Sp04 Front Page Daisy

Spring Edition 2019, Issue 04

An extremely local literary magazine for Northwestern Pennsylvania Poetry | Prose | Imagery

FEATURED WRITER FEATURED PHOTOGRAPHER Philip Terman Paul Staniszewski Philip Terman is the founder of the Chautauqua Paul Staniszewski is an award-winning Writers’ Festival and the coordinator of The Bridge photographer known best for his images of Literary and Arts Center. His work has been published Pennsylvania elk. His work has been featured on in Poetry Magazine, The Kenyon Review, The Georgia a television series, "Wild About Animals" and he Review, The Sun Magazine and The Bloomsburg was recently named a Creative Maker by PA Anthology of Contemporary American Jewish Poetry. Wilds. (Featured photograph inside) Submit your work, find resources, and get involved: thewatershedjournal.org [email protected] ! " Le er from “Through our eyes, the universe is perceiving itself. Through our ears, the universe is listening to its harmonies. We are the witnesses through which the universe becomes conscious of its glory, of its magnificence.” - Alan Watts

What does it mean to choose to live in Northwestern Pennsylvania? For many, it means staying close to family and friends, participating in tradition and deepening our roots. Others have been drawn in by the region's natural resources, slower pace and lower cost of living. There are many wonderful reasons to call this place home.

When we started The Watershed Journal a year ago, our grandest dream was to celebrate those who have chosen to make their lives here in this part of Northern Appalachia. In the past year we have been witnesses to a growing community of voices that are testaments to the richness of lives in our area.

From writer's meetings to public performances to the submissions that have made this magazine possible, we are blown away by both the power and tenacity of the writers, photographers and artists who are making their voices heard.

This publication is dedicated to our region's storytellers and to those who love them. Our stories matter! photo by Paul Staniszewski

thewatershedjournal.org Jessica Weible Sarah Rossey [email protected] executive editor managing editor ISSUE 04 SPRING 2019 poetry, short stories and essays by

PHILIP TERMAN Father Bird PETER BUCKLAND Vespers of the Barrens KATHY MYERS The Touch DAVID TOBIN An Appalachian Day LAURIE BARRETT Wishes in the Wind JAN SADY Spring Songs ANDIE ROSS The River PAUL STANISZEWSKI The Art of Wildﬂower Macrophotography PAUL STANISZEWSKI Full-Page Photograph REBECCA HOFF Walter PATRICIA THRUSHART On Union Hill CODY WELLS Winter's Journey WAYNE SWANGER Helix ANTHONY VALLONE The Ducks and Geese of Tannery Dam CINDY SCULLY The Jacket JOE TAYLOR Change AMY SALSGIVER Still Out There COREY GOOD The Rhyme PATTY SUSKO Perennial People JOHN POZZA Knights of the Roundball Table JOHN MILLER Airing Ezra's Attic GREG CLARY Today W. HILL Scent KIRKE WISE Just Another Mother's Day PEGGY ZORTMAN The Swing GIRARD TOURNESOL The Blue Bottle BYRON HOOT Wait Not with images and photography by

The cry of a goose splits the morning. Wind scatters light across the surface, a swift’s beak clutches dragon

and the memory of the traincar, the stopover in Chicago, the walk with my father for salami and rye bread in a paper bag

through the sweaty crowd—shadows and raincoats, the conductor calling all aboard as we step up to its departure,

the sliding into the west of forgetfulness. Salami and rye bread in a paper bag. My father making the sandwiches

and passing them around, framed by the Midwestern expanse. Seven years old, we were disappearing into the country.

And that’s all. Salami and disappearing and my father. Now eight geese

portioned out equally among them? Or is he the one spreading silently its wings, as if measuring photo by ClaryGreg the air for further

distinguishing itself—perhaps an itch, an irritation, or the way the current sweeps across its feathers and it honks, a solitary

cry, and another repeats, and another, climbing and scaling, a beating of water, a

by Peter Buckland These hills were carved by Carnegies' and Thompsons' full ferrous might.

The jack and pitch pine’s brown paper needles and rigid brawny cones festoon the >loor, some magnate’s afterthought.

On a steep hill vertigo takes me as I look over the verge of an emptied ore pit.

I kneel on the ground, certain of your death— not of its imminence— just its inevitability.

I pluck some sandy loam and needles, rub it between my >ingers, put it on my forehead as if it were Ash Wednesday, and pray at vespers for the >irst time in twenty years. photo by Kyle Yates photo by Mangino Anthony

There’s a simple pair of rods on a peg in our barn Holding the rods while walking around the area collecting dust. Fashioned by my husband out of two where we planned to build, the pieces of metal old coat hangers, their original purpose was to ;ind seemed to come alive in my hands, crossing at three water on our vacant 41 acres in the Beechwoods of major locations near the proposed house site. I had Jefferson County where we planned to build our no explanation for this phenomenon other than to home. exclaim, “I have the touch!”

He had been reading about water dowsing on the Thesaurus explains touch as a gift, knack, ability, internet, the process of detecting the groundwater in talent or ;lair. Again, the experts say water dowsing is the subsurface just beneath our feet. Water dowsing not scienti;ic, some suggesting it is the will of the is also known as “water divining” and “water person holding the rods that causes their muscles to witching." Some “dowsers” use special forked twigs, move thereby moving the rods. Others say dowsing is others use metal rods. While water dowsing is no better than chance. Still, others believe that one’s considered by some to be a pseudoscience and others dowsing ability involves an energy force. Albert say there is no scienti;ic evidence that it is any more Einstein, in his time, believed the dowsing rod was a effective than random chance, my husband simple instrument showing the reaction of the human determined this would be his method of choice in nervous system to factors which were unknown. deciding where to drill our water well. Personally, I believe the explanation that it is a reaction to an energy force. With the newly-fashioned dowsing rods, one in each hand extended out before him, my husband walked The water well was drilled in one of the major spots I the property. What he expected would happen at identi;ied using my dowsing rods. And what a well it some point was that the two rods would cross over is! Initial testing showed it yielding 10 gallons per each other indicating a reserve of underground water. minute for one hour. It has never gone dry. At least that is what he read on the “net.” To his dismay, nothing happened. Surely there was a reserve Dowsing rods are said to be useful in locating of water somewhere underground! Disappointed in archaeological sites, lost jewelry, minerals, and oil the (non) results he said to me, “Here, you take them.” among other things. With spring upon us, I’m going to dust off those two rods and go out and start exploring. Now, I am not a person who is technical in any way. As I reluctantly took the rods from him, I was skeptical Hmmm, I wonder if the FBI recovered that rumored that I would be any more successful than he was. lost Civil War gold shipment? However, what happened next was inexplicable.

Out in the morning mountain mist The breeze beckons this Nemophilist Haunter of the forest! Deep in the old growth I am found The forest is near My heart is here Tree trunks appear Branches silhouetted Drizzled and wet High on this hill Silent and still I sit without sound Reverence for this ground Love from above Sense all around Those who abound These wooded highlands Dawn rings the early spring The sparrow lights upon a seed pod Sings a welcoming aubade A cheerful chickadee chirps to all in Arcady A blue jay announces the day Two grey squirrels come out to play. …later I make way This mapped place, now spiritual space Grateful for my stay

photo by Kyle Yates An Appalachian day. Wishes in the Wind by Laurie Barrett

Wishes in the wind Make me believe Delicate and free Seed of hope into the unknown A destination of roots to sow Wishes in the wind Much to be seen Miles to go Fly away simple beauty Carry my dream photo by Nate Crispin A Cardinal’s song Soars above the trees— Melodious notes— Welcome to my ears.

Crows answer back With songs not as mellow As their neighbors.

Chickadees join in— Black-Caps Blitting among oaks. Their chorus rises together— “Chick-a-dee-dee-dee.”

A Catbird calls— Is he really a Catbird or The Mockingbird imitating His cousin?

Blue Jays screech adding more Noise than music But lending their notes To spring’s songs.

Musical notes blend in harmony— Like a rehearsed choir— All singing their parts well— In a chorus to celebrate spring. er The Riv by Andie Ross The sun glistened brightly over the river as if it knew as much as Michael, although it was newer to her. no other way to be. Though the rays illuminated the California birthed and raised her. Now she was proud water beautifully, it was very misleading. If looking at to wear Appalachian dirt underneath her unpolished a picture, one would imagine a warm day that called Gingernails. The transition had been good for her. The for sleeveless tops and sandals, but the cool April daughter of a restless gypsy, Amanda had traveled breeze sent goosebumps up Amanda’s spine. She the country before reaching adulthood. Now barely shivered as she pulled her sweater up over her bare old enough to order a drink, she had found a place to knees and onto her lap. The air nipped at her face plant her roots – with a boy who knew exactly what from the front of the canoe as it glided down the it took to help those roots grow. water. “There’s a rock,” called Amanda as she turned to face “I expected it to be much warmer today,” said the front of the boat again. “Stay to the left!” Both Amanda as she turned to face Michael in the seat partners paddled vigorously as more obstacles behind her. His broad shoulders tightened as he appeared in the distance. Maneuvering the canoe as a navigated the boat with his paddle. He gave a faint team, they dodged each boulder in their path. The smile as he looked up at the sky, hoping the river narrowed around a bend and the speed of the inclement weather would hold off. It had rained rapids began to quicken. Water splashed furiously quite a bit over the last few weeks and the rapids along the side of the boat. were moving swiftly. Typical situation for the young couple: underprepared but up for the adventure “Straight ahead! There’s a big one straight ahead!” anyway. This wasn’t the Girst time they planned a full Amanda clenched her paddle with white knuckles. day at the river with nothing but the clothes on their backs. The only food packed was a bag of broken “Hard right” yelled Michael from behind. Amanda did Doritos. Michael always joked that he could Gish for as she was told. The boat followed its command as their dinner if they got desperate, although that well and turned as sharply as possible. Scraping would have been easier if he had remembered his across the mossy boulder, the canoe teetered but Gishing pole. escaped without trouble. The couple straightened out their vehicle once more. Though the water was Michael was a sturdy man in his early twenties with still deep, they had navigated past all the rocks and large tree trunks for arms but eyes that sparkled like the rapids slowly began to Gizzle away. the same river the couple navigated down. His sandy blonde hair and bronze skin were proof that he was “We did it!” Amanda celebrated and spun to look at no stranger to the outdoors. He found peace and her partner once more, beaming with pride. Her solitude being in the wild. His old soul needed to be momentum caught Michael off guard. He quickly surrounded by tall mountains just as much as his tried to counter the shift the weight, but it was too lungs needed the fresh air. Michael had grown up on late. Before either of them had a chance to react, the this land and knew it well. The mighty river was boat upended itself and sent the couple hurdling into treated with respect but he did not fear it, for it was a the water. The river rushed past, swirling and kindred spirit. twisting everything around them.

Amanda loved to watch his eyes come alive when Amanda hit the water Girst. Breath was instantly they were out here. She was learning to love nature taken from her lungs. The freezing water was like a thousand knives simultaneously entering her body. She pulled her black shirt up as Michael leaned in for She Glailed and paddled, just trying to Gind air. Her a closer look. Just below her bathing suit top was the long legs stretched out, searching for the river beginnings of a giant bruise. Purple and magenta bottom. Nothing. It was too deep; she couldn’t stand. swirled on her skin like smeared watercolor. The Long brown locks of hair covered her face, betraying colors would have been quite beautiful if it wasn’t for her vision. Her arms thrashed in a panic. Finally, her the pain etched on Amanda’s face. She forced a smile head broke through the barrier and she took a large as she straightened her shirt, “Looks like I have a gasp. She looked around, disoriented. Amanda’s eyes thing or two to learn about canoeing.” met Michael’s. He was near the boat 10 yards upstream. His strong arms heaved a stiff orange life The couple gathered what little they had remaining jacket her direction, but it landed just out of reach. on the shore -they had lost the Doritos during the She swam as hard as she could, but the river capsize- and loaded back into the boat. By the grace overpowered her with ease. Her limbs were numb of God, the clouds parted and allowed a few rays of from the cold. She willed her arms forward and sun to warm their soaking bodies. The water was still grasped the Gloating vest. high, but much smoother now. Amanda took a painful deep breath as she Michael had pulled himself tried to relax into her seat into the boat and rowed as and looked at the beautiful fast as he could towards her. scenery surrounding her. He reached her with great The river looked like glass. speed. He directed Amanda She wondered how its to hold on to the side of the temperament could change canoe as he began paddling so quickly, when only towards the bank. Amanda moments ago the rapids gripped onto the edge with were trying to swallow her all her might. Rocks began whole. to scrape her legs and she knew they were now in In the distance, an eagle was shallower waters, but she gliding through the stormy still couldn’t stand. Her sky. The bird’s strong body muscles wouldn’t allow it. drifted powerfully but Michael jumped from the Gluidly through the clouds, boat, dragged it onto the mirroring the canoe on the shore, and grabbed hold of river directly below it. Amanda. Amanda hoped that he would swoop down so she “Are you okay?” He pulled could take a closer look. She her in close so that his had never seen anything so

Glushed cheek was pressed photo by ClaryGreg majestic. As if on cue, he up tight against her wet slowly Glew over the forehead. Amanda nodded. “You scared me half to mountaintop and out of sight, reminding her that he death!” was not there for her amusement.

“I just felt like going for a swim” she smiled. Amanda In that moment, Amanda understood Michael’s always tried to lighten the mood with a joke. She was connection with this place. His respect for nature embarrassed; she knew it was her fault that the came from the understanding that he was only a canoe had tipped. Michael rolled his eyes but his grin visiting guest. This is not his home; these lush told her he wasn’t upset. The couple leaned back mountains belong to the river and the eagle, the Gish onto a nearby tree and tried to catch their breath. and the trees. This is their home, but they welcome With their adrenaline starting to subside, they each him like an old friend. Amanda knew she had to learn took inventory of all their new wounds. Amanda their ways if she wanted to stay. And Michael was the touched her side and winced, “I think I cracked a rib.” one who could teach her. 6JG#TVQH9KNFHNQYGT /CETQRJQVQITCRJ[

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The classic de+inition of this art form refers to close-up photography that captures the subject close to the same size or larger. Driven by a desire to create his own personal style and vision, the artist began to experiment by photographing both wild and cultivated +lowers. All of the subjects are photographed outdoors in their natural environment with no arti+icial light and they are left undisturbed for others to enjoy. Depicting objects through macrophotography emphasizes texture and contrast to present an exceptional level of detail and a three- dimensional effect. Techniques available in the digital darkroom result in a clean, uncluttered studio-quality photograph that allows the viewer to focus attention on the intrinsic visual beauty of the subject. These photographic images are about emotion and the results are a bright and vivid wild+lower image. Technical perfection is a desired goal, but does not stand by itself. There is nothing more rewarding than to make a huge print of a +lower or any small object that is normally too tiny to be viewed by the naked eye but is captured with the techniques of macro photography. The macro lens allows an individual to observe and capture exciting details of wild+lowers and plants that are not usually seen. The upper left photo is one example: a common weed called “bird’s foot trefoil” is found along sidewalks and lawns, growing almost everywhere here in north central Pennsylvania. You would not take the time to bend down to look at it. However, see how beautiful it looks when viewed as a macro. photos by Paul Staniszewski photo by Paul Staniszewski Walter by Rebecca Hoff

It $ilters slowly through the canopy like ink in a glass of water, this sylvan dawnbreaker light. In a trickle-down effect through his eyelids, a gradual cease of slumber arrives to the peaceful $igure stretched upon the old bed made of pine wood, a man content. He shuf$les to his glass windowpane in leather moccasins faded and cracked with age and thousands of similarly-shuf$led footfalls. The morning light shatters upon his eyes, and he drinks in the scenery a moment, greeting his surroundings as he has for years in an unspoken routine. He moves to the kitchen unhurriedly — coffee, that glorious magical brew, is the next sequence in waking up, a $lavor he has perfected through the years. It keeps him sane, this methodical unaltered process. He pours it into the blue steel camp mug $lecked with white enamel, his only coffee cup, the only one he needs. Steam rises and curls, which he inhales appreciatively, letting it envelop his sleepy face. Walter J. McCoy takes his sweet time and steps out onto his Adirondack porch in bare feet, mug in hand; at 62, there's no rush when you're retired. His lean bones make no groan of protest, no painful click when he sits in his hand-carved rocking chair. After all, he still swims in the lake in his backyard every day, rain or shine. He takes no pills or supplements, and smirks every time the doctor he has seen for the last 44 years shakes his head in disbelief and pronounces him $it as a $iddle. Leaning back in his chair, he enjoys his coffee and watches the morning unfold, the wildlife comes alive and the lake whispers to him in ripples and currents. The last dregs swirl lazily at the bottom of his mug, and Walt sighs deep within himself. Being retired is the best damn thing that's ever happened to him: the wife died in '03 and the kids never come around anymore. Now it's just Walt, the lake, and the trees. It's all a man needs out here, with few exceptions, coffee being one of them. Yessirree, just another $ine day off to a $ine start and he's pretty sure it'll wind up being in the books as a damn $ine one at that, start to $inish. He props his feet up on an oak log that serves as his ottoman, folds his hands on his chest clothed in $lannel, and closes his eyes which are now awash in 11 o'clock sunlight, rich and warm. Walter J. McCoy lets the embrace of a lazy nap take him and hears the lake, even in his dreams. In my bare feet I was called to the hill behind the house, On and I walked, the sun on my dark hair, my skirt brushing the wild blueberries, the grass fragile under my soles. Union I climbed above the gardens lush with white roses and orange sun:lowers nodding in the waning day. Below me cows lolled in their pastures Hill and I heard their muted bells clang in time with the swing Twelve Years Old in Rossiter of my arms. (Poem for Ann) At the top I turned, breathless, by Patricia Thrushart and suddenly! the wide misty world was there— green and rolling and beautiful.

I spoke then to He who had called me; I invited Him in, and He has never since left. photo by Nate Crispin Winter's Journey by Cody Wells

A subtle retreat from the town Winter makes, where he goes I dare Not ask. Perhaps he goes down, down To a depth with idle hours to spare. photo by ClaryGreg

As the pilgrims of Chaucer’s noble tale Seek Canterbury, only to return So would most tell you without fail Of the gift of Winter’s sojourn.

The void left by the melting snow Filled with green grass, and moss, and leaves With a touch of wind will always blow Amongst the branches of the trees.

A journey’s gift may seem light-hearted As one returns to where one started. Helix ! by WayneThey give Swan r I can only receive from their hands never touched. My benefactors, faces framed on plaster walls, in photographs exhumed from attic and cellar. Their bodies scattered on Pennsylvania hillsides, beneath headstones hard as the lives they lived. Today, I walk among them, Names faded on grey granite: Cover, Kendall, Coy Turn, Cook, Illingworth… They give, even now, unknown and unknowingly. photo by Tricia Grunick At dusk, they rise from the rippling water

of Juniata Lake, 9locks of their own kind The Ducks and Geese forming graceful vees in the air, circling of Tannery Dam the sky above neighborhood houses by Anthony Vallone like mine & the dam where ghosts

of glove makers leave un9inished work

for the last time & ghosts

of the Juniata tribe reclaim their name

from the street & elementary school.

On the ground, the geese & ducks wobble like drunks

across side streets, stopping traf9ic

until they cross safely onto lawns

where well-meaning neighbors scatter grain

& chunks of bread that hold them

here in DuBois longer than they should stay—

something surprisingly beautiful in this city, the ducks & geese

turning easily, as many of us here do,

slower & more domestic photo by Mangino Anthony in our complacency. This was your jacket, I just couldn't give away. It was your favorite, Worn most every day. You liked that it had two pockets, Made of soft, warm @leece, Of all your clothes — and there were a lot — this was your Favorite piece.

I’ve washed it, but no matter how many times I do, I think that it still smells like you. It's a bit big, doesn't really @it that good, But I won't take it in even though I should. When I put my arms into the sleeves, I can imagine you are hugging me. You needed to go, It was God’s will, Your health was so bad, in pain, But, still.

There are sights and sounds, and memories some days, That bring on smiles and aches in so many ways. When the weather gets hot, I’ll reluctantly pack it, Then I’ll look forward to fall when I get out your jacket. photo by Mangino Anthony Change by Joe Taylor photo by Kyle Yates I've been in this monkey suit all day. I'm tired. When, upon being summoned to the boss's The damn tie is choking me. These shoes are of3ice and he begins the conversation with, "I'm squeezing my toes. I think I'll change into afraid we're going to have to make some something comfortable. What would be changes," you know that you'll soon have more comfortable? time to watch games during the week. So, sometime the word change does lead to good A pillow would be comfortable. I wonder, if I things. Squeezing quarters, dimes, nickels, even change into a pillow and doze off? Would I be pennies into coin wrappers so you can buy an sleeping on the job? That's the pillow's job isn't extra six pack is a pleasant surprise. it, to let people sleep on it? But, I'm hungry, too. So maybe I'll change into comfort food. How But then again, change can begin as a positive about mashed potatoes? Changing into mashed and end up with a quite negative connotation. potatoes would kill the proverbial two birds You are a new dad delighted to change your with one stone--I could fall asleep in them, then baby's diaper for the 3irst time--cut to 6 months wake up and eat them. and 456 stinky diapers into it, it is no longer a Hallmark moment. How proud you will be, a few Better yet, I could change everything. Change years later, when you let your little blonde into someone comfortable. Tom Hanks always haired girl go up to the Dairy Queen window, seems to be relaxed and comfortable. And he with a couple of dollars in hand reminding her changes into all these different characters, but to, "Wait for the change." How devastated she you know deep down that he's still comfortable might feel years later when she notices that ol' Tom Hanks. Yeah, I need a change. blonde hair fading into gray? That dreaded change. Is there a word in the English language more ominous than change? When the missus stands What would I change if I could change things? in your face and tells you, "There's gonna be Would I change my job, change my wife, change some changes around here, buddy", you know my beer, change the way I strut my stuff — wait, that Sunday noon to midnight football on the that's from an old song isn't it? couch is going the way of your late lamented Jack Hamm jersey. Whew, I'm tired, really tired. I think I'll turn in...turn into what? Don't get me started…. I will never Understand How you can travel Through the darkness With me Hand in hand Clawing our way free Over death and Destruction Supporting each other As the storm Rages All around us And, Cinally When the warmth Of the sun Touches our skin To turn Survey the depths Of hell That we survived Together And say, I won’t enjoy this Sunlight With you. photo by Laurie Barrett photo by Kyle Yates The Rhyme It's been too long since I wrote a song by Corey Good

It's hard to 3ind the time to rhyme

So much so, you believe you have no time, when really you do

Busy life, little time working hard, yet little dime

It's hard to 3ind the time to rhyme

So I take the time to 3ind what's on my heart, what's on my mind and maybe, just maybe I'll 3ind the rhyme

And when I do, I'll sing to you what's on my heart, what's on my mind and maybe you, will sing with me too dancing side to side

And later on, down the road I'll look back, into the past and I will remember the time the time... the time... I found the rhyme Winter’s canvas is black and white, hard and clinical. Perennial Summer’s — deep and hazy, thick and textured. Fall’s — rustic and >leeting, gentle and calming. But Spring brings instincts and colors People like none of these others. They are vibrant, almost neon. by Patti Susko As new Life begins and blooms, perennial plants, animals, birds- even people, return home. Good for the body, mind and soul hope springs eternal. Perennial people — coming back to life. photo by Nate Crispin Knights of the Roundball Table by John Pozza

These Knights had plenty of shine, but they weren't Other times they opted to go man-to-man, especially dressed in armor, or even white satin for that matter. if a particular Knight had a decided advantage over No, these Knights were a totally different breed. the opponent’s best player. They formed a quintet of noble crusaders representing St. Stephen of Oil City in Erie Catholic This team was a particularly close-knit group with Diocese junior high school’s proverbial “holy wars.” Charlie, Bob, Bill, Paul and Danny carrying the bulk These Knights battled fellow patron saint roundball of the playing time. Among these warriors, Danny opponents 24 times without swords, shields or stood out for his defensive intensity and unusual helmets. Their skills propensity for hiding were in marksmanship behind defenders before and athleticism. suddenly appearing out of nowhere to get open In the winter of 1969, for his patented shots Stephen’s Knights, from the corner pocket. dressed in their vintage He also had an ulterior red and white uniforms, motive in capturing the battled two or three favor of his sweetheart, times a week before Katherine, who enthusiastic crowds. Like witnessed every contest any team, they were fond from her favorite of doing battle on their bleacher spot. home school gym Jloor. It stood out for its unique These mini-battles 50 parquet design, years ago culminated in reminiscent of the Jloor

photo by ClaryGreg a March Madness at the Boston Garden “winner take all” battle when the NBA’s Celtics were in the midst of another of patron saint schools to determine the undisputed dynasty run. diocesan champ. The title was signiJicant in that the Erie Diocese encompassed the widest geographic These Knights did battle against the likes of fellow region of Catholic schools in Pennsylvania, covering crusaders including St. Joseph on Oil City’s north 13 counties. St. Peter, the best of the north, met St. side, St. Patrick in Franklin, St. Titus in Titusville, St. Stephen, the best of the south, on a neutral court at Michael in Fryburg, St. Thomas in Corry, St. Gregory Kennedy Catholic High School in Hermitage. in North East, and Sts. George, Peter and John in Erie. These Knights employed a relentless fast-break In what turned into a defensive struggle, both teams attack with the ultimate goal of getting more scoring were relentless in their pursuit of the title, battling chances than their opponents over a span of 32 through adversity, shooting difJiculties, foul trouble minutes. That winter, it worked to their advantage and two overtimes to Jinally determine the winner. with 19 victories against only 5 defeats. Ultimately, in an upset, St. Stephen outlasted its opponent 38-34 to claim the title — the Jirst and, to Under long-time coach Ducky Hall, a crafty old date, still the only team outside of Erie to ever claim veteran of numerous “holy wars,” these Knights the championship. employed variations of a collapsible zone defense. Airing Ezra's Attic by John Miller

Close Door On The Old Open Locked Poetry Jails Make Your Language Spring photo by Billiana Kovacs photo by ClaryGreg Today Today, I learned about Tariffs, borderless puzzles, braided streams, by Greg Clary And the Witchcraft Act of 1735.

Today, I saw a hairy woodpecker tapping suet, A marsh hawk swooping up a vole, And a bearded dragon Clicking a cricket.

Today, I laughed at a near perfect metaphor, A clip of an incredibly funny, profane, little Irish girl, And a story, repeated for the 100th time, by an old friend.

Today, I heard the scream of a bald eagle on the wing, The scream of brakes from a speeding coal truck, And Johnny Winter screaming out “Mannish Boy.”

Today, I felt the cold, rushing Clarion River, The shock of black mud up to my knees, And the bliss of a long, thriftless, hot shower.

Today, I smelled pinto beans and ham cooking in a pot. The pungent scent of wet plantation pines, And a long lost peppermint patty stuck under a car seat.

Today, I offered my grandson three essential life lessons: Learn to drink your coffee black, Shun the Leer of the World, Never let a day go by. Spring can bring newness even to the old who remember how the hope of romance blooms though it’s doomed to wilt in Winter where they can still smell the scent saved all those years, never fully spent. Scent by W. Hill photo by Tricia Grunick Just Another Mother's Day by Kirke Wise It’s just another Mother’s Day So what’s the big deal But you only have one mother Consider how she must feel...

Your mother will always love you To the very day that she dies That’s why she took care of you That’s why she always tries

Raising you up through trials Trembling within each Dight Guiding you in good directions Trying to teach you what was right

She will always think of you This should come as no surprise It’s why she wants to hug you And that’s why she cries

Your mother was the only one Who held you from the start In her life's greatest story You’ll always play a part

The one who always remembers That Dirst look in your eyes With small hands and feet And that’s why she sighs

But she won’t always be there Because life never lets us stay Something you need to remember On the next Mother’s Day photo by Mangino Anthony The Swing

photo by ZortmanPeggy by Peggy Zortman Today was a beautiful spring day on the Summit. I ful$illing my wish the scarlet-plumed male landed on was up before sunrise and, when the coffee was a nearby limb and his less conspicuous mate ready, I $illed a mug, called the dog, and we walked to perched a few branches down. There’s something the edge of the woods. We would sit on the swing comforting about knowing they’re back. and watch the sun rise. I spied a pair of squirrels playing tag high up in the A bit of chill was in the air and grass was still wet tops of the trees. Probably the same ones who raided with dew. There was a strong breeze ruf$ling the the bird feed all winter, performing amazing feats of young leaves of the maples. I was thankful I’d agility as they stole seed. I $igured they had paid in grabbed a light jacket. full for their booty with their entertaining antics.

I sat on one end of the swing allowing room for old Have you ever had the privilege of watching the Rover if he wanted to join me. He did. I took a deep acrobatics of the squirrels? They dance effortlessly breath and was rewarded with the incredible among limbs seemingly too small to hold their aromas of an early spring morning. weight and if they slip, they grab the next one. And those leaps from tree to tree...those you have to see The heavy perfume of the wild honeysuckle tickled to believe. They’re smart too. Just try keeping them my nose and a yard full of sunshine-yellow out of the birdseed. dandelions enhanced the pleasant scent. Warm rain the last few days had encouraged young shoots of all We installed a bluebird house very early this spring descriptions to push through the winter-dormant hoping for a chance to see these beautiful birds, but earth, and that earthy smell of the moist, warming so far none have arrived. The crows are back though. soil added to the mystique of the morning. The lookout was perched in the top of that old dead elm tree, keeping an eye on Rov and me, and Rov laid his head on my knee and gave a deep sigh. I constantly complaining to his friends who were felt it too — a total sense of peace, of wonder and of seeking leftovers in last year’s corn$ield. belonging. My coffee was long gone and my excuses for sitting As the sun started its slow ascent into the previously on the swing had evaporated. I felt blessed and starlit sky, the musical calls of birds $illed the somehow invigorated — more ready to face airwaves. They sing to impress mates and potential whatever challenges this day would bring. mates I’ve been told-- but this magical morning I imagined the chorus to be for my ears alone. Suddenly old Rover jumped from his seat like a young pup. A chipmunk was chattering from a With the steadily increasing daylight, I watched their nearby stump. It’s wonderful how a beautiful spring chaotic frenzy as they enjoyed an early banquet at morning of simply sitting, listening, and watching the feeders, then, rushed through treetops seeking can revive a person...or a dog. the perfect spot for a secure nest. The orange $lash of the Baltimore oriole was unmistakable and the I only wish I could somehow preserve moments like freeloading blue jays announced their annoyance this. Then, I could take one out and use it when $litting from tree to tree. needed, or better yet share it with you.

For the last several years a pair of cardinals has As I walked toward the house I spied a pair of called our neighbor’s huge rhododendron home. I bluebirds checking out the new apartment. This found myself hoping they would return. As if would be a wonderful day. The Blue Bottle by Girard Tournesol photo by Jessica Weible

The bright blue bottle hit me like a hint of death on the breath of Spring. I imagined it being tossed out a truck window, by underage teens fancying themselves clever and mature and immortal.

As if the earth had willed upon them that her stolen treasure, Aluminum, be returned or she’d cause their truck keys disappear for all eternity. I picked up the blue bottle,

tried to feel resurrection in a recycling sort of way, felt instead only the hollow emptiness of mindless eternal reincarnation. Winter had been long this year and lately I fantasized resurrection more than usual

at a Aield where I stopped to listen to meadowlark and Aield sparrow calling for mates or alerting everyone to the sin of the blue bottle. Several deer grazed the unseen Airst greens of Spring near skunk cabbage and coltsfoot.

At a small stream, I cupped my hand into the icy fast water and raised it to my lips, then splashed my face, then splashed some more, more, then knelt, both knees at the streambed and submersed my face and head,

in self-inAlicted baptism for my own blue bottle sins, opened my eyes, exhaled all my blue bubbles, for the longest of repentant moments. Pulled out of the water gasping the holy Spring air for dear life

and thereafter walked each step in the garden of resurrection. Wait Not by Byron Hoot

Wait not upon that which is coming but take what has arrived, is before eyes and ears and touch and taste and smell in the fullness the unknown, the not yet here does not possess and not forget that what is present was recently as unknown. That which is yet to arrive is the certainty of not yet turning to here and now. Let nothing be turned away because you wait — what has arrived is the ful>illment of wait and the promise of more to come.

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front and back cover photos by Paul Staniszewski