth in every direction.

A grizzled vagrant hobbles by.  Although his semblance is that of an elderly man, one realizes upon careful observation that this is not the case.  Life for him has been cruel - a constant series of woes.  His eyes, large and black as coal, stare into the wide blue orbs of the sweet young teen, a magnetic force rendering her motionless.  “This candy bar’s too much for me; will you have some, little miss?”

She shakes her head in refusal.  He turns and begins to limp away.  Suddenly a change of heart and a murmured “Okay…please, why don’t you stay?”  The small sad gift is bestowed upon her with a flourish, and she nibbles tentatively at the confection.  The vagrant’s eyes soften as he watches and then rewards her with a wide toothless smile.

Beyond the vast plate glass windows morning is breaking.  Buses rumble in and out of the huge terminal.  Gradually the sleepy would-be passengers become alert, stretch, fumble for their tickets.  Gathering their belongings, taking up their children, they shuffle out to board the bus.

Inside they settle back, and as the coach roars out of the terminal in a rush of exhaust they can see the sun rising over the hills.




Stephanie Heigh has lived in Sullivan County, New York most of her life, many years of it with her husband Robert,  a retired teacher.  Writing has long been her passion as well as reading.  While very young she found even cereal boxes  fascinating to read.  Her other primary interests are music and her grandchildren.  Stephanie's best loved job was in her small hometown library as a front desk clerk.  Besides meeting many wonderful people, she had the magnificent perk of borrowing any publication when it was hot off the press.  The library is still a second home.  Visiting there provides a warmth and human connection that no other venue does.
 
copyright 2012, Stephanie Heigh

By Drownng

by Carolyn Cecil

Dropped on McCullough Street,

Baltimore, the seventies.

Immersed in smells:

urine, trash, people.

German Shepherd chained,

neck raw.

Nineteenth century gothic,

slum-lorded, walls cracked,

once glorious- 

infested.

Fodder for nightmare:

impotent social worker.

Skin and bone's baby,

sopping, screaming.

Sisters claw each other, 

one of them the mother.

Grandma dying,

pleads: 

give the baby away. 

 copyright 2012, Carolyn Cecil 

Carolyn Cecil has been writing poetry for ten years.  She participates in a monthly 
poetry critique group where she is based in Baltimore.  Her poetry has 
been published in The Broadkill Review, Poet's Ink, More Stories 
Website, Loyalhanna Review and The Gunpowder Review.  She will read from
 her work on March 21, 2013 at Third Thursday, Takoma Park Community 
Center, Takoma Park, Md.  

It Was My Pleasure ...

by June T. Bassemir

On “Ladies Night” in 1979 I was asked to give a talk to The Model A Ford Club of Long Island.  These were my friends all dedicated to finding, saving and restoring the Model A Ford.  I was the only woman in the club, having been introduced to it by a friend who knew that I had just purchased a 1931 Sport Coupe.  He saw my need to get good advice for restoring the car to show room condition.  Before long, other women came to the meetings with their husbands, but I was the only woman trying to do it myself.  My effort was not to prove anything.  I just wanted to have a car with a rumble seat, for I had never ridden in one.   

My talk that night was called “How to Make Rags”.  I was deadly serious but my male audience laughed at my opening remarks.  Actually, it was a subject of great importance with vital information for those of us who are in the restoration business.  Whether it is stripping furniture or working on a car; good, white, soft, clean rags at your elbow are an absolute necessity.

I was prepared to show them the right way to make a rag with one of my husband’s cotton T shirts.  (He had taken it off the night before and I snatched it from the hamper just before I left the house.)  With my sharp scissors in hand I showed them how to cut off the neck and sleeve seams.  (Thick seams do not help when you get to the polishing stage.)   The trick here in “making rags” is not to use any Polyester material as it doesn’t absorb anything.  It’s like trying to wipe up some oil with a piece of glass.  Only cotton cloth is to be used.  Of course, the best items are: the already mentioned T shirts; flannel sheets (which take up too much room in the linen closet and anyway are hard to turn over on while sleeping …) real 100% cotton sheets (they never seem to wear out), old dishtowels (they are in abundance now that almost everyone uses a dish washer) and men’s flannel shirts.  Egyptian cotton sheets are the best, but let’s not be fussy.  They will give you more rags than you will use in a year.

When you cut up a man’s cotton shirt you follow the same rules as when you iron it.  (But no one irons anymore.)  You begin with the neck.  Cut it off and discard it; then cut off the sleeves being sure to cut off and throw away all seams and cuffs.   Slit the back into four nice square pieces, the right size for wiping up spills of most anything.  The sleeves open up and produce two pieces.  The front halves of the shirt are less productive because you have to cut off the pocket and both buttonhole strips, but save the buttons for your “Button Box”.  There you have it: a pile of good clean rags for wiping your hands, dusting or cleaning up. 

The talk was a success and at the end of it, I offered several piles of five ribbon-tied-up rags @ .50 cents a pile.  The demand was great and all sold very quickly.  

copyright June T. Bassemir, 2012