The HOME Issue

by Cathy Hicks

Where I Belong

Memories of home flood the mind at unexpected times.  Sometimes the strongest home memories don’t actually happen at home.  Once at an out-of-state gas station restroom I noticed the sink counter top was the exact green formica from my grandmother’s kitchen from decades ago.  I didn’t even know I remembered what it looked like until that very moment.  Two hours later I regretted not taking a picture with my phone and sending it out to my brother and sister to share the memory.
 
When I smell blueberries cooking my mind goes back to sitting at my parents’ yellow-gold kitchen counter top waiting patiently for my mom’s blueberry pie to cool enough to cut a slice.  But when that patience was gone we took turns fanning it with a potholder or a paper plate to help it cool faster. 
 
I had never thought much about the sofa we had in our family room at home.  An exact replica of the familiar wooden frame with rust and brown plaid cushions was on a 70’s television movie as a prop.  My thoughts immediately went back to my childhood home and building structures with the stiff, removable cushions.  My sister and I would make a home out of the cushions, complete with a sheet for a door.  My brother would destroy this with one swift kick, as brothers sometimes do, and proceed to build a fort.  In hindsight I am sure the cushion fort was not much different than the cushion house.
 
The sight of orange slice candy and marshmallow peanuts take me back in time to my grandparent’s home in Attalla.  My grandmother was a big fan of the Harriet Carter catalog which had pages and pages of household items and gadgets.  Money was tight for them with five children and 13 grandchildren.  So at Christmas time my grandmother always got creative.  She made everyone something each year and ordered the Harriet Carter grab bag, which was probably their unsold inventory, for $10 or $20, and distributed it evenly between everyone as gifts.  Some years we got something great and some years we got something odd.  But the anticipation, mystery, and discussion among us grandkids was always something we actually looked forward to.  One year I got a rhinestone ring.  Another year I got a set of refrigerator magnets.  So, you never knew which way it would go. 
 
The things she would make for each of us every year also fell into these two categories, sometimes amazing and sometimes odd.  One year she made superman capes out of trash bags for all the boys and made poodles out of sweet gums balls that had fallen off of a sweet gum tree for the girls.  She made good use of common objects from home. 

All of us grandkids are grown now.  But on the rare occasion of a visit or if we happen to run into each other in town, the topic of conversation soon turns to old memories of home.  The Harriet Carter grab bag gifts are a favorite story. 
 
When you move out of your childhood home you take the bare necessities.  As the years go by your parents want you to come get your things, items that just seem like they still belong there.  In my childhood home a white shelf sits in the bedroom that was mine and then my sister’s.  Sitting on one of the doo dad shelves among the prom glasses and vacation souvenirs sits two poodles made from sweet gum balls.  It seems like they still belong there. 
 
Home is never just a house.  It’s the memories made inside and the moments away from home that can stir up those memories made with counter tops, sofa cushions, blueberries, sweet gum balls, and Harriet Carter grab bags.  These memories make you feel like you belonged there.

Home

by Janice Gaskin

A journey of adventure,
Cotton linens on my bed,
You’ll find me tucked in,
After the story that I’ve just read.

My feet hit wood floors,
As I stretch out my arms and lift my head,
To find little Sugar warm under the bed.
She awaits a bowl of milk just as I am fed.

Warm breakfast in the morning,
After a busy, cold night.
I can look for another journey as education is in sight.
I’ll learn of science, math, literature and art,
As I dream of the words that welcome me,
Day and Night.

There have been nights and days of pain,
When freedom wasn’t easy to obtain.
However, there are books and bright smiles of those who show me the way,
With bright smiles and hugs, each and every day.

But, home is where visits are welcomed,
And guests can rest.
The place I lay my head, near my old oak desk.

by Michael Mitchell

Ode to a Tree

Only a short walk from
home you stand; old, bold, and
lonely, on a rock in solitude, passing time
with games of leaf letting and bloom, while time passing
pulls you ever closer to the brittle stone’s edge. Listing lazily,
your time left here is now revealed in the narrow, receding fissure where
you were born, so that your root hangs like an old man with one foot out over
the ledge, trading your strength in youth for grace in age. Unyielding you have stood
as summer tempests strip your crown, and nearly bald you have been for years, and
stoic, as winter wind has lined your face. But to smile, that patient and knowing smile,
has ever been your only response. Relentlessly, Time will shear the rock from beneath
your feet, and my hope is born from witnessing your life,
and pondering
your death,
and knowing
you will fall,
a quiet, nearly
silent, noble fall
whose soft crash
will echo in the abyss
of Time’s perseverance.

Time Machine

by Leslie Worthington

I want to build
A time machine
So I can be the agent
Of my own design.

I’ll get there just in time
To kill the now-me
By compromise.

I’ll leave
Graffiti messages
On bridges
I’m sure to find.

I’ll hunt
Myself down
And whisper warnings
In then-me’s sleeping mind.

I’ll befriend myself.
For once I’ll say,
“Do the right thing!”
And make it just for you.
I’ll teach myself
All the things I never knew.

I’ll write mauve lipstick
Messages on speckled mirrors:
“Lovely”
“Smart”
And “Kind.”

Then I’ll travel home
And relax in the real-me
Having been my own best guide.


Original photo by Josh Carlson

FEATURED POETS

Anything Poem

by Leslie Worthington

"A poem can be made of anything." William Carlos Williams

The way my cat cuddles
The outbox on my desk
Across the room;
The snow that just won’t melt
And kept us five days home from school;
The Christmas mess
In the living room
That I’ve yet to pick up,
So lovely a short week ago;
On the dresser,
The collection of books
Signed by the authors I’ve met;
This poem
Written on a blank page
Of a poetry review
Whose editor didn’t quite "get"
The poems
I sent.

Broken Summer Lullabye

by William Thornton

The warm summer sun off the water
The sweet scent of money in the air
The tug of growing life in her belly
The shining light in her flawless hair.

That moment when life is a blessing
The days feel mastered like a trick
Each breath rushes in with expectation
Only one cloud can cut you to the quick.

She picked the colors in the nursery
And the pattern that could drive a soul wild
Above the smog hanging over the city
Sharon Tate smiles at the thought of her unborn child.

A Park in Barcelona

by Leslie Worthington

May in a park
By the beach
Near Columbus gazing
Across the sea.
Sitting on a bench
Watching young boys
Sleep under trees and
Green parrots with
Silver clipped wings
Drink from puddles
In vacant cobblestones.
The zing of scooters,
The chatter of undiscernible sound,
And Mediterranean air
Mingle with thoughts of
Barca or Hercules.

The ache of long days
Battles longing for Serendipity.

by Holly Oswalt

A Childless Home

“The baby is crying again.”
That was the text message my wife sent me. We do not have any children, but our neighbors do. The sound would be more tolerable if it did not break her heart. If it were merely annoying, she could raise the volume of a television, computer, or radio. This noise could be easily drowned out, but the effect of the sound had already begun its damage.

My wife and I have been unsuccessfully trying to add to our family. She has wanted to be a mother for a long as she can remember. I only recently caught the baby blues. Every family that passes us by accidentally ignites a fuse that leads to emotional implosion for Eve. She feels selfish, while weeping for our lack of children. She tries to stifle her bleeding heart with scriptures and declarations of faith. She fights showing the hurt, often with small success.

I want to be a father. It bothers me that I have no son to play catch with in our yard. I have no son to imitate me as I once copied my own father. I think about how our son would act and imagine who he’d favor in appearance. My wife buys infant clothes for our future son. Each time she excitedly shows them to me, my outward reaction is to smile. However, inside, my mind is divided. I have the hope of seeing our child wearing the silly onesies she has stockpiled. There is also the gloomy thought of not knowing if we will have children.

The text message was a warning. She falls apart hearing the baby’s cry in our childless home. She tries to push down all her desires for motherhood. She attends college and studies hard! She even makes me go over the class subjects before test days with her! She tries to stay busy, welcoming distractions. She tries to keep herself from thinking about the baby missing from our family.
I am buying groceries. I have been working until now. I am soar, tired, and ready to go home. Until receiving Eve’s text, I was looking forward to venting about my day to her. I cannot do that now. She needs me to listen and hold her. I do not want her to feel like she has to silence her pain, to allow me to express mine.
I have a few items left on the list. Milk is on the side aisle…

As I turn the cart to go down the aisle, a couple passes me by. The woman appears to be pregnant. The man she is with looks unhappy. They are linked arm in arm, walking down the aisle. She is talking about nursery paint possibilities. He isn’t even trying to act interested. He grabs a jug of milk from the refrigerated case. He makes a slighted facial expression each time she says the word “baby”. I wonder if he wants to be a dad. She certainly seems excited about being somebody’s mother.

A little boy runs past me, laughing. His mother sounds frustrated as she tells him to stand still and wait for her. He ignores her, heading straight for the freezer. He stands, staring in awe at the varieties of ice cream. The mother grabs his hand,” I know it’s your birthday and you are ready for ice cream, but you must stay by my side! Anyone could snatch you up and steal you away from me! Then who would play with your toys?”

The little boy looks thoughtfully at his mother, "I would play with my toys! Mama, I will stay with you and be your little boy always!” He hugs her leg tightly. She smiles down at her child. He holds her hand as they discuss the dilemma of cherry or walnut ice cream. I could not help wondering if Eve’s and my kid would be that sweet.

I retrieve the milk from the refrigerator. I mark it off the list. Next item is… paper towels.
I roll my cart to the cleaning supplies aisle. I cannot not help noticing that I am the only shopper browsing through the aisle of toilet paper, comet, pine sol, and paper towels. I pick the towels that fit into our budget. The paper towels I choose had no cute colored in patterns of flowers or stars. Eve appreciates anything we can get, but sometimes I’d like to get paper towels that were more decorative. All paper towels are used to clean small messes, but somehow the cute designs make the cleaning somewhat cheerful.

My phone gives an alerting noise. I receive another text from my wife, “Come home. I need you.”
I quickly find bread, peanut butter, and jelly on my hurried journey to the checkout line. I wait behind a large family. The parents were talking to the checkout clerk, as their sons and daughters whined, laughed, and sang beside them. The parents seemed almost oblivious to the noise from their family. The smallest son kept complaining of being hungry. The tallest daughter was singing some pop song I barely recognized. (She was singing the wrong lyrics to a song the store radio was playing.) The other two children were talking in a language that must have been twin speech, while exchanging laughter.
The parents continue smiling and talking, occasionally asking the hungry child to be patient. The family seems comfortable as a unit. The singing child hit a sour note, then her father asks her to stop, with the promise that he would let her pick the cd they would listen to on the drive home. She smiles up at him. The twins get into a teasing fight until their mother calls them by their full names and shoots them a stern look. They smile sheepishly, as they quietly begin a new conversation. The father pays for the groceries as the mother guides their brood to the automatic doors that lead to the parking lot.

I ring up our groceries, my mind fills with wonderings about what our family could be like one day. I love our life as it is, but we both want to be parents. She and I would love to have a son and a daughter. As I finish paying for our groceries, I imagine what being a little girl’s dad would be like.
Would our daughter look like me or Eve? Would she love playing dress up or football? Will she be tall like me, or average height like her mother? Will she expect me to join tea parties, or want to go fishing with me? Would she try to paint my nails? (I hope not! It’s bad enough Eve tries to! Maybe our daughter would like to do all of these things! I hope to find out someday.

My phone is ringing, “Hey, Honey. I am coming home soon. I just picked up a few things. Try to relax until I get home. I love you. I will be there soon. I promise.”

by D'Azhanee Mitchell

Baking

When I am baking something, I feel as if I’m at home.
Baking brings about a togetherness that only the feeling of home can bring out.
Baking allows people to communicate without using a phone.

When you get to taste something so sweet, all the worries in the world melt away
I feel like that baking turns the worst day into the sweetest.
This feeling can never sway.

Baking is something that comes so natural.
It gives you an actual feeling of all the reasons a family should stick together.
I feel like baking can keep a family together forever.

by Nick Adrian

Simpler Minds

If we lived in simpler times, we’d have simpler minds.
We wouldn’t think the way we do now.
Don’t wish that you lived in the past
Because your future is bright.
Those who wish they lived when their parents did,
Or when their parents’ parents did,
Yes! What an interesting sight!
But you wouldn’t be where you are now.
Anyone who lived in those years
Would tell you the same thing:
“I wish that I knew what I know now
When I was younger.”
Don’t dream of far off, past places
For you are home
And your mind works like it never could before.

by Timiqua Dozier

Journey

Signing your name on that dotted line
Seem accurate and valid at that specific time.
Going home to your parents to reveal the news
Will be by far one of the hardest and scariest things that you’d have to do
Once your plans are spoken of to become a soldier
It seemed like your mother becomes quite bipolar.
Trying to ease her worries with trying to make her smile
Nevertheless, she wasn’t having that since you’re her only child.
Looking through the mountains upon the outlook of the city
Once you gaze across the horizon there surfaces the feeling pity.
The journey will be both physically and mentally challenging
But the thought of returning as a different person could send you galloping.
As soon as you place your feet down on the fort
You immediately learn the ropes and when to report.
Through a muggy fall morning you see the other troops among your peers
Even if we’re miles away from those we love we don’t reveal our true fears.
Given orders without notice of the destination
Can sometimes ruin a particular occasion
Packing your bags and totting your ruck
Becomes routine to a point you just embrace the suck.
Sometimes you question yourself, “Have I had enough?”
Than you realize that you can’t let your feelings get the best of you because you have to remain tough
As time goes on battle buddies become more like family
Even if you fuss and fight before the end of the day we’ll make things right.
Many laughs, many tears
Thoughts of family really tend to twist your gears.
Every run, every mission
This gets you closer to joining the military which is a part of your family tradition.
Counting months counting days
Trying your best to get out of your homesick ways
Being busy passes the time
Although it doesn’t fill that lonely void which is sometimes a climb
Through it all you’ve achieved so much
Soon enough you’ll be home so you can feel your family’s individual touch.

by Michael Mitchell

Motherhood

I witnessed the labor:
The hours of strain,
The monitors displaying parabolas
Like esoteric math problems,
Unexplainable;
The sweat running down your face,
Dripping from your parched lips,
Hiding the fears behind
An indomitable mask of fortitude.

And after the effort had reached a crescendo,
I watched the forceps deliver him:
I saw his swollen face emerge
Behind surgical steel bars,
Realizing his first moments in this world
Are an experience of being caged:
A lion born on a reservation,
Raised stalking prey on plains managed
By old men claiming conservation.
And you cried out.

And as you took the child in your arms,
Your head swooned.
And on brink of unconsciousness,
Exhausted, Overwhelmed,
You put the child to your breast
And gave life for life,
Yourself for another,
And I thought I understood how individualism
Melts under the heat and pressure of motherhood.

Love would grow, it seemed,
Arriving home with a new reality,
Baby-proofing our home.
But a chasm grew between us,
Perceived as an insurmountable distance.
We stood in opposition,
Watching each other,
Refusing to call across the difference
When the separation was merely a crack in the sidewalk.
And all you knew was the list in your head
And your anger at me for not knowing.
And I did not know, I could not possibly understand.

by Holly Oswalt

Treasured Thoughts

To kiss and be kissed by one I love,
To stand together when push comes to shove,
To share your laughter and your tears,
To make love to you for a thousand years,
To hold your hand gently within my own,
Thoughts I treasure whenever trouble threatens our home.