Omp

Old Mountain Press

Omp

Old Mountain Press

Smoky Mountain River1

Adventures2

A Poetry and Prose Anthology3

As Compiled by4

Old Mountain Press5

6

About the cover: The publisher of Old Mountain Press at the rear of the1raft guiding his family down the Tuckasegee River near Dillsboro, NC.2

Published by:3Old Mountain Press, Inc.4PO Box 665Webster, NC 287886

www.oldmp.com7

Copyright © 2020 Collection Old Mountain Press8Copyright © 2020 poetry and prose contributors retain all rights to their9included work.10ISBN: 978-1-884778-35-311Interior text design Tom Davis12Cover photo Tom Davis13Cover design Tom Davis14

Smoky Mountain River Adventures: A Poetry and Prose Anthology.15All rights reserved. Except for brief excerpts used in reviews, no portion of16this work may be reproduced or published without expressed written17permission from the authors or the authors’ agents.18

First Edition19Printed and bound in the United States of America by Old Mountain Press •20www.OldMountainPress.com • 910.476.2542219 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 122

ii

Remembering Joe Haymore1

Joe contributed to 21 of the Old Mountain Press2

Anthologies. He is missed by all who knew him.3

iii

Poetry and Prose1

v

Contents1

High Lonesome .............................................................................. 12Joseph Haymore ........................................................................... 13

THE POSSUM ONE MORE TIME ......................................... 24Shelby Stephenson ........................................................................ 25

Alphabet Soup ................................................................................. 36Sam Barbee ................................................................................. 37

The River ......................................................................................... 48Terri Kirby Erickson ................................................................... 49

The Ocean and Me ......................................................................... 510Tom Davis .................................................................................. 511

It’s Clear As The Tuckaseegee After Rain .................................. 612KD Kennedy, Jr. .......................................................................... 613

The Immensity of the Sea ............................................................. 714Preston Martin ............................................................................ 715

Comfort in Blue .............................................................................. 816Karen O’Leary ............................................................................ 817

Summer ............................................................................................ 918Grayson Jones .............................................................................. 919

Pandemic Portrait ......................................................................... 1020Cindy Larson ............................................................................ 1021

With Kevin .................................................................................... 1122Lois Greene Stone ..................................................................... 1123

Crescent Moon .............................................................................. 1224Elaina Sarah Stone ................................................................... 1225

de Chirico in Dixie ....................................................................... 1326Michael Gaspeny ....................................................................... 1327

Where Earth Meets the Sky ........................................................ 1428Dwight L. Roth ........................................................................ 1429

After Apple-Picking Time ........................................................... 1530Frederick W. Bassett ................................................................. 1531

On This Summer Day .................................................................. 1632Kerri Habben Bosman ............................................................... 1633

Smoky Anthems ............................................................................ 1734Patti M. Walsh ......................................................................... 1735

The Tire ......................................................................................... 1836Paul Sherman ........................................................................... 1837

vii

Cumberland River and Kentucky Lake ..................................... 191Mona Miracle ........................................................................... 192

July 12, 2007 Kitty Hawk, North Carolina .............................. 203Steve Cushman .......................................................................... 204

This Thing that isn’t Winter ........................................................ 215Suzanne Delaney ....................................................................... 216

Walking A Summer’s Way ........................................................... 227Lynn Veach Sadler ................................................................... 228

Southern ......................................................................................... 239Nancy Dillingham ..................................................................... 2310

Sneakbox ........................................................................................ 2411Jo Koster .................................................................................... 2412

The Lure ........................................................................................ 2513Michael Potts ............................................................................ 2514

Sea Song ......................................................................................... 2615Maria Rouphail ........................................................................ 2616

Little Girls on the Beach ............................................................. 2717Rebekah Timms ........................................................................ 2718

Rishan Singh .................................................................................. 2819The Lake .................................................................................. 2820

A Night by the River, Just Us ..................................................... 2921Peggy Dugan French .................................................................. 2922

Same River Twice ......................................................................... 3023Nancy Posey .............................................................................. 3024

mulberry in summer ..................................................................... 3125Claire Ellis ............................................................................... 3126

Sirens of Oceans ........................................................................... 3227Dena M. Ferrari ....................................................................... 3228

Dashed ........................................................................................... 3329Toby Ives ................................................................................... 3330

How to Get Happy ...................................................................... 3431Mary Ricketson ......................................................................... 3432

Our Own Time ............................................................................. 3533Glenda Sumner Wilkins ........................................................... 3534

Popcorn Overlook ........................................................................ 3635Marcia Hawley Barnes .............................................................. 3636

Mountain Drive ............................................................................ 3737Joan Barasovska ........................................................................ 3738

River Jewels ................................................................................... 3839Patsy Kennedy Lain .................................................................. 3840

viii

Cullowhee Breakfast ..................................................................... 391K. A. Lewis .............................................................................. 392

Honk Like You Mean It .............................................................. 403JoAnna Arnold ......................................................................... 404

Charlotte of the Smokies ............................................................. 415C. Pleasants York ..................................................................... 416

Bali: Rafting the Ayung Gorge ................................................... 427James N. Gibson ....................................................................... 428

A Blue Blueberry Summer .......................................................... 439Celia Miles ................................................................................ 4310

No Trespassing ............................................................................. 4411Marian Gowan ......................................................................... 4412

Reel Push Mowers, Sling Blades and Japanese Beetles ........... 4513Martha O’Quinn ...................................................................... 4514

A Long Way From Nowhere ...................................................... 4615Barbara Tate ............................................................................ 4616

FAST, FUN, AND FRIGID ...................................................... 4717Elizabeth B. Watson ................................................................ 4718

Brasstown Creek ........................................................................... 4819Blanche L. Ledford ................................................................... 4820

Hyatt Mill Creek ........................................................................... 4921Brenda Kay Ledford .................................................................. 4922

Trout Fishing ................................................................................. 5023Barbara Ledford Wright ........................................................... 5024

The Sea ........................................................................................... 5125Beverly Ohler ............................................................................. 5126

Up the River Without a Paddle .................................................. 5227Lynda Fredsell .......................................................................... 5228

Authors’ Biographies ........................................................................... 5329

ix

High Lonesome1Joseph Haymore2

Were you ever out on that High Lonesome?3When your horse was fed and the fire near dead?4The wind whispers songs you can’t escape from.5And the stars overhead tell tales of dread—6

That none but the Indian elders know.7They speak of cold nights and furious fights8When the Natives learned to reap what they sow.9Not of human rights or frivolous slights10

Just cold, lonely nights under desert stars?11Did you ever scowl at rustling wildfowl,12Or the cough of nearby hunting cougars?13When you hear the howl of a coyote’s prowl—14

Then you, my friend, know what Heaven will be.15You’ve known a wilderness few ever see.16

From OMP Anthology #8, Mountain High.17

Joe, we miss you.18

1

THE POSSUM ONE MORE TIME1Shelby Stephenson2

North America’s3marsupial one4and only. Plays dead5

to live. Gentler than6cats by a long shot.7Cleaner. Thirteen tits.8

Teeth: fifty-two. Kills9ticks. Slows spread of Lyme.10Makes a good house-pet.11

The feeling’s a prowl,12terrible; crosses13roads without fear.14

Mom carries babies15on her back, up to16around twenty-two.17

Opposable thumbs.18Home remains the world19of hunting for food.20

2

Alphabet Soup1Sam Barbee2

A puff of letters floats3the mountain stream. Vowels surge4smooth and round, submerging,5bobbing, jubilant. Discordant6consonants hiss, their slang colliding,7defiant in turbid mesh, un-sublime8gush into diphthongs and phonemes.9

Whirlpools form new lexicons—10behind boulders, where my naked lover11emerges from verdant cedars. Random12swirl between salty thighs spells out13last-midnight’s single-syllabled surprise.14New eloquence arises with enjambed15verbs never conjugated. Translucent16syntax plunges forward to decipher17enticements, proposes inducements18served stiff with faux pas—romance19with superlative currents.20

We lace fingers, palms ladling21soggy phrases to our lips. White-water22semantics swish by us, new tidings translated.23Each character churns to say it their way,24petitioning, but we know persuasive25whispers diffuse downstream—faces26full of effervescence and bubbling muse.27

3

The River1Terri Kirby Erickson2

Love me like the river loves the shore,3holding close its tattered banks, lacy with roots4and dirt. There is no thought to it, no need5

for talking. There is only the rising mist,6the fading light. Listen. Do you hear7the humming of insects, the splash of a water8

bird landing? I offer you these sights,9these sounds, as if this is enough to keep you.10Yet, you wind away from me like a river,11

past beech trees and berry bushes, bare12feet slapping against a dock, and a lone whip-13poor-will, chanting its own name in the dark.14

4

The Ocean and Me1Tom Davis2

I love the Ocean3

the sound of waves4thrashing the shore5

the crunch of wet sand6under bare feet7

the smell of seaweed8and baked on suntan oil9

the taste of salt water10up my nose11

I also love the Smoky Mountains12

but my heart belongs13to the sea14

5

It’s Clear As The Tuckaseegee After Rain1KD Kennedy, Jr.2

The farther I think back the clearer it is.3The sooner I pounce on it, the more vivid.4I even remember the day I was born5Early on a frosty morn6Look away, look away, look away, Dixieland.7Maybe that was just a dream...8

Yesterday, this Tuesday, is a different matter.9I remember breakfast10‘Cause I eat the same one everyday.11Bacon, eggs, toast, and coffee.12What a short-term memory!13

When I was a kid I played baseball14on Woodard School playground15All Summer long, everyday with Warren16And John Howard Whitehurst.17They loved the Brooklyn Dodgers.18I loved Minnie Minoso and the Chicago19White Sox in the other league, the American.20So we had no major league conflict,21just playground fly balls and grounders.22I remember almost every day, almost every pitch.23

I remember girls, too. But not much.24I remember reading, ‘riting, and ‘rithmatic.25Almost every lesson.26No hickory stick during my youth.27Just verbal.28

Funny how all that works.29Some thoughts clear as bottled water.30Some murky as the Tuckaseegee after rain.31

6

The Immensity of the Sea1Preston Martin2

If you want to build a ship, don’t collect wood and assign tasks,3teach people to long for the immensity of the sea.4

Antoine de Saint-Exupery5

The three-masted schooner in the Listerine bottle6was made by a prisoner as a gift for my father.7A dreamy boy, I wondered over it8as it sailed the sunny mess of his desk.9

Dad lived as a lawyer, teacher, but who was the prisoner,10what act, his crime? Mystery, enchantment linger yet,11if I knew these things years ago12I forget.13

Granddaughter wonders over it now, suddenly at sea.14The waves are dancing by the play of her eyes.15Beneath impossible clouds and early stars, she sighs,16small fingers brush raised letters, LISTERINE.17

7

Comfort in Blue1Karen O’Leary2

Clad in navy denim jeans,3my royal sandals match4the beat of azure waves5slapping the shore.6It is here I find peace7in this secluded haven.8

The powder blue sky9on this warm sunny day,10calms my inner spirit.11The bottom of a rainbow,12immersed in blue, I feel13the presence of God.14

8

Summer1Grayson Jones2

A bright, hot day. Cicadas hum3in sing-song cadence. The sudden drum4of a woodpecker resounds in the warm5and humid air. A noisy swarm of bees6hovers ‘round the thistles there.7Summer’s here and where is care?8Nights are lush, heavy with scent,9the honeysuckle not yet spent.10Water glistens as it falls11and sends a mist against high bluff walls.12Rocks in the roaring river slick13with cloak of algae, green and thick.14Barred owls laugh, treefrogs peep...15summer sounds I long to keep.16Darkness falls, crickets tune17their plaintive chants. A full, ripe moon18slowly rises, casting its glow19heightens contrast here below.20Bare feet, wet sand, seashells broken21in pounding waves. Much unspoken22yet shared and real,23memory secured with Summer’s seal.24

9

Pandemic Portrait1Cindy Larson2

Bobbing afloat a poisoned sea,3on my boat, no where to flee.4Safely aboard…an occasional swim,5to satisfy a random whim.6

7Hands reach out, but not to touch,8muffled greetings mean so much.9Daily news creates a trance,10a whirling dervish sort of dance.11

12All stands out in sharp relief,13a challenge to my core belief.14How to sing this unfinished song,15seeking harmony to keep it strong.16

Change will come, the sea finally tames,17casting my net to see what remains.18Steadfast at the core, tho somewhat worn,19life will resume - this world newly born.20

10

With Kevin1Lois Greene Stone2

Tiny fingers flung duck food3into the water. “Why do stones4sink and boats float?” He5challenged my learnings6with such questions. Ducks7paddled closer to the edge8pushing beaks into morsels.9We dropped some on the bank10to welcome birds. He thanked me11for the walk along the canal12and feeding ducks. August132009, fingers flung duck food14into the water. The cracked15corn felt smooth and we16trickled some on the bank17for the birds. Ducks paddled18competing for nourishment.19“Do you remember...?” I20questioned. His strong fingers21touched my hand. “Not too22many seventeen year old23boys would enjoy feeding24ducks with Grandma,” and25now I thanked him for taking26me.27

December 2009 “Shemom”28reprinted spring 2013 “The Lutheran Digest”29reprinted Nov. 2015 “Whispers”30reprinted 2-2020 “Scarlet Leaf Review”31

11

Crescent Moon1Elaina Sarah Stone2

Sliver of future3craters collecting stories4seeking new secrets.5

12

de Chirico in Dixie1(from Iodine Poetry Journal: The Final Cut)2

Michael Gaspeny3

The master of melancholy would find inspiration here4in the sun-stunned backyards of Rolling Hills,5where basketballs shrivel on cracked concrete6under rusty rims. Picnic tables wither.7Ivy snakes through the mortar of stone barbecue pits.8Garages contain burial mounds of sports debris9until the equipment rebels…10

Posses of putters, oars, boomerangs, Louisville Sluggers11drive kids into layup drills, couples to croquet, the little ones12to “Mother May I?” governed by bossy sitters.13The four o’clock whistle summons beach umbrellas and14

board games15until reading hour. Tents are raised. Around the campfire,16hot dogs on coat hangers, s’mores, and ghost stories.17Connubial dancing’s enforced to “In the Still of the Night”18on the turntable. But with the couples cheek-to-cheek,19the kids at hide-and-seek, a father, screened by labradoodles,20crawls toward his mobile phone. Soon the revolt is crushed,21captured by the TV trucks.22

In Indian summer23a new girl from Montana24rolls a hoop down the street at dusk,25triggering flashing sensors,26eyeballs at replacement windows,27while dogs on their hind legs moan and claw28at invisible fences.29

13

Where Earth Meets the Sky1Dwight L. Roth2

Today I sat beside a stream3Watched a Titmouse take a bath4Listened to the birds that sing5While ants crawled on the path6

Flowers bloomed in warm sunlight7Tall and strong with heads of yellow8Swaying there with smiles so bright9Nature’s garden is waving hello10

The air was cool // the sun was hot11Above my head the willows sigh12In the shade’s my chosen spot13T’is a perfect place I sighed14

So there I sat the morning out15While bees buzzed round close by16Thought to myself // no need to pout17Where earth meet the sky18

14

After Apple-Picking Time1Frederick W. Bassett2

How memorable those fall Sundays3on Granny Bassett’s farm.4My male cousins and I5would leave the dinning table6to explore the woods and climb trees.7

We’d always end up at Gadston Creek,8relishing summer memories9of stripping our clothes as we raced10to the bank and dove for the refreshing water,11lest we were the last one on the bank.12

As we would watch the fridge water sliding13down the bedrock into the swimming hole,14someone would typically start the dare.15The oldest, I would strip naked, dive16from the bank, and call out the challenger.17

Back at Granny’s in later afternoon,18we’d head straight for the cotton house19and dig our fingers ever deeper20into the bin of fuzzy cotton seeds,21until we came up with a Yate’s apple.22

15

On This Summer Day1Kerri Habben Bosman2

On this summer day,3I am compelled to write to you,4wondering if somehow, someway5you can read over my shoulder6from beyond the horizon.7There is so much I wish to share with you8about a beautiful, grateful today.9Yet, I travel back to over three decades ago.10I am fourteen again.11We are staying at the Cherry Tree Inn.12It is an August day during that last week13before school starts back.14My sun-burned self likes sitting15beneath the pool-side umbrella,16and sweet tea lingers on the table.17I am wearing my new blue bikini,18which has new and different lines for me.19Every girl I’ve seen wears hers far better than I.20High school’s unknown hallways and21faces of strangers await me after22these days of waves washing my toes.23The ocean’s endless rhythm almost evicts24the apprehension paying rent inside my head.25You knit, Mama, and Daddy,26you fill in a crossword puzzle.27We talk of where to eat tonight, maybe28that seafood place in Calabash.29We are going home tomorrow,30and I have to babysit the next day.31On this summer’s day,32I am forty-seven, and somehow,33for a moment, we are together.34I start to tell you everything35and suddenly stop—36because you already know.37

16

Smoky Anthems1Patti M. Walsh2

Cascading vapors3billow blue round shoulders, ripened4russet, crimson, pine5

neath azure bonnets.6Appalachian streams, vales, groves7nestle woodpeckers,8

common (uncommon?)9ravens, warblers, chickadees10cresting mountain waves11

betwixt goldenrod,12gentian, sunflowers gay.13Autumnal anthems14

boomerang jabbers15aloft bulged granite, gneiss, schist—16euphonious hoots—17

whilst nudging, thrusting,18dolloping dew-drenched wonder19yet upon itself20

like virginal veils21flouncing down bridal paths of22Smoky Mountain crags.23

17

The Tire1Paul Sherman2

On grueling ascent, rock-hopping3turbulent creek with hope to reach4the waterfall by noon, I wonder,5did I choose the wrong prong,6navigating boulders, before basking7in mist of waterfall.8I listen to birdsong, observe spruce9towers in formation until the sun10indicates time for descent.11

I find the tire creekside below the falls.12It stands upright, wedged in stone with tread13possessing deep valleys, the sidewall reads:14Airplane Tire. US Air Force. I jot the model15number down for research.16

The tire’s from a C47 cargo plane17used by the military in WWII.18The Evening Independent reveals tragedy:195 October 1949. The plane departs D.C.20destined for Alabama, crashes21into Mt. Mitchell under heavy fog.22Rescuers find charred wreckage days23after the crash. All nine airmen are dead.24One man crawled away from wreckage25and was burned.26

In a summer dream I climb to the fall in fall.27I hear before I see the roar of propellers,28shining fuselage shave ridge line trees.29Silver plane soar over autumn vale30of nine doomed men.31

18

Cumberland River and Kentucky Lake1Mona Miracle2

My back, a suntanned sacrifice,3sends sweat in rivulets4to darken this bed of planks5astride a blue lake edge.6Judge my pressed eyelids7as thanks for summer’s gift8of damming cold brown thoughts9of archived river floods10until some other day.11Reveal a child’s first view,12serene through old bridge rails—13clear shallows bathing egg-like stones;14not one of drowning homes15inside the levee overcome16by surge unable to flow out;17not generation twelve that stayed,18blindly, bravely shoveling mud,19while Army Corps of Engineers20rolled in to pile a higher dike21playing God again.22Today this cobalt sheet of lake,23reflecting distant pristine puffs24whose kisses touch safe heights,25is almost wide enough26to quell survivor guilt.27

19

July 12, 2007 Kitty Hawk, North Carolina1Steve Cushman2

Full from ice cream and a sun-filled day my son3and I walk the half mile back to our rental house4as the gulls circle overhead and the bikinied girls5pass us by on pink and yellow rental bikes. Of course,6I’d like to stretch this week at the beach out forever,7but I can’t. Back home, there are rooms to be painted8and yards to be mowed, not to mention bills to be paid.9But for a few more minutes, Trevor and I are walking10barefoot on the hot sidewalk and when I turn to the left11I spot this dark-haired woman waving at us from a balcony12and as she waves I realize she’s my wife, and this is my13life, and I’m no doubt luckier than I have any right to be.14

20

This Thing that isn’t Winter1Suzanne Delaney2

3I love summer here......4Beers scents waft through Boutique Brewery doors.5One of the top things to do, in Asheville, NC.6

Let me be your Tour Guide.7

Umbrella crowned outdoor tables in summer sunshine8lure passers-by.9Little open air trolley cars clatter congenially between10each enterprise.11

12Art Galleries like painted ladies show their stuff.13Abstracts of mountain life and scenery, brown bears,14blue peaks15pose on pottery, canvas or glass. Whose to bet that next year,16at this time, some of you will return17

18to an experience you’ve passed by, or a re-run19of some favorite thing you’d done. That’s the beauty of life20isn’t it?21

To drive along the Blue Ridge Parkway so alive with22summer green,23stopping at waterfalls, earth-scented forest trails24and high lookouts25

over smoky vistas2627

Some day, I’ll tell you about winter.28

21

Walking A Summer’s Way1Lynn Veach Sadler2

I now daily walk a summer’s way,3except in rain,4and am astonished to see5Queen Anne’s Lace6and all manner of bouquet fillers7I have paid so dearly for.8

I ponder eating dandelion greens9and taking in mite dander10that would make me get my dander up.11Is wit by Nature nurtured?12

I give a thought to poison ivy.13To the prince potential of a frog.14To SNAKES.15My mind slinks on to road kill16and whether I’ve been guilty17and how I could atone.18

I come upon the splattered shell of turtle.19Should I think “carapace”?20Is it the one I slammed21heads against windshield for22and stopped to ferry across the road?23It could not be.24I refuse to let those fragments25walk a summer’s way with me.26

But the thought rises, comes unbidden:27the summer’s way I walk28is not the one of Frost or Wordsworth.29Is there something wrong with me?30

22

Southern1Nancy Dillingham2

Kudzu-easy evening—3

pretty-by-nights4twinkle in the twilight5

blue moon rises6hunkering down7

scratching the sky8moving over mountains9

like music10to midnight11

gramophone playing12a sweet lullaby13

23

Sneakbox1Jo Koster2

When you want a boat that3holds just you4and maybe a dog5a few poles or decoys6and a jar of bait7

one light enough for a ten year-old8to slip out into the channel9at low tide on the Mullica10from Atsion past Sweetwater11

sculling lightly over cedar water12skimming past the shipwreck13of a Revolutionary ore boat14then scooting through the shallows15at Crowleys Landing16

and finally up the final sweep17past granddad’s house18to the bridge19where your cousin’s store20sells cheap ice cream21

what you want22is a shallow-beamed23boat with peeling paint24Maxwell House can floating25in the bilge to bail26

that you can pull the hatch cover off27shove down the grass to the river’s edge28set your oars square in the locks29and steal30

your uncle’s sneakbox.31

24

The Lure1Michael Potts2

When I was three I wandered off3into a field filled with summer grass,4fading blooms of thistles, dried cow5piles, and a line of hardwoods bordering6Stewart Creek. The sun’s heat beat down7on my head like blows of hot coal,8and my parched mouth wanted wet,9cold water. Days ago Mama and Daddy10took me fishing, and I remembered11dipping hot feet into liquid comfort.12

The creek, fed by springs,13was cold—all I knew is that my body14would cool down in the deep, and the heat15would leave, my throat drenched16by the icy chill. Only a few feet17from the wood line, I heard sudden18steps behind, felt two hands grab19me under my arms and pull me up.20

I was mad that Mama had kept me21from the repose of the depths,22not knowing the closeness of the call,23today laughing at that moment, glad24the Reaper fled like a swift fish.25

25

Sea Song1Maria Rouphail2

Somewhere the sun skulks,3but you can’t see it in these iron-bellied clouds.4You’re cocooned in your beach chair,5taking in the tanker slow-riding the horizon.6

A lone boy sprints up. All stick7arms and knobby knees,8big feet high-stepping into the chop.9He loses his grip, slips under a wave.10

And now you run to him, a shout builds11like a thunderhead in your throat—12Because suddenly he’s you long ago13

when a sand bar gave way, and the ocean14sucked you into its mouth while no one was watching.15It pitched and rolled you with its slimy tongue16until it saw fit to spit you out.17

But the boy bursts through the surface, flapping his arms.18Froth streams from his shoulders and thighs,19as he dives and breaches again and again.20

You can tell he’s at home in a place you can’t fathom.21Since you never had such faith or joy, never forgave the sea22for trying to crush your chest like the jaws of a snake.23

Even now, you’re wondering what it’s up to,24licking, probing, slithering around your knees.25

26

Little Girls on the Beach1Rebekah Timms2

Together they move along the edge3where water meets the sandy shore4darting back and forth between5sessions of chasing seagulls until6they rise beautifully into the air7up and away from the outstretched8arms of the little creatures who long9to touch their wings.10

All eyes are on Granny11as she scampers away from the12small ripples that soak the hem13of her long, gauze-like beach dress14eliciting playful ripples of laughter15from the lips of the little girls16warming the heart of their elder kin17who briefly becomes one of them.18

Upturned faces search great-grandmother’s19visage for approval of the latest finds20shards of broken shells, bits of seaweed21minuscule purple coquina clam shells22keen on finding them suitable for Granny’s23annual collection, unaware of how carefully24they will be bottled or boxed and labeled25and treasured when Granny gets home.26

27

Rishan Singh1The Lake2

April 20203

The lake is smooth—4it’s like melted chocolate—5

Anything can move in it—6for the lake is smooth, like chocolate—7

The lake is still—8it’s like a glass of water—9

Nothing can dissolve in it—10for the lake is still, like a glass of water—11

The lake is small—12it’s like a beacon of light—13

Everything can be attained from it—14for the lake is small, like a beacon of light15

28

A Night by the River, Just Us1Peggy Dugan French2

the crackling fire dances with the night3the river faithfully glides towards the sea4ancient pines hover, elegant in the firelight5their fragrance perfuming the night6the sky ablaze with stars, blankets us7the moon peeks over the ridge . . .8slowly the fire fades with the night9we slip into the darkness . . .10river song in our dreams11

29

Same River Twice1Nancy Posey2

I have stepped in that same river twice,3perhaps a thousand times, clambered4over the same seawall of rocks stacked5by ancestors, stood in the shade on the bank6baiting my hook with ephemeral willow flies,7casting for bream, small mouth, crappie.8

I’ve felt the slick river stones, mussel shells,9cattails brushing against my legs,10as I waded, a tight hold on my father’s hand11and later, the hands of my children,12

I’ve leapt from that dock13dog-paddling after driftwood ,14hanging on to inner tubes,15mid-daydream drifting near the far shore.16

That river bed hides pocket knives,17eyeglasses, hammers and hatchets,18broken fishing lines tied to lures,19left like sacrifices to the river gods.20

I’ve stood on the shore with warm, dry quilts21for sinners washed clean. I’ve waded22into that cleansing flood, O Happy Day!23washing over me in four-part harmony.24

Yes, I’ve stepped in that same river twice,25Even now before I slip into dreams26I go back, dipping a toe, then cannonballing27with a shriek of laughter, limbs loose and free.28

30

mulberry in summer1Claire Ellis2

your limbs look faded3and the leaves sag4

sapped of energy in the summer’s heat5

all is quiet. even the slow breeze6produces no sound7

a moment of reflection8before the fall9

before the faint chill sets in the wind10

love is steady, even, passionless11

31

Sirens of Oceans1Dena M. Ferrari2

Sirens of oceans sing songs of beauty3Irresistible melody sirens sing4Rarely seen they remain a mystery5Enchants sailors who stray close death they bring6Never to hold the hands of their loved ones7Sirens claim the lives their song always lures8On piers wives wait with their daughters and sons9Foamy froth the seamen’s death has no cures10Only the bravest can seal their ears tight11Cannot shut out the sirens lullaby12Earnestly hoping to see next daylight13Against all odds men can’t survive the cry14No soul drowned thrives in the endless deep sea15Sirens of oceans sing songs of beauty16

32

Dashed1Toby Ives2

When I was eight years old3My father and I built an eight-foot pram.4Christened “Ho-Hum III”, I pulled the water-tight vessel5On my wagon, often with a friend,6To local ponds and streams, where I learned to row,7To fish, to create adventures in my hometown in New Jersey.8

Years later my own son learned to row, to fish9On our shared excursions,10To lakes near our home in North Carolina.11Adventures went farther afield when Ho-Hum III12Came to our summer camp on Lake Champlain.13More special times in a special boat;14special memories for me now.15

The storm did not awaken me in my tent that night.16The Vermont morning was clear and calm,17But the Ho-Hum III was not on its mooring.18Borrowed by a friend? No.19Stolen? No.20

On the rocky shore at the shallow end of Rockwell Bay,21Blue and white boards caught my eye.22Broken from its tether during the storm,23Our boat had been pounded apart on the rocky shoreline.24

It didn’t take long to kick one broken board from another25To make a small pile destined for the trash heap,26But there was more to it than a stack of broken boards.27

I’m thankful for the adventures and the memories.28When my grandson is eight years old, I will be eighty-five.29Perhaps we will build a little boat together.30Maybe he will name it Ho-Hum IV.31

33

How to Get Happy1Mary Ricketson2

Wait for a breeze, hope that vine of honeysuckle3smells stronger, stirs a rush of fragrance in the air.4

Will these climbing roses to open, dazzle the day with red.5Allow a prick of thorns when you grab a stem to keep.6

Thank the gold and black buzzing pollinators in the garden.7Beware of attack. That territory is their own.8

Taste the air when the tickling breeze finally bustles,9fresh as cold spring water from the source.10

Push one honeysuckle blossom to your lips,11slip under the spell of sweet wishes and dreams.12Lazy away, charmed into a summer’s day.13

34

Our Own Time1Glenda Sumner Wilkins2

Centipede and petunias3thirst for rain,4and sweet corn almost5mature for harvest6demands a few more weeks.7

Dog days lie beneath8a long leaf pine9as autumn lingers10with me by the gate11for your return.12

35

Popcorn Overlook1Marcia Hawley Barnes2

In an unobstructed view3ridges stretch across the sky,4unlocked from beneath5and rising into mountains,6they fell7only to rise again and fold.8

Deer know the paths9they travel,10feel winter’s slumber;11foxes remember places12to rest, to bear their young13as forests sing.14

36

Mountain Drive1Joan Barasovska2

I am driving on the Blue Ridge near sunset.3Color drains from the sky, bare trees4hold tight their secret summer green.5I carry news of my daughter’s pregnancy6as I climb the darkening sky.7The road has emptied, no lights but mine.8

I have lost my secret love, the one true love9which lasted for too long and short a time.10The best I had to give was not enough.11No hand reaches for mine,12but far, far away there are eyes13which are not yet eyes, looking for me.14

37

River Jewels1Patsy Kennedy Lain2

Downed windows, wheels turn3atop asphalt, maneuver sluggishly,4circle, climb timbered foothills;5branched birds sing, echo6sun slivers as cool breezes billow7through crackling shady limbs8merged crossways during9spring, summer, scents wave.10

Nature mesmerizes, hums,11bees, bugs buzz, butterflies flutter12on flora, fish pop up, slap into roaring13gemlike whitecaps, whistling14rapids rush across pebble beds,15splish-splash spraying against16boulders, never stagnant, swirling17alongside twisted tree lined trails.18

Rolling upwards, rocky cliffs19shelter, overlook panoramic20treetop clusters covering bluffs21high up, winds whiz over cascading22crystal-like misty waterfalls23thundering downhill drenching24shallow streams racing roadside.25

Sparkling stone junctions forge26shimmering trickles, create narrow27babbling brooks, curved swiftly around28to meander, flourish fauna, flood,29make a broader creek rumble,30surge, change at each bend boasting31lush overhanging banks.32

38

Cullowhee Breakfast1K. A. Lewis2

Me and my brother slept in our grandparents’ trailer3during visits, and sat up until the wee hours…4“You kids turn those lights out! Now! You hear?”5In the dark we whispered, giggled, and read, under6sheets with flashlights. Once we found Granddad’s7Freemason book, dry as a dictionary, but little hairs8prickled on our necks. One night a godawful screech9outside scared me out of my skin! That metal wall felt10like aluminum foil. Before dawn each day, a lit bulb11over the kitchen door meant breakfast was ready.12We raced through dewy grass under the pines. Toads,13crickets, and katydids peeped, shrill over the roar14of the creek. Mountains loomed overhead, blacker15than outer space, squeezing the stars. Wonderful16smells led us inside, where family ringed the table.17We slid our chairs close until the wooden legs locked.18Joining hands, we bowed our heads. Grandma said grace19and then we could eat. There were scrambled eggs,20bacon or sausage patties, grits, toast, or biscuits,21scratch-made and steaming. Grandma’s very own22strawberry jam, fresh butter from Aunt Edna’s, and23best of all, stewed blackberries. We’d picked them24yesterday, in the thicket high on the mountainside25behind the little white house. Deep purple and likely26permanent on fabric. Carefully we spooned out berries27as they slopped in the bowl. Oh, breakfast was good.28Afterwards my brother ran off with our cousins.29I played in the shallow creek, home to water bugs,30tadpoles, green minnows, and even see-through31crawfish threatening me with miniature pinchers.32And that scary squall? Grandad said most likely,33it was a fox. Or maybe a bobcat, but he doubted it.34I think it was a lynx, or even a mountain lion.35

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Honk Like You Mean It1JoAnna Arnold2

I DO NOT lie when I tell you I heard geese honking over my3house last night as I fought off a “going back to school”4panic attack. I’m figuring that the Holy Spirit knew what I5needed- a gentle reminder that He is with me. He doesn’t6forsake me. He holds me in the palm of His hand.7

I last saw geese on the Tuck river in Dillsboro, NC, when8I was deciding not to indulge fears and anxiety about the9coming year. Instead I watched geese and took notes.10

Why? Because these geese were swimming upstream. Just11like every teacher in the U.S. is doing right now.12

Fluffing feathers. Cleaning. Waiting. Searching, looking13left and right. Fluttering around busy at work.14

Some were leading. Some were sunning quietly watching15the others. Some were swimming around difficult currents.16Some were in a small group off to themselves.17

One had its head under water ignoring others. One was18jumping playfully from one rock to another. One was19following another goose around, imitating everything he did.20

They all looked alike, but then I noticed feather patterns21gave each goose distinguishing features.22

Watching me watching them until their break was over.23Anxious to be moving on, a lead goose decided it was24

time to go. Other geese gracefully swam back and forth into25formation. That one goose still had its head in the water.26Another goose refused to move until honking began. Until27encouragement began. Every one with a job to do but doing28it all together.29

They were calm on the outside and scrambling30underneath. Going against the unrelenting flow of the river,31they swam upstream until they found a place where water32stopped swirling. They spread out to do what God had33created them to do.34Captivating and charming and fascinating and enchanting.35And no goose was left behind. Honk like you mean it, my36friends!37

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Charlotte of the Smokies1C. Pleasants York2

IT WAS IN the back room of a jumble shop on Rosemary3Street amid dusty odds and ends that I found her—a bisque4candy shop doll, straight and stiff, costing a few pennies5when she was new. But this doll had been shattered and6repaired by loving hands. Cracked and crazed, she became my7damaged darling with pink bow mouth, eyes of twinkling8expectation, and tiny starfish hands—a souvenir of long past.9

It was not until later that I learned about the bisque dolls10called Frozen Charlottes, a tragic tale of beauty and pride told11in the Smoky Mountains around Hazel Creek. The girl12Charlotte lived with her father and sister Lydia far up the13mountain. Charlotte had flowing red hair, pale skin, and eyes14that twinkled at the sight of her betrothed Charlie, a farmer15from down the mountain, and they twinkled even more at the16thought of the tavern’s Midwinter Ball. With Aunt Jessie’s gift17of satin and lace, the sisters stitched a lovely dress and shawl.18It had just begun to snow the evening of the Midwinter Ball19when Charlie came to pick up Charlotte in the buckboard.20Lydia pleaded with Charlotte to take her long wool coat and21knitted scarf, but Charlotte brushed her aside, teasing that she22did not want to bundle up such beauty.23

Along the treacherous trip Charlie asked, “Are you cold,24Love?”25

“Ah, Charlie, my shawl will keep me warm.”26And later - “Are you cold, Love?”27“Your love will keep me warm.”28When Charlie pulled up to the tavern and reached for29

Charlotte’s hand, to his horror he felt it crystalized with ice.30His beloved Charlotte was frozen, no longer his warm darling31but an icy corpse. In his agony, he soon died too.32

And the death of the lovely Charlotte of the Smoky33Mountains is remembered in mountain songs and in the34Frozen Charlotte doll, smiling from my bookshelf.35

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Bali: Rafting the Ayung Gorge1James N. Gibson2

AS A UNIVERSITY of Tennessee student, I learned of the white3water rafting opportunities in the Smokies, and promised4myself I’d experience them “some day”. But life got in the5way. Thirty years later, my wife and I were vacationing in Bali,6Indonesia when I signed on with “Bali Adventure Tours” for7my first rafting experience.8

Our “crew” consisted of a Japanese couple, three young9women from Holland, and me. The one-hour drive in a van10to the departure point roared along narrow roads through11winding rice paddies, dodging local pedestrians, heavy traffic,12dogs and chickens. We entered the “monkey forest”13mountains and drove to the bluff overlooking the Ayung14Gorge with the roar of rushing water in the background.15

We climbed down steep steps that hugged the sheer wall16of the Gorge, donned life preservers, sat on the sides of the17big inflatable raft, and grabbed lifelines. The water splashed as18we bounced over the first set of rapids, gaining speed. One of19our crew lost her grip and fell overboard, but our boatman,20“Yoman,” somehow jumped forward to drag her back into21the boat as it sped along.22

We were doused by waterfalls and then we reached a calm23stretch, where a narrow footbridge was suspended on cables24across overhead canyon walls. More rapids took us to another25stretch where a water buffalo stood knee deep near the shore,26and we saw an old man bathing in the shallows!27

The raft slowed as the river leveled. We all dove in for a28cooling swim for the last fifty meters to the landing, then we29exited the raft and began the long climb out of the gorge30along Ubud rice patty terraces to an open-air restaurant where31we enjoyed a buffet lunch. I had my first “Bintang” beer,32savoring the view of the river far down in the distance. It was33a magic moment, my introduction to white water rafting.34

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A Blue Blueberry Summer1Celia Miles2

AS A GAWKY brown-eyed, brown-haired fifteen-year old, I3thought I looked normal. Until periodically, whether or not4I’d eaten Almond Joys, Three Musketeers, Hershey kisses,5Heath bars or homemade brownies, a pimple would appear,6just below my lip on the left side of my jaw. No squishing,7wishing, salving, scrubbing, crying or cleaning helped.8

Fearful, in my pimpled state, of meeting the new boy on9the street, that summer I stayed home while my younger10sisters trotted off to the Saturday matinee. No Tom Mix or11Hopalong Cassidy or Roy Rogers—no man ever for me, I12thought.13

So I might as well eat. I finished off the cold macaroni14with congealed cheese, a greasy drumstick, a cold biscuit,15looked in the refrigerator. There sat a gallon of blueberries. I16didn’t even like blueberries, but in my pimpled misery I dug17in, spooning them heavily with sugar and cream. I ate nearly a18quart between mourning the movies and checking my19reddened splotch in the bathroom mirror. I kept eating.20Splotch getting bigger. I ate some more.21

At the third mirror trip, I gasped at my blue lips, blue22teeth, blue tongue. A knock at the door. My smooth-faced23sisters were back early. When they didn’t come in I slung24open the door, stretched my blue lips, and made a monster25face—“Boo!”26

“Hi, I’m Dean.” The boy stepped back, recoiled at the27image before him. “Uh, we’ve moved here.”28

I stuttered and stared. Just then my chattering sisters29bounced up the steps; I fled to the kitchen. The next Saturday30Dean took my thirteen-year old sister to the movies.31

Me, I still don’t like blueberries.32

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No Trespassing1Marian Gowan2

IN THE EARLY 1970S, the original plans for the development3of the farm land next to the French Broad River called for4126 homes, with five acres left undeveloped because they5were in the flood plain. Over the years, neighborhood6volunteers turned that field into a park, with a donated swing7set, a baseball backstop, and a picnic pavilion. Mowing8occurred every Wednesday, with an array of John Deere,9Dixie Chopper and Cub Cadets coming from all directions.10From fallow field to neighborhood park, it is now touted by11real estate agents as an amenity that increases property value,12all from neighbors working together.13

In the early 2000s, the farm next to our neighborhood14was developed into an “upscale” gated community, complete15with faux-wooden fencing and electronically-controlled16wrought-iron gates. No trespassing signs sprouted up on the17boundary of our park, and the bridge over the small creek18between properties was removed. Soon we could see the19skeletons of huge homes with soaring roof lines, and could20hear the constant drone of power tools. The message was21loud and clear—Keep Out.22

I am sitting by the river on the bench donated in memory23of a neighbor’s child killed in a car accident, when I hear24voices coming from across the creek. I look to see a father25putting a plank across the narrow opening, as he encourages26his pre-school son to cross. The boy carries a small dump27truck, pail and shovel. He scrambles up the bank, deposits his28wares, and starts digging in the sandy dirt.29

“You must be new to our neighborhood. I don’t recall30seeing you around,” I say to the father.31“Oh, we live over there,” he says, with a vague motion to32

the mini-estates behind him. “We don’t have anything like33this over there, so we come here. And we especially love the34swing set.” He shifts his gaze to his son. “Ready to go to the35playground?”36

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Reel Push Mowers, Sling Blades and Japanese Beetles1Martha O’Quinn2

SUMMERS IN THE small North Carolina town in which I was3raised may have seemed boring to those kids in adjoining,4more affluent neighborhoods, but to me, my siblings, cousins5and other youngsters, we were one big happy family. The6only drawback was that any activities of questionable origin7would immediately reach the ears of our parents.8

Our town had a mayor, policeman, a volunteer fire9department, post office, dry cleaners, general store and one10gas station. The brick, two-story schoolhouse contained11grades one through twelve, with an add-on gymnasium and12cafeteria. Only three teachers lived locally; the others13commuted from surrounding towns. There were three14churches, Baptist, Lutheran and Methodist, providing an15excellent community men’s chorus.16

The local Civitan Club built a nice brick building for their17meetings and the building also served as a community18gathering place for pot-lucks, baby and bridal showers,19reunions, etc.20

In addition to enjoying ample time to be just kids,21summertime brought about age-appropriate chores. Our22large garden would find my sister and me catching Japanese23Beetles in pint jars, keeping the lid on to avoid their escape24back onto the vegetation.25

When we became old enough to help with yard work, we26were in charge of mowing the front and side yards. We27pushed a two-wheeled reel bladed mower that cut the grass,28but to get the weeds we had to attack three or four times29from different angles. Our dad taught us how to use a sling30blade and get the weed with the first whack. Daddy cut the31back yard.32

I now have great-grandchildren old enough to ask about33my growing-up years. They have a quizzical look on their34faces as I speak; I just wish for them a passel of fond35memories to share with generations to come.36

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A Long Way From Nowhere1BEYOND THE WILDERNESS GATE2

Barbara Tate3

THE CABIN WHERE Grandma Liza was born and lived had4been carved out of the wilderness by her great-great5grandfather. The product of 80 summers, memories and old6age owned her. She was a Tennessee mountain woman.7

Grounded to a rocking chair she patted her foot, kept8time to a tune only she could hear, humming “Old Joe Clark”9and a few mountain breakdowns from the passing past. “Face10of an angel” her husband used to say but she hadn’t heard it11in 42 years since he died and left her with 3 kids and his12funeral bill.13

. . . She’d heard the whispers, it was the old cottonwood,14it told her things when mountain breezes blew. Her son was15coming home.16

Liza sliced potatoes in the cast iron skillet, added onions17and diced Spam then sliced a tomato. He’d be hungry. She18mixed up some cornbread but baking it could wait. Pear jam,19his favorite, was on the table, coffee on the back burner.20

Last night she’d heard the owl. It whispered soft as a21ghost, letting her know she wasn’t alone. He was near. The22owl told her.23

Liza pulled the afghan tighter around bony shoulders.24Night crawled over the mountains and chased a rosy glow25over the horizon.26

There was nowhere Grandma Liza had to be.27

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FAST, FUN, AND FRIGID1Elizabeth B. Watson2

“LET’S GO WHITE water rafting,” our youngest suggested,3knowing it might take persuasion. About to enter grad school4in VA, she was visiting us in Flat Rock, NC. “We can go to5the amazing Nantahala Outdoor Center. I researched it on6line, and will be a great adventure.”7

White water rafting was not even in small print on my8bucket list. But Doug and I agreed to challenge our comfort9zone and made reservations. The eight-mile section of the10scenic Nantahala River we would raft was class II rapids11ending in more exciting class III. (Medium, moderately sized12irregular waves, faster current and narrower passages.)13Warned that we’d get soaked, we packed a complete change of14dry clothes.15

Rising early, we drove to Bryson City, NC. We boarded16an open-window train traveling the Smoky Mountains terrain17to a bus that delivered us to the starting point below the18Duke Power dam. (That’s where the current is regulated.)19Doug and I were the token seniors in the youthful crowd.20Our substantial yellow raft held eight—two teen-age girls,21their parents, three Watson’s and our expert guide.22

Given safety instructions, we donned life vests and23climbed aboard. As predicted, it was hold-on-tight-fast, fun24and a frigid bath. A raft of rowdy clowns was determined to25capsize and did, as our guide ignored them, and maneuvered26our raft safely around large boulders in the rushing river.27

Without question, a memorable adventure, our reward28was dry clothes and a box lunch provided by The Center.29After we changed in the large locker room, Elizabeth and I30found a picnic table and waited awhile for Doug. He31appeared looking mighty chagrined; his dry shorts very damp.32He had forgotten his underwear, and still wore the cold,33soggy pair. Without mercy, his two companions laughed at34his appearance. Later, without fanfare, he handed Elizabeth35the car keys for our long drive home, as he huddled in the36backseat with his AC vent closed tight.37

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Brasstown Creek1Blanche L. Ledford2

WE THREE KIDS looked forward to summer in the Trout3Cove during the 1930s. Not only did we get out of Ogden4School, but headed to Brasstown Creek after finishing the5chores.6

We yanked off our shoes racing to the creek. George7outran Oma and me. He splashed through the ice-cold water8and threw handfuls on us. We laughed and drenched one9another to the bones.10

When Mama rang the supper bell, we charged home. She11just laughed when we dripped water across the floor and told12us to change clothes.13

After supper, Oma and I washed the dishes. Usually we14ran out of water, and I had to carry it from the spring. It took15a lot for drinking, cooking, and bathing. Brasstown Creek was16the center of activity for farm families.17

Our community held an annual Fourth of July picnic at18the creek. The men roasted hotdogs, the women brought19delicious desserts, and the children caught lightening bugs in20Mason jars. A cool breeze flowed from the mountain stream21and provided ice-cold water for tea and lemonade. Many22memories were made on the banks of Brasstown Creek.23

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Hyatt Mill Creek1Brenda Kay Ledford2

A CREEK MEANDERED through the Matheson Cove where3Granddaddy Bob Ledford plowed the cornfields with his4mules during the early 1900s.5

Ma Minnie kept butter and milk cool in the springhouse.6She and the girls washed the clothes at the creek each week.7

This mountain stream was the lifeblood of the Ledford8family. The boys headed to the creek with their cane poles to9fish. This provided food for their folks and a relaxing time10during the summer.11

Hyatt Mill Creek rushed over rocks on its way to join12Hiwassee River. The crystal waters provided a favorite13baptizing site for the local churches. Folks assembled on the14banks of the stream and sang, “Shall we Gather at the River.”15Holy water washed the converts and roared to a waterfall.16

Today most people hardly notice Hyatt Mill Creek. But17this stream holds a rich history in our Blue Ridge Mountains.18

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Trout Fishing1Barbara Ledford Wright2

NESTLED IN THE QUIET WILDERNESS is a brook of rare3beauty. From the streams that create Fires Creek, water flows4crystal clear. It is a “Garden of Eden” for trout fishing. It was5named for a white settler named Fires, who first lived there.6

Great-Uncle Graydon and his fishing friend, Doc7Waldroup, a retired dentist, regularly thrashed a path through8tall grasses to the water’s edge. Graydon’s inseparable9Labrador retriever, Rod, loved to be a part of the action and10adventure. To tell the truth, Rod came in handy when helping11snag a great catch.12

At the end of day, the old-timers divided their rewards.13They kept four fish that measured seven inches or bigger, but14the rest they tossed back into the water. When the water ran15extremely fast, they never reached this limit. Rod; however,16caught and fetched many of the fish.17

One Saturday when they were fishing a particular run (no18matter what Graydon did) he couldn’t get the fly to the19bottom of the stream. Finally Doc Waldroup bossed him a20little and told him to extend the leader and allow the fly to21drift in the edge of the current, and to leave the indicator in22the eddy. As well as this, Doc said he’d be able to reach the23fish that were holding on the bottom.24

“What the heck”, mumbled Graydon . He staggered,25weaved, and lost his balance in a deep hole. His rod and reel26floated away. The worst part of all; he hit his mouth, and out27flipped his false teeth.28

The faithful black lab did what he was best at. He dived29into the swift water to catch and fetch the object. The men30glanced down at a smiling dog, swimming toward them, with31an extra set of gleaming teeth.32

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The Sea1Beverly Ohler2

IT’S A RAINY SUNDAY. My dog, Mikey, and I are gazing3through the glass door watching the drops and listening to4the ocean waves. We yearn to be walking the sea’s edge5because the tide is low and the beach is deserted—but we6know the wind is too strong. We would be wet to the skin7and it’s too cold for that. So we both sit and watch the rain.8

What is it that draws the likes of us to the sea? I know9we’re not alone in its fascination. It is my source of10inspiration, the place where I feel my connection to the11universe—everything in it and beyond it. Being here brings12me peace within and strength without. I call it, “My ocean13fix!” And Mikey, because he’s my dog, and just a pup, is14learning to love it too.15

I wonder if everyone who feels the pull of the sea had a16seaside experience as a child. I did. Those precious summers17with my family at the seashore in New Jersey come back to18my mind with the slurp of a wave in a marshy inlet, with the19resonance of tires on a wooden bridge crossing a bay, with20the sight of a crab slithering sideways across the sand, sea21gulls in a parking lot, lost without their ocean. What a22pleasant time it was—packing up, leaving the beastly hot city,23driving those exciting miles in the old family Ford, eagerly24anticipating the rented bungalow or Aunt Helen’s beach25house—far less accommodating than the house we left, to26spend three marvelous sun-filled weeks in sandy bathing suits,27painful sunburn and the sure plight of too many added28freckles.29

It was heaven!30

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Up the River Without a Paddle1Lynda Fredsell2

“BACK AT SUPPERTIME!” I hollered as the screen door3slammed behind us. Grabbing our paddles on the porch, we4headed across the wooden footbridge that led to the marsh5out back where our canoe was tied up. We had never stayed6on the marsh side of Pawleys Island before—we usually7stayed on the ocean side. But, this summer, we wanted to try8something different. My husband and I had done lots of9canoeing in our day—on whitewater rivers, on lakes, on the10Gulf of Mexico, on small estuaries in the Everglades, in the11Canadian Interior—but we had never canoed in tidal12marshes. Our family had gathered for our 50th wedding13anniversary, and our Old Town had gotten a good workout14over the week. Now, this afternoon, it was our turn.15

We pulled the canoe to the water’s edge and shoved off16into the rivulet feeding the marsh. The incoming tide moved17us easily in and out of the spartina grass. The distinctive smell18of pluff mud* reminded us not to step out of the boat.19

After a while, we noticed that the water level was20dropping—we were doing more pushing than paddling.21When oyster shells began scraping the bottom of the canoe,22we realized that the tide had gone out, and we were stranded23in the middle of the marsh.24

The sun was setting when we finally called the house.25“We’re going to be a little late for supper,” I told our son and26explained that we were ever-so-slightly stuck. Our plan was to27sit tight until the tide came back in and then we’d float out.28But, the family had other ideas—the local Fire Department29was on its way!30

IT WAS DARK when the Fire Department brought us home to31the cheers of our family and vacationing neighbors. I never32knew canoeing in a marsh could be so exciting.33

*Pluff mud is unpredictable in its sucking power—when you step in it,34you could sink up to your ankles, your knees, or your hips.35

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Authors’ Biographies1

A2

JOANNA ARNOLD, an enthusiastic French and Spanish teacher, is a3regular contributor to anthologies for Old Mountain Press. She4earned a Master of French Studies from Auburn University and a5Master of Education from UAB. She also holds certifications in6Spanish, English, and ESOL. When not teaching, she prefers to7nurture her insatiable love for travel throughout Europe and Latin8America. Arnold lives in Americus, Georgia, with her husband Bob9and their three children.10

B11

JOAN BARASOVSKA lives in Carrboro, NC. Joan is an academic12therapist in private practice, working with children with learning13disabilities and psychological challenges. She co-hosts a poetry14series at Flyleaf Books and serves on the Board of the North15Carolina Poetry Society. Joan has poems published or forthcoming16in Kakalak, San Pedro River Review, Flying South, Red Fez,, and Main17Street Rag. Birthing Age (Finishing Line Press, 2018) is her first book18of poetry.19

SAM BARBEE’S poems have appeared Poetry South, The NC Literary20Review, Crucible, Asheville Poetry Review, The Southern Poetry Anthology21VII: North Carolina. His second poetry collection, That Rain We22Needed (2016, Press 53), was a nominee for the Roanoke-Chowan23Award as one of North Carolina’s best poetry collections of 2016.24

MARCIA HAWLEY BARNES is a Georgia writer and poet. Publishing25credits include “Tightrope” in Stone, River, Sky: An Anthology of26Georgia Poems, Negative Capability Press; and “White-out” in Tis the27Season, Old Mountain Press. Barnes has written three children’s28books, including Tobijah, an award-winning book. The author is a29free-lance writer for the Clay County Progress. Barnes lives in30Towns County, GA.31

Frederick W. Bassett is a retired academic who turned to creative32writing late in life. His poems have been widely published in33journals and anthologies. He also has five books of poetry. His34

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revised and expanded edition of The Old Stoic Faces the Mirror: A Life1in Poems was published in November, 2019. He has two published2novels— South Wind Rising and Honey from a Lion—and is editing3the third novel of this trilogy—The Winter is Past. Widowed, Bassett4currently live in Greenwood, SC, near his son Jonathan and family.5

KERRI HABBEN BOSMAN is a writer in Chapel Hill, NC. She is a6graduate of Peace College and North Carolina State University. Her7work has been included in the News and Observer and regularly8appears in publications throughout the US and Canada. After9allowing it to linger, she is returning to her manuscript of personal10essays and poetry.11

C12

STEVE CUSHMAN has published three novels. His first full-length13poetry collection, How Birds Fly, is the winner of the 2018 Lena14Shull Book Award.15

D16

TOM DAVIS’ publishing credits include Poets Forum, The Carolina17Runner, Triathlon Today, Georgia Athlete, The Fayetteville Observer’s18Saturday Extra, A Loving Voice Vol. I and II, Special Warfare., and19Winston-Salem Writers’ POETRY IN PLAIN SIGHT program for20May 2013 (poetry month). He’s authored several books. Tom has21recently completed his memoir, The Most Fun I ever Had With My22Clothes On A March from Private to Colonel. He lives in Webster, NC.23

SUZANNE DELANEY is a retired RN who has found her creative24side in writing and Mixed Media Collage, Her work first appeared25in A bridge to All Nations By Poetry for Thought, Hawaii. Recently26published in O M P Happy Holidays and Webster’s Reading Room27Suzanne also has a joint Anthology, Poems of Nature, Enchantment and28Mystery with Carol Mays available on Amazon She resides in29Asheville, NC.30

NANCY DILLINGHAM is a poetry editor for the on-line poetry31journal Speckled Trout Review. She is currently featured “Artist of the32Year” by Mountain Made in the Grove Arcade. Each month, their33blog and shop will feature one of her books and one of her poems34for their project THE YEAR 2020. Nancy’s latest works are Like35

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Headlines: New and Selected Poems and her chapbook Revelation. Nancy1lives in Asheville, NC.2

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CLAIRE ELLIS lives in the desert in Southern California and just4finished a little chapbook called stories in glass.5

TERRI KIRBY ERICKSON is the author of six full-length collections6of poetry, including A Sun Inside My Chest, forthcoming from Press753. Her work has appeared in “American Life in Poetry,” Asheville8Poetry Review, Atlanta Review, Poet’s Market, The Christian Century, The9Sun, The Writer’s Almanac, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Verse Daily, and10many others. Among her numerous awards are the Joy Harjo11Poetry Prize and a Nautilus Silver Book Award. She lives in North12Carolina.13

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DENA M. FERRARI is a regular contributor to OMP, Dena’s poetry15are featured in Westchester Community College of NY Phoenix16(1975), Writers Alliance Poets World-Wide anthologies has many17of her published works. Dena’s own books, Poems From the Hearth18(2010) Come Closer My Dearies (2013), Charmed Times Three (2015),19and her newest book Wyld Earth Magick (2018) shows diversified20writing styles, leaving a Living Legacy for her grandchildren. She21and her husband, Peter live in Vass,22NC.23

LYNDA FREDSELL continues to enjoy writing for Old Mountain24Press. She is a regular contributor to the OLLILife Newsletter at25Furman University. When not stewing and fretting over her next26essay, she’s volunteering in her church and community and taking27yoga classes to keep her ole bod in shape. Lynda lives in Greenville,28SC, with her wanna-be-hunter cat Sage and a host of birds and29white squirrels that know Sage is bluffing.30

PEGGY DUGAN FRENCH is a California girl with Minnesota roots.31She has been the editor of the small print zine Shemom since 1997.32Her work has appeared in Lilliput, bear creek haiku, Shemom and33Whispers. She has worn many hats over the years, but raising her34children has been one of her greatest pleasures. Peggy lives in35

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Cardiff, CA, with her husband, cat and wild garden and blogs at1www.peggyduganfrench.com2

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MICHAEL GASPENY’S third chapbook, The Tyranny of Questions, is4available now from Unicorn Press. A novella in verse, it dramatizes5a suburban mother’s fight to overcome her demons in the 1960s.6Gaspeny’s previous chapbooks are Re-Write Men and Vocation. He7has won the Randall Jarrell Poetry Competition and the O. Henry8Festival Short Story Contest. Living in Greensboro, NC, he has9received the Governor’s Award for Volunteer Excellence in10recognition of his hospice service.11

JAMES GIBSON, Northville, Michigan, featured Native American12culture in the five novels in his “Anasazi Quest” series. His eighth13novel, To Live or Die in Taiwan was published in 2018. He is14presently working on a sequel, To Live or Die in Panama. Review all15his books at www.PentacleSPresS.com. Anasazi Princess and Anasazi16Journey are now available for your Kindle on Amazon.com.17

MARIAN GOWAN is author of Notes from the Trunk, published by18Old Mountain Press. Her work has appeared in many Old19Mountain Press anthologies and southern regional publications.20She retired to the NC mountains from western NY in 2001, but in212017, returned to western NY to be near family.22(mariangowan1@bellsouth.net)23

GRAYSON JONES lives in Young Harris, GA, and teaches biology at24the college there in the north Georgia mountains. Her poems have25appeared in Appalachian Heritage, Corn Creek Review, Poetry South, Slant26and The Healing Muse and in an anthology by Old Mountain Press.27

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TOBY IVES is a retired Food Bank executive who writes to find29concise expressions to feelings and thoughts. He lives in Black30Mountain, NC.31

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K. D. KENNEDY, JR. has published Eight Books (8) books of33poetry, short stories, and essays: Our Place On Time, Waiting Out In34The Yard, For Rhyme Or Reason, Progenitors: A Kennedy Genealogy, The35

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Works Of K. D. Kennedy, Jr., Poems Worth Remembering, Family...1Forever’s Lovesong, and Truth Instead. He has also published works in2over forty anthologies and periodicals.3

JO KOSTER and her cat Max live in Rock Hill, SC, where they are4currently sheltering in place and wondering why they’re not getting5more done. She is a member of the Executive Board of the South6Carolina Academy of Authors and teaches English at Winthrop7University.8

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PATSY KENNEDY LAIN continues to reside in Hubert, North10Carolina. She writes and paints mostly inspired by her imagination,11surroundings and life’s quirkiness. Patsy’s works have appeared in12local papers, several magazines and many anthologies. She has won13multiple awards and honors for her works through her local senior14center.15

CINDY LARSON, a native of Fargo, North Dakota, lived with her16husband, Jerry, in southeastern Connecticut for 33 years. They built17their retirement home on Glassy Mountain, Landrum, South18Carolina, and it was their favorite location for 17 years. Currently19they are residents of The Woodlands, a senior living facility on the20edge of beautiful Furman University, Greenville, SC.21

BLANCHE L. LEDFORD resides and writes in Clay County, NC. Her22work has appeared in many Old Mountain Press anthologies and23other publications. Her book, Planting by the Signs, received the Paul24Green Multimedia Award from NC Society of Historians.25

BRENDA KAY LEDFORD: photographer, author, poet and blogger,26is an acclaimed and well-recognized literary contributor to Southern27Appalachia and beyond. Ledford’s writing reads aloud like music.28There is beat, changing rhythms, a pronounced call to the reader to29come close and see Hyatt Mill Creek rushing to join other streams.30Her publication credits and awards are numerous. Her writing is in31all Old Mountain Press Anthology series. She lives in Hayesville,32NC.33

K. A. LEWIS graduated from the Corcoran School of Art in 198634with little idea of how to make a living. Her work experience35

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includes cake decoration, jewelry sales, hypnosis certification, being1robbed at gunpoint, and 32 years as a custom picture framer. Since22014, her poetry and genre fiction have been published in several3anthologies. Katy and her husband live with five demanding cats in4a small book-stuffed house in Falls Church, VA.5

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PRESTON MARTIN has published poems in New Ohio Review, Iodine,7Tar River Poetry, Chaffin Journal, Kakalak, Appalachian Heritage,8Snapdragon and other journals. He has poems in Every River on Earth:9writings from Appalachian Ohio (Ohio University Press) and other10anthologies. He writes and teaches in Chapel Hill and Durham,11NC.12

CELIA MILES is a retired English instructor, having taught at13Brevard College and retired from Asheville-Buncombe Technical14Community College. A native of Jackson County, she lives and15writes in Asheville. She has written novels, short stories, textbooks,16a few poems and articles as well as co-editing four anthologies by17WNC women writers. She is now working on a third “grist mill18mystery.” website: www.celiamiles.com19

MONA MIRACLE showcases in poetry and novels her current home20of Asheville, NC, and her birthplace of Pineville, KY, located21beside the Cumberland River. In spring, Mona’s muse for the river22anthology of Old Mountain Press materialized when television23news showed modern tech floodgates closing at Pineville for the24first time. A retired research librarian, Mona enjoys fact-diving as25she once en joyed Scuba d iv ing . Amazon and26www.MonaRaeMiracle.com display her works.27

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BEV OHLER has been involved in theater in one way or another29most of her life; a good part of it in her tenure at Warren Wilson30College. She is a teacher, artist/designer and writer, with five books31to her credit in addition to many articles, magazines and32anthologies including this one. She lives in Black Mountain.33

Karen O’Leary is a writer and editor from West Fargo, ND. She34has published poetry, short stories, and articles in a variety of35venues including, Frogpond, Setu, A Hundred Gourds, bear creek haiku,36

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Shemom, Creative Inspirations and NeverEnding Story. She edited an1i n t e r n a t i o n a l o n l i n e j o u r n a l c a l l e d W h i s p e r s2http://whispersinthewind333.blogspot.com/ for 5 ½ years. She3enjoys sharing the gift of words.4

MARTHA O’QUINN is a regular contributor to OMP anthologies.5Her poetry and creative non-fiction reflect her southern heritage.6She and her husband recently moved from the mountains of North7Carolina to Loganville GA to be near their daughter. They are8parents of two, grandparents of four and great-grandparents of9five.10

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NANCY POSEY, a Florence, AL, native, spent more than twenty12years in Western North Carolina before moving midway to13Brentwood, TN, to be near grandchildren. She is a teacher, writer,14reader, and as of August 2020, a doctoral student at Lipscomb15University. She feels most at home with a window view of16mountains, rivers, or streams. She writes for Music City Music17Magazine.18

MICHAEL POTTS is the author of three novels, End of Summer,19Unpardonable Sin, and Obedience, and two poetry anthologies, From20Field to Thicket, and Hiding from the Reaper. He lives with his wife,21Karen, and nine cats in Coats, North Carolina.22

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MARY RICKETSON lives in the Appalachian Mountains and works24as a mental health counselor. Her poems often reflect the healing25power of nature, with surrounding mountains as midwife for her26words. Her recent published collections are Hanging Dog Creek,27Shade and Shelter, and Mississippi: The Story of Luke and Marian.28

DWIGHT ROTH is a retired elementary school teacher of 29 years,29who grew up in the mountains of Southwestern Pennsylvania. He30enjoys writing poetry, painting, and music. He had his work in31several OMP anthologies. He has self-published four memoirs and32several books of poetry and three children’s books. He has nine33books or booklets on Amazon Kindle. He and his wife Ruth live34near Monroe, NC. He writes daily on his blog:35https://rothpoetry.wordpress.com/36

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MARIA ROUPHAIL lives in Raleigh, NC.1

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DR. LYNN VEACH SADLER (Burlington, NC), a former college3president, is a writer and an editor. She has published 5 books and472 articles and has edited 23 books/proceedings and 3 national5journals and published 3 newspaper columns. She has 11 poetry6chapbooks and 5 full-length collections, 4 novels, a novella, 5 short7story collections, 2 nonfiction collections, and 2 volumes of plays8(1 commissioned for The First International Robert Frost9Symposium), the next forthcoming.10

PAUL SHERMAN was born in Maine, raised in Idaho, finished11school in Tennessee, stationed in Germany, washed dishes in12Washington state before settling in the Black Mountains of North13Carolina with his wife. He works at a retreat center close to the14Blue Ridge Parkway where he meets many wonderful artists and15writers. His poems have appeared recently in Webster’s Reading Room,16an OMP Anthology, and Silverblade.17

RISHAN SINGH is poet based in South Africa.18

SHELBY STEPHENSON was poet laureate of North Carolina,192015-2018. His recent book of poems is Slavery and Freedom on20Paul’s Hill, Press 53. He lives where he was born, near Benson,21NC.22

ELAINA SARAH STONE’S publishing history includes poetry in23Shemom, The Jewish Press, and Mountain Places. Her24professional works, involving children with Autism and literacy25needs have been published in Building Blocks magazine. Ms. Stone26just finished her first year teaching students with special needs in275th and 6th grade. She lives in Pittsford, NY.28

LOIS GREENE STONE, writer and poet, has been syndicated29worldwide. Poetry and personal essays have been included in hard30& softcover book anthologies. Collections of her personal items/31photos/ memorabilia are in major museums including twelve32different divisions of The Smithsonian. The Smithsonian selected33her photo to represent all teens from the 1940's-50's. She has been34

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nominated for both a Pushcart Prize, and Best of the Net. She lives1in Pittsford, NY.2

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BARBARA TATE is an award winning artist and writer. Past4President of the Tri-County Society of Fine Arts in Cuyahoga Falls,5OH she is a member of the British Haiku Society, the Haiku6Society of America and Haiku Canada. Her work has been7published in Storyteller, Santa Fe Literary Review, Modern Haiku,8Contemporary Haibun Online, Presence, Blithe Spirit, Akitsu Quarterly and9Hedgerow, among others. Her work has also appeared in the last 1110anthologies at Old Mountain Press. She currently resides in11Winchester, TN, and has a son Duane Booth and 3 grandchildren,12Justin, Brandon & Kaitlin in Akron, OH. “Even at my age, I’m still13a work in progress,” she says.14

REBEKAH TIMMS lives in Greenwood, SC with her cat. She has15four sons, seven grandchildren and three great-granddaughters. She16has published a memoir of her mother and a collection of poems.17She is currently working on a collection of poems, prose and short18stories. Rebekah enjoys writing and feels that her work is an19expression of her gratitude and joy of life.20

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PATTI M. WALSH, a seeker since her first runaway and a storyteller22since her first fib, enjoys sharing adventures lived, laughter shared,23and lessons learned. Having meditated in hushed ashrams, paddled24steamy bayous, summited rocky crags, and trudged corporate25canyons, her work has been published by Old Mountain Press,26Success.com, and in various trade publications. Patti explores life in27Southwest Florida with her husband and two cats and blogs at:28www.WhatTheCatsAreReading.com .29

ELIZABETH B. WATSON, inspired by the theme recommended by30olde mountain man, Tom Davis, recalls her fun Nantahala River31rafting adventure. She gives great credit to her husband, a good32sport, who didn’t object to her mentioning his wet pants! Today the33Watson’s reside in The Woodlands, a retirement community in SC34Upstate. Her writing has been a constant and positive occupation35throughout this unexpected, difficult pandemic lockdown. Betty36takes the mask off when she writes!37

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GLENDA S. WILKINS grew up on a North Carolina tobacco farm,1and believed she’d never live beyond the county line. Decades later,2she moved with her husband to Europe for a dozen years. Her3poems have been published in Europe, Great Britain, & North4America. Thus far, she appreciates several poetry awards. She lives5on an air strip, Winterville, NC.6

BARBARA LEDFORD WRIGHT’S inspiration to write stories about7her ancestors comes through many hours of family history8research. Her work has appeared in many online entries, journals9and anthologies, and almost all of the Old Mountain Press10Anthology series. Barbara, lives in Shelby, NC.11

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C. PLEASANTS YORK’S novel Dream Within a Dream shows the doll13mentioned in Frozen Charlotte of the Smokies on the front and back14covers. The novel was published by Tom Davis of Old Mountain15Press in 2011. The tale told by York of Sanford, NC, is popular in16the mountains of North Carolina, and has been found in 30 of 5017states. The song Young Charlotte has over 200 versions.18

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