by Hank Quense
They pull their suits up over knees, buttocks and shoulders, struggling with the wet material, losing some of the easy pleasure of their time in the water. Marnie tugs
her suit out and drops her breasts into the bodice. Suddenly she flashes back to the first time she exposed her breasts to Thomas, Jane’s husband. She had told him she wanted a drawing of herself and he turned up at her door with his sketchbook and charcoals. And Jane has never known. Thank goodness, because the two women have ended up becoming best friends.
Jane dips her head back, letting the streaming water comb her hair. She has forgotten what it was she wanted to tell Marnie. Was she going to say that she can’t promise to remember to take in Marnie’s mail after she leaves for Johns Hopkins, or that she can’t be relied on to run her car once a week to keep the battery alive?
Marnie doesn’t realize how much she imposes upon friendship, Jane thinks. Any more than she realizes that I have never been jealous. Not when I was a girl and had crushes, nor when I was older and had certified lovers, nor after I married and had a home and family to protect. I can’t even imagine what jealousy feels like. Marnie could tell me, perhaps.
The young man on the balcony leans against a rotting cement pillar and watches the women suit up, aggrieved that his attention is going unrewarded. The women allow the waves to carry them to shore, then walk up the beach together. Their voices rise up to his perch. “I have to pack,” one says. “I have to make lunch for Thomas,” says the other.
“Bor-ing,” says the young man.
Beach Story
By Virginia Ashton
Me and Ma live at the beach. Our cottage is up among the rocks with a porch built over the biggest ones the waves can’t reach. I like the sound of the waves except when there is a storm. I put my pillow over my head until the thunder stops.
I like the pretty shells and the bits if scratched glass I find on the beach. I was cleaning pieces to carry up in my basket, when I saw a car parked next to the cottage down on the curve. Most of the cottages are way around the curve where the beach is good for swimming.’ I don’t remember seein’ anybody at the cottage on the curve before. It’s old and has no paint on the outside. It looks kinda silvery gray in the sunlight. Sometimes the high school kids sit on the porch, but Ma always chases ‘em off, if she sees ‘em, ‘cause the house is old and rickety. I waited for a while, but all I saw was the car.
When I finally saw lady, she was walkin’ on the rocks. I didn’t go right up to her. It’s better not to go right up to ‘em at first. Sometimes it scares ‘em. They’re afraid if ya take too long lookin’ at em.’ Sometimes I have to watch a long time before I can see what they’re doin.’ I mean I can see what they’re doin,’ but I can’t tell what it’s for. Then, sometimes they get mad and yell. . . ask what are ya starin’ at or take their kids down the other end of the beach and like that.
So I didn’t go close up at first. I stayed by our porch and watched her for awhile. She was singing “Skip to My Loo.” I know the words, too, but I was afraid she’d get mad, so I just hummed along to myself.
Sometimes I hum along to the music in church, but if Aunt Ruth and Amy are with us, and Amy hears me she gets mad and shushes me and then people stare at us and she gets madder, so I don’t do it too much, but it’s hard not to hum along. It’s so pretty. I know all the words by heart, but you’re only s’posta sing when they tell ya. Still they keep playing the organ so pretty. . . Sometimes if I hum real soft even Amy doesn’t hear me and then I wanna laugh, but I don’t cause you’re not s’posta to laugh in church.
Anyways, I was standing by the porch quiet like humming softly to myself when she came to my basket and stopped singin.’ Then she looked right up at me like my stuff had told her where I was. She didn’t say nothin’ and I didn’t say nothin,’ but then I got to thinking she might take my basket, so I came down and told her it was my stuff.
I showed her the glass pieces and the good shells. She just stood there lookin’ at my things. Finally, she picked up a piece of blue glass and walked off down the beach. I didn’t say nothin’ about the glass. I can always find more if I wanna. I thought maybe she needed somethin’ pretty to hold on to. She’s like a bird. She kind of shakes like the robin we found with the broken wing. She never talked, just the singin, and that stopped when she saw my basket. She must be scared bad to have the shakes like that.
I didn’t see her on the beach again for a while. I was letting Big Kitty out one night when I saw her in the water. She was all white. It was her nightgown. I followed Big Kitty down to the beach. Ma don’t let me go out far in the water. The waves are strong out there. I could just make her out, her shoulders and the nightgown floating around her. It was kind of funny, so I called “Hey” to her. First, she didn’t move. But I kept callin’ soft like, “Hey… Hey…” Finally, she turned around. I thought maybe she couldn’t see the beach in the dark so I started to wave to her, and she walked back out.
I asked her what she was doin’ in the water in her nightgown. She just looked at me and started to shiver. Then, Ma started yellin, for me out the back door, so I went in. When I looked back from the porch, she was still standin’ there with her nightgown all stuck to her. Ma said she’s crazy and to stay away from her, so I had to go inside.
I said maybe the lady ain’t crazy. Maybe she’s just sad about something. But, Ma said only a crazy person would go out in the ocean in her nightgown in the dark. She said if ya keep bein’ sad and can’t get yourself happy that means yer crazy. I wanted to tell Ma she sings pretty, but Ma was getting’ mad cuz I was talkin’ too much and she wanted to get to bed, so I didn’t say no more about it.
~
Today I worked with Doc Simpson. Sometimes when there are lotsa calves birthin’ he takes me along to help. Doc says it’s a wonder to him how the animals know me. Ma says it’s just one dumb animal to another. Doc was giving needles today. I hold the calves for him. They’re not so scared when you hold ‘em. I hold ‘em an talk to ‘em an they’re not so scared.
I like the babies best. Not when they first come out all wet and bloody, but when they’re licked clean and their coats are slick and shiny. Today one of last year’s calves came right up to me at Nordstroms. He remembered me helpin’ him get born.
Big Kitty knows me real good, too. He’s lived with us since he was a little kitten. Big Kitty sleeps at the end of my bed. He waits for me every morning. He likes some of my cereal and milk for breakfast. He won’t eat it unless it comes from my dish. Nobody else’s, just mine. Big Kitty knows me good.
~
I was washin’ a piece of glass in the rock pool, when I felt someone behind me. It was her, sittin’ on a rock watchin.’ Her hair was all tangled and her skirt was dirty. Ma don’t let me go out like that. I have to be neat. But, I didn’t say nothin’ about it to her. Maybe that’s the only clothes she’s got. She watched me do the glass and shells ‘til Ma came home from work, and I had to help carry in the groceries.
Later, I walked down to her end of the beach to see her house. I looked at it for a long time. It was all closed up like nobody lives there.
I went down the beach to her house again today. It was still all shut up. That’s since Monday when Ma goes to work. Now it’s Friday. I went up on the porch and listened. Big Kitty was with me, sniffin’ around. He pushed the door with his nose and it opened. I was ready to run if she started hollerin’ but nothin’ happened. So I let the door go wide and then I saw her. She was all curled up in bed with the covers up to her chin. She was shivrin’ like she was freezin.’
Doc says animals shiver cuz they’re so scared they feel cold all over even when it’s hot out. She was just like that. . . So I went round the bed and got in beside her. I was real careful, like with a colt that might kick ya, but she just sighed and leaned against me. Big Kitty jumped up and laid down by her feet, like he does when I’m sick. We stayed that way ‘til she fell asle
ep. I didn’t want to wake her, but I knew Ma would skin me if I wasn’t home when she got back from work, so finally, I moved off the bed real slow like. She didn’t even wake up. When I closed the door she was still sleepin.’
Next day, Ma didn’t leave me no time to walk the beach. I had to help bake cookies for the church bake sale. Ma rolls out the dough and I cut with the cookie cutters, a bunny and a duck, for Easter. Ya have to get them close as ya can so ya don’t waste the dough.
Anyways, when I got down to the beach again, her house was all opened up. She had opened the shutters and the windows, too. She had pulled the rocker outside and was rockin’ on the porch hummin’ to herself. I didn’t know the song. When she saw me, she stopped. Her eyes got that wild look like she was gonna run, so I stopped, too. I didn’t go no closer. I just waited. We were quiet like that just watchin’ each other for a long time. It was hot in the sun, but I didn’t move. Finally, I smiled at her, and she smiled back at me. I walked up to the first step and put down some cookies. She just kept watchin’ me. I smiled again and unwrapped the foil so she could see the cookies. She still didn’t move, so I went back home.
When I got to our porch, I looked back. She wasn’t sittin’ in the rocker no more. She was sitting on the step with the foil in her lap, eating a cookie. I woulda waved to her, but she was busy eatin’ and lookin’ out at the water.
In Other Words
By Donna O’Donnell Figurski
(Disclaimer: The names in this piece are changed to protect the “infamous.”)
“Retelling” means to tell a story again in a new, different, and fresh way. No retelling will ever be exactly like the original. Each teller brings his or her own experience to the story, but the story should resemble the original tale. Sounds easy, huh? Well, try explaining that to six- and seven-year-old first grade students.
My high reading group had already surpassed the goals required of readers for the first grade, so I had to dream up more challenges for them. I wanted to combine their reading and writing abilities with being able to communicate the meaning of a story. Essentially, I wanted them to be able to read a passage, an article, or a book and tell about it in their own words. I gave the students a green “Retelling Notebook,” assigned them a story, and explained what I wanted them to do. Two days later, I was excited when I met with the group and opened the first Retelling Notebook. I smiled as I glanced at the pages and pages that Allen had written. Kat’s book was overflowing, too. How prolific! Yay! I thought. They are really getting this.
As my eyes moved down the page, I marveled at their sophisticated vocabulary, their correct spelling, and their proper use of quotation marks. (I hadn’t even taught that yet. So smart! I thought.) As I continued to read, it dawned. My brow furrowed, and the smile disappeared from my lips. Uh oh! Now I have to teach about plagiarism. I again explained to the children that a retelling is telling something in your own words. I told them that the author had already worked really hard to drag the words from her head. Now they also had to drag words from their brains and tell their version of the story.
All right, so we had a false start. I had to reteach. “Reteach” means to teach the same thing, but in a new, different, and fresh way.
I decided to use the story of Cinderella. Everyone knows that story. So it was the perfect fairytale to demonstrate the skill of retelling. With just the six children sitting around my table, I began the tale. I, of course, was Cinderella. As Cinderella, I introduced my nasty stepmother and my mean stepsisters. But because Cinderella is a nice person, I did not tell my audience that my “steps” were nasty and mean. I simply said that they were my stepmother and my stepsisters and that they were going to the ball—AND that they refused to allow me to go. I repeat—I never said they were mean and nasty.
I proceeded to tell my version of the story. After the stepmother and stepsisters left for the ball, Cinderella began to weep uncontrollably. She was sad beyond hope that she was not able to go to the ball. But just then, her fairy godmother swept in. (I played the part of the fairy godmother, too. Actually, I played most of the parts.) “What is the matter?” the fairy godmother asked Cinderella. Between sobs, Cinderella said that she was too ugly to go to the ball. Cinderella’s fairy godmother told her to stop crying. She patted her hand. She told Cinderella that she would go to the ball. That’s when I turned into a real, live Cinderella. The rest of the class quickly gathered around the table while holding in their giggles. They did not want to be left out of watching their teacher morph into Cinderella.
“Look!” I cried, as I held out my dress for my fairy godmother to see. “I am a mess. My dress is dirty. It is ripped. And my hair! Just look at my hair!” I dragged my fingers through my “straggly locks.” (I pulled out my hair to each side.) “How can I go to the ball like this?” I wailed. “My stepsisters are right—I am a mess!” I repeated. My fairy godmother tsk tsked. “No worries, my dear,” she said with a grin. I looked at her as though she had lost her mind. Then she waved her “wand” over my “tattered” dress. I was enveloped in “blue lace and satin.” I twirled, and my dress swirled around me. “Glass slippers,” as dainty as crystal vases, encased my feet. I pinched myself and yelped. This was not a dream!
Then my fairy godmother pointed her wand at the “pumpkin” (Linney) growing by the door. That pumpkin swelled and ballooned until it was a beautiful coach. The “mouse” (Jute) hiding in the garden turned into a footman, and the “rats” (Charlie, Kat, Halia, and Allen), into four beautiful white horses. I was ready!
My fairy godmother warned me to return home by the strike of twelve. I promised, and then I “climbed into the coach behind the horses” and was off. (The horses, the coach, and I went “galloping” around the classroom.) When we “arrived at the ball,” I saw the prince. He was as handsome as my stepsisters had proclaimed. I took his hand (Andy’s), and we waltzed around the room, swirling and dipping as I held my pretend gown. (Andy went right into character and played the prince well—hamming it up for his audience of fellow classmates.)
Oh, the night was magical! We “danced under the shining moon,” but it was to end too soon. With no warning, the clock began to chime . . . one, two, three. I stared at its hands. Six, seven, eight. I dropped the prince’s hand and ran. Eleven . . . twelve o’clock struck. Panic! I dashed down the stairs—not even noticing that my glass slipper fell from my foot. (I kicked my own shoe off, and the kids hooted as I hobbled across the room with one shoe missing.)
As I made my way back home, the prince picked up my glass slipper. Soon he knocked on my door. I held my breath. He tried the slipper on the fat foot of my stepmother. No fit! He tried the slipper on the large smelly feet of my stepsisters. No fit! He tried the slipper on my dainty foot. The slipper fit! You can guess the ending. That summer, the prince and I were married, and we lived happily ever after.
With fresh ideas and a new outlook on retelling a story, the kids set off to rewrite. “Rewrite” means to rework the same words, but in a new, different, and fresh way.
When I next read their work, I was re-excited. “Re-excited” means . . . well, it really means nothing. It’s not even a word . . . but you know what I mean. This time their retellings were remarkable.
Author Bio:
Donna O’Donnell Figurski, wife, mother, and granny, is a teacher, playwright, actor, director, picture-book reviewer, radio host for Brain Injury Radio Network, and writer. Donna published four stories with Scholastic’s education department. She was a winner in New Jersey’s 2013 Essex County Legacies Writing Contest, and she was recognized for her children’s book-review column, Teacher’s Pets, by the National Association of Education on its Site of the Week. Donna has three stories in a Native America Anthology (in press), and she has published articles in several brain-injury-related magazines on the web. Donna resides in Arizona with her husband and best friend, David.
You can read more of Donna’s work at her personal blog (donnaodonnellfigurski.wordpress.com), on h
er website (donnaodonnellfigurski.com), or at her brain-injury blog (survivingtraumaticbraininjury.com).
Mama’s Girl
by Virginia Cornue
Chapter 1—1955 North Carolina
I fell out of the pie apple tree, and all began. Mama wanted enough apples to bake a tart for the Business Girls' Circle meeting at our house on Thursday. “Sissy, run out there to the pie apple tree, and fetch me a pan of the best ones. Mind you don’t get any with worms or scale on them.” Mama was a teacher. All the ladies in her Circle worked. Back then, we didn't add “outside the home” to prevent any misapprehension that work “inside the home” was inferior because it was unpaid and domestic. Mama and her friends worked as teachers, sales girls, clerks, nurses. At home, they did their duty.
Mama was home from school early that Wednesday polishing furniture and starching and ironing the deeply ruffled organdy curtains for the living room windows. The night before, we had waxed the sitting room and dining room floors. That was so much fun. Mama would spread on the wax, which smelled like honey, and I imagined I was a yellow and black bee zizzing over the floors. I tied rags on my feet and skated around polishing. She dragged me on old worn-out towels for the final finish, and then we rolled on the floor together laughing. Mama made a game of everything.
My mama loved to be different, so she planned to have “Russian” tea, “trash” and apple tart for Circle refreshments. I knew what Russian tea was: Lipton's with sassafras roots, cinnamon sticks, and a dollop of frozen concentrated orange juice. Every spring, we went into the woods and dug sassafras roots from under the slender trunks, just as their mitten leaves were unfurling. We used the dried powdered leaves to thicken gumbo. I loved trash. Mama had gotten the recipe off the back of the Purina Rice Chex box. You mixed a box of rice Chex and a box of wheat Chex with a jar of roasted salted peanuts and some raw cashew nuts we got at the candy counter at Woolworth's. After you mixed up all the cereal and nuts, you drizzled some soy sauce and Worcestershire sauce over everything, tossed it and toasted it. Crunchy, salty and so different from the deviled eggs or yellow cake and white frosting which Mama brought home for me from other Circle meetings. “Finger food,” Mama called it. Apple tart, well that was new to me.
