Connecticut Authors and Publishers Association
Jerry Labriola/Brian Jud, Fourth Annual Writing Contest
2005 Results

Homeland Insecurities

A Short Story by Charles Delaney

Fourteen-year old boys coming of age in New York City had little to be anxious about in the summer of 1941.

Whether or not the Yankees won was the principal concern. Yes, there was war in Europe, but it seemed like another world—a different time. We studied hard, toiled after school, and spent our summers in and around the harbor. We fished, took an occasional ill-advised swim, and got ourselves implicated in all sorts of harmless misbehavior.

Billy Emmons and his brother “Knuckles” were my closest friends. Shorty Long and Trevor Mullins completed our “fearsome five”; a sticky tag Trevor’s dad had given us. In late summer of that year, Billy and his family traveled north to Vermont for vacation. I found myself spending more and more time unaccompanied. Sitting at the end of a pier, I would cast my eyes across the water toward Governor’s Island. 

The sounds of the waterway mesmerized me. They played on throughout each afternoon like an uninterrupted symphony, holding me in place with my thoughts.

Early the following spring—as soon as it was warm enough—I headed down to the harbor yard just to sit, watch, and listen. My thoughts were of the more responsible kind; after all, I had turned fifteen. I had concern for our troops…our country. We were fully involved in war. Pearl Harbor had me feeling apprehensive for my family and for New York.

My history teacher remarked that my mind's eye was working overtime. I had proposed in a term paper that we were vulnerable to attack on our east coast. I decreed that Germany could easily overwhelm us with their navy, as our attention was certainly not on defending New York. He would scoff, holding up my paper as an example to the class. “Now Charles,” he would say, “This is not English class, it’s History.” I was discomfited but steadfast in my belief that it could happen—somehow. 

I would imagine the early morning fogs were just beginning to pull out through the Narrows. Signs of activity were appearing gradually about the docks of the upper bay. Two tugboats chugged down the river from the north and across the bay, bound for a freighter set to pull in at daybreak. Another stubby tug labored under Brooklyn Bridge towing a barge of refuse headed for the open sea.

A sleek white liner in the United Fruit Company slip was beginning to come to life as figures scurried about her glistening decks making ready for a noon sailing. Over on the Cunard White Star pier, the Queen Mary was lying motionless as young stevedores commenced unloading her cargo of uncertain content. The tops of the skyscrapers were still shrouded in a bluish haze, but off in the east a tinge of color was beginning to lighten the dismal gray and dawn slowly peeped up over the horizon.

Everything seemed peaceful, right, and natural as life’s bustle punctuated the morning. An encircling haze was starting to lift under a warming May sun. A Coast Guard captain poured the last of his thermos of coffee into his cup. Already at this early hour, it was his third cup of the day. Lifting the brew he paused curiously as he heard the distinctive sound of an aircraft over his head.

He tried to dismiss it but couldn’t as it increased in volume to a sonorous roar. He decided there must be more than one aircraft up there but was stumped to account for their presence. Something doesn’t feel right, he thought. Aircraft flying this low over the bay at this time of day? Suddenly his set began to crackle crazily. He ran to his seat and took down the message. It came from a patrol boat off the Jersey shore.

“Aircraft, several of them seem to be off course and flying low. Will call air traffic….” Suddenly he heard a dull roar then an explosion. The concussion shook the battery end of Manhattan. He turned instinctively, and the sight that met his eyes caused him to recoil in dumbfounded horror. Black smoke was rising into the clear blue sky. He heard a booming behind him and raced to the other side of his room. 

Steaming up the bay were two cruisers and a battleship. Their guns were unstopped, belching smoke and flame in the direction of Manhattan. In the clearing light he could make out a German flag flying from the mast.
The rest of the harbor was in a mad frenzy. I couldn’t attempt to describe the confusion in New York, or the ensuing panic throughout the country as media outlets screamed the electrifying news into every home. I quickly imagined the desperation in Washington and the seeming unpreparedness for such a calamity, for such a strike to the heart of the nation.

The United States had been invaded! New York had been attacked. As the news became evident we struggled to rationalize. Who would dare attack us? Who would flout our armed forces, our strength? The enemy had flown right into New York and gotten away with it! Why? Because it took everyone by surprise—and never dreaming such a thing could come to pass—no one was ready for it.

I dreamed and speculated but no one listened. I was laughed at, and made an example of, the remainder of the school year by my teacher, Mr. Harkness. I went on to finish high school, occasionally revealing my fears to other educators. Graduating college, I rarely thought of my boyish trepidation. America was prospering, growing in every way. I married and raised four children with my loving, now departed wife, Mary. The children all live in other states but I remain in New York. Only “Knuckles” from the fearsome five is still alive. He is 74 years old like me but has trouble getting around. 

I am forever drawn to the waterfront. The smell hasn’t changed, and the water looks the same… maybe a bit darker. If I sit on my favorite bench and stare at the water, I can easily be transported back into time. The sounds of today’s wharf are eerily similar to those of my youth. Timeless memories abound in this harbor.
Over the years I couldn’t let go of my worries for this precious waterway, this great city. Always keeping thoughts to myself, I wondered about an attack on the metropolis. Through the seventies, eighties, and nineties, I contemplated how unprepared we were for a foreign assault.

On a particularly warm September morning in 2001, I sauntered down to the docks from my apartment. With fresh bagel in hand, I sipped my coffee, black with two sugars. The fogs were rolling out as they always did. Signs of activity were appearing gradually. Tugs still labored and skyscrapers—even taller now—were still shrouded in a bluish haze.

Everything seemed peaceful and right. Lifting my brew I paused curiously as I heard the distinctive sound of an aircraft overhead. Something doesn’t feel right, I thought. Aircraft flying this low over the bay at this time of day?  Suddenly I heard a dull roar then an explosion. I turned and the sight that met my eyes caused me to recoil in dumbfounded horror. Black smoke curled into the blue sky from the World Trade Center. The aircraft had pierced the gleaming structure, leaving the top section a twisted mass! Another would follow.

New York City had been attacked! The panic and confusion I predicted had occurred. Much of what I had feared came to pass that September morning, albeit 60 years later. New wars, new technologies, and new enemies—finally it happened. The east coast was besieged. The last thing I wanted was to be right. 

Now 77, I continue to wake up early to become one with the harbor. “Knuckles” passed away last month, his death being the last dagger this old heart will have to bear, I trust. I have the water and my reminiscences to keep my going. Since September 11th, a new resolve has been forged against those who would overthrow us if they could. We stand ready now, but will the next generation remember? Will they be ready? Far off, I heard the faint sound of a tug’s horn. Another day had begun.

Surprise Wedding

A Short Story by Deborah Washington

They're coming! They're coming! Everyone, gather around the fountain. Beverly may have been in her fifties, but she dressed like a 25 year old. Her strapless evening gown hung tightly and low cut showing off her shapely
Body kept that way from daily trips to the gym. She chose a hot red dress, no mother-of-the bride pink for her.

The fountain flowed with water tinted blue, a request from Bev. In a moment a young unsuspecting couple walked through the doors to the lobby of the Emerald Hotel.

Surprise! all the elegantly dressed guests yelled to the blue jean attired couple.

What? Jenny asked. What is this Mom?

Why this is your surprise wedding.

What?

I told you no daughter of mine was going to live with a boyfriend. You know the statistics of marriages that fail when couples live together. So, if you insist that you love Kevin, just marry him. And if he loves you hell make the commitment, right Kevin? She turned to the groom.

Well, uh. How should he answer this? He loved Jenny and he thought they'd marry one day. Living together was part of the process in his mind.

Mother, how could you put us on the spot like this?

Well, you've already decided to live together. Why not make it legal?

I just don't understand your urgency in marrying me off. I'm only 22.

You don't want to disappoint all your family and friends. Look at all of them who came.

You don't want them to have to take back all their wonderful gifts. We registered you at all the best stores. Your Dad and I had a good time using those computer things at the stores picking out what we thought you'd like. Her Dad nodded and grinned. And look we even got Grandma Daily out of the nursing home. Jenny smiled and waved over to her grandmother sitting in a wheel chair half in a daze, yet a little smile slowly crept over her face.

We need to talk. Jenny grabbed Kevin by the arm and looked for a private place. Although he was a half foot taller than her, he let her lead him.

This will do. She said as she approached the women's room.

No way. Kevin backed up.

Fine. She went into the men's room and Kevin followed. A guy was washing his hands. 

You'll have to leave. Jenny told him as she bent over to do a leg check on the stalls. Coast was clear.

Hey, Uncle Dan! said Kevin.

Hi Kevin.

This is my Uncle Dan. 

Nice to meet you. said Jenny.

Hi. I guess you want to be alone.

Thanks. said Jenny. 

See you later. Kevin called after him.

In the men's restroom, Kevin and Jenny stood looking into each other's eyes. Jenny started to smirk and Kevin shook his head. All at once they found themselves bent over laughing hysterically.

I can't believe your mother.

I knew she was crazy, bit this is ridiculous. What are we going to do?

Well, Jenny, why don't we do it?

We cant let her boss us around like this. said Jenny.

But look at all the planning and headaches she's saved us. You know I love you and I had hope wed marry someday.

Yeah, but I don't want to rush you.

Really, why should we wait? said Kevin.

Do you really want to?

Yes.

Well, Id hate to send everyone home. And I do love you. Heck, lets get married! Their lips met and they shared their last private kiss before returning to the crowd assembled for them.

Jenny, I don't want it to be said that I asked you to marry me in the men's room. Come on. 

Mrs. Webster, he approached Bev.

Please call me Mom.

Not yet. First I want you to know that I don't want you sticking your nose into our lives like this ever again. The crowded became silent.

Well, I... she stammered.

Then Kevin got down on his knees in front of the fountain and took Jenny's hand. Jenny Webster will you do me the honor of becoming Mrs. Jenny Cook?

Yes I will. She beamed and hugged Kevin. The crowd applauded.

Kevin's best friend, John tapped him on the shoulder. Here. He handed Kevin an engagement ring.

Man you thought of everything, didn't you, Mom?

Bev smiled. Kevin put the ring on Jenny's finger. The crowd applauded again.

Now where do we make this legal? Jenny asked her Mom.

To the Star room everyone. Kevin, you go with John and hustle guys. Jenny you come with me and Carol, your maid of honor, of course.

As the guests made their way to the Star room, the bride and groom were taken to separate rooms to adorn their wedding attire.

Mom I can't believe you picked out a wedding dress for me.

We had it fitted to Carol, so it should fit you. She unzipped the garment bag and presented Jenny with the gown.

Oh, Mom. It's your wedding gown. It's gorgeous.

Glad we were both petite, now put it on. She tried to hurry things along. 

In fifteen minutes they had her dressed, makeup re-done and hair quick-curled. 

Are you ready? a familiar voice asked at the door.

Yes. Come in Daddy.

Jenny's Dad came in. His eyes welled up at the sight of his little girl.

You are so beautiful. Just so beautiful. Now, you want to marry Kevin, right?

Oh course she does. Bev replied.

I'm not asking you.

Yes, Dad I really do. I am very happy, Dad.

Okay, then I guess we've got an aisle to walk down.

After a few brief words about commitment, the I-dos were said and rings exchanged. The vows were sealed with a kiss and the newlyweds walked down the aisle to a receiving line to see who exactly had been on the guest list.

I'm so glad you came. Jenny said to guest after guest. She was amazed by the accuracy of her mothers planning. Even Kevin was surprised that his family and friends were fairly represented, however, there was a slight glitch at the reception.

Now I have to explain to you two, that I threw this together in such a short time that I couldn't get everything that we would have wanted. We had to book two separate rooms for the reception. They are near to each other, but not adjoining. It was the best we could do.

How can this work? Jenny asked.

Well, I've arranged for a close circuit TV to be recording you constantly and being played in the next room.

That's ridiculous. Said Kevin. I don't want someone watching my every move.

Well, your family came all this way. They are going to want to see you.

You mean my family is in the other room.

Well, we are the ones paying for this shindig. Said Bev.

What are my parents going to say?

I told them and they didn't seem to mind. That's the room that has the open bar.

Oh, I see.

They proceeded to the reception room. The meal was served and as feared, every bite was recorded and played on a two wide screens on different walls for the guests in the outer reception room. When Kevin spilled salad dressing on his face, everyone in the second room saw it in living color. They saw him use his cloth napkin as a handkerchief and Jenny picking food out of between her teeth. Every little move was bigger than life. They saw more than the first class guests in the official reception room. And they enjoyed the open bar to the fullest.
When dinner was over, the disc jockey switched from dinner music to dancing music. He started with the newlyweds dancing to their song. After the bridal party joined them for a dance, the d.j. announced the father/daughter dance.

As the music played, Daddy's Little Girl, her father told her how happy he was this day. 

I always wanted to be there to walk you down the aisle. I want you to be happy starting this new life. I am so glad for today.

Me too Daddy. As the music came to an end, he reached into his pocket. 

This is your wedding present. He gave her a key. It's waiting outside. It's a new Lexis.

You're kidding. Oh, Dad! Jenny jumped up and down and hugged her Dad.

Thank you so much. 

You're welcome, Jenny-bean. He used the childhood nickname. Why don't you go look at it now.

Okay. Where's Kevin?

Oh, I think he has to have the mother/son dance now. Go while you have the chance.

Okay. He watched as she left the room and then nodded to the d.j.

And now folks, we have a special request. Will the groom please join his new father-in-law on the dance floor?

Unsuspecting Kevin approached the dance floor. As the two men stood facing each other, the d.j. said, And now the father/son-in-law dance. He played the theme from The Godfather.

You have got to be kidding. Kevin said.

Oh no I'm not and I'm leading. Although Kevin was taller, his father-in-law had some pretty good muscles for a man of his age. He grabbed Kevin's right hand and put his other hand loosely on Kevin's waist. The crowd roared. 

I just wanted to get a chance to talk to you. I want you to promise me that you will treat my daughter with respect and love at all times.

I will sir.

And if you don't I will come back to haunt you and I will hurt you.

Yes sir. Haunt me?

Just keep her happy.

I love her with all my heart and that is my plan.

Good. There will be times when she will really need you. There will be tough times. You will need to be there to comfort her. Promise me.

I promise I will.

Well, then, welcome to the family. He hugged Kevin and nodded to the d.j.

And now the groom will be joined by his mother for a dance. On cue from the next room, his mother appeared. Jenny returned at the end of the mother/son dance. 

The celebration continued long into the night with dancing, drinking and socializing. Kevin and Jenny circulated between both rooms. 

As the evening came to an end, Jenny told her parents, it was the best surprise wedding. You picked out everything perfectly. Thank you so much.

Kevin's parents gave them a honeymoon trip for two weeks in Hawaii, to be taken when they could arrange vacations from their jobs. For this evening, they had the bridal suite at the Emerald Hotel.

The following week, Jenny and Kevin took her parents out to dinner to thank them for the wonderful wedding. They laughed and joked about the extra room, the father/son-in-law dance and learned of the ups and downs of the planning process. It was a wonderful evening.

Three days later Kevin answered the phone call in the early morning hours.

It was Bev. You need to bring Jenny to the hospital. It's her Dad. He's not going to make it, Kevin. He was in shock but managed to tell Jenny and together they rushed to the hospital.

Bev met them outside the room. He doesn't have long.

What happened?

He knew he only had a couple of months to live. He didn't want you to know.

Jenny rushed to his side. 

Daddy.

Hi, Jenny-bean he spoke weakly.

I love you so much, Daddy.

I love you too. And I walked my beautiful girl down the aisle, didn't I?

Yes, Daddy you sure did. So that's why the hurry for the wedding.

It kept us busy during these hard days. It was good for both of us. said Bev.

Yes, we had a good time didn't we? said Dad. Thank you, Bev, dear. I love you.

Inner City Asthma Rap

A Poem by Larry Chiaramonte, M.D.

Asthma you gotta go for real
Two Asthma inhalers are the deal
One for tightness another for swelling for you to no longer feel
Take two meds twice a day
To keep your asthma away

East Harlem Asthma you gotta go for real
Peak flow at home is the deal
For tightness and swelling to no longer feel
Blow green, yellow and red

Then take the meds like the doctor said


NYC Asthma you gotta go for real
Peak flow at home is the deal
For tightness and swelling to no longer feel
Asthma Action plan is the game
To feel better and not the same

Inner City Asthma you gotta go for real
Avoid your triggers is the deal
For tightness and swelling to no longer feel
Molds, roaches, pets and dust all bring grief
Stay away from them for relief

USA Asthma you gotta go for real
Allergy shots are the deal
For tightness and swelling to no longer feel
Allergy shots if you take them in a regular way
Your asthma will be gone some day

Two Asthma inhalers are the deal
Doctor's Asthma Action plan is for real
Avoid your triggers for tightness and swelling to no longer feel
Allergy shots are the deal

Then USA Asthma will go for real

Shadows

A Poem by James Norton

Where am I now. . .
Sitting on the edge
Of my remaining years,
Watching my shadow grow
On the wrong side of the sun.
Reflecting back on far too much. . .
Looking forward to far too little.
I walk every day in the warmth
Of rich memories of you,
And the life we spent together.
Our young years. . .
The fullness of our days,
The tenderness of our nights
With the softness of you wrapped around me.
And as the years slipped by
Our passions gave way to warm glowing embers
That remembered all the days until your passing.
So I am alone now. . .
Marking my days by the evening fire,
Watching my thoughts of you
Wrap round the fleeting sparks
That race up the chimney.
And each night as I slide into my empty bed
I remember the warmth of you. . .
And the fire that burned. . . until I sleep.

The River

A Children's Story by Jonas Roberts

Deep in the heart of Africa, where a river divided two villages, a young woman prepared to draw water. Her father, the chief, had been consumed with grief over the loss of his wife and son, his future heir. Celia, unable to inherit the position of chief, was forced to do the hardest of work. 

Drought had slowed the pulse of the river and made shallow its water: Celia waded a few feet into the current before lowering her pitcher. She kept one eye on the surface and the other for what lurked beneath. 
An echo of song traveled over the flowing water. Celia lowered her guard, allowing her eyes to drift across the river. The song grew stronger until the jungle gave birth to a man shouldering a carved kayak. 

The man beamed with pride as he lowered the boat into the water. He paused to rub the boat's side, like a father stroking the head of a child. He looked up. Their eyes met and a confident smile crossed his face. 
Her pulse quickened-like the current of the river after a sudden, unexpected rain. He lowered himself into the boat with natural grace. The current carried him downstream and her heart followed. 

Celia's burden seemed lighter as she returned to her work. The memory of the woodcarver brought her comfort and strength throughout the day and into the night. 

Cinders seared Celia as she tended the evening fire. The pain brought back the bleak reality of a future serving her father. The image of the woodcarver sank into the depths of her heart. Little did Celia know that forces were working to manipulate her future. 

The village shaman was as crafty as a crocodile. He planned on replacing the chief in order to gain power over the village. The shaman planned to use the chief's belief in the spirit world against him. 
The pawn in his plan was a man known only as Sloth. The shaman found him reclined on the jungle floor. Sloth appeared to be hypnotized by the rays cascading through the canopy. The shaman came forward, ready to plant his suggestion. 

"Our Spirit Protector has delivered a vision involving the future leadership of our village," whispered the shaman, revealing his plan to Sloth. For the first time in his life, the prospect of work didn't bother him. 
The darkening sky matched the mood of the chief as he approached the shaman's hut. 

"Why have you requested my council?" the chief asked. 

The shaman tossed a handful of fine sand into the hungry fire. Embers rose like fireflies summoned by their siblings in the night sky. The chief was transfixed. 

"The Serpent, Spirit Protector of our village, has delivered a message," the shaman stated. "You have lost your son and heir to the spirit world. Therefore, it is the duty of your daughter to produce an heir. She is to be married and her husband will rule as chief until an heir is born." 

The chief was flabbergasted. 

A serpent's smile slithered across the shaman's face. 
"The Serpent was very clear upon whom your daughter must take as a husband. Your daughter will marry the man known as Sloth." 

"But. ..why. ..Sloth?" stammered the chief. 

"Fate has bound you together," explained the shaman. "He lost his parents at a young age. Likewise, your son was taken at a young age. It is destiny that you become one family." 

"And if she refuses?" the chief uttered meekly. 

The shaman's brow furrowed. "The Serpent will turn your daughter into a lifeless statue." 

The chief slumped forward, defeated. He couldn't bear to lose his remaining child. No matter how difficult it may be for him or his daughter, the wedding would have to take place. 

Celia rose, ready to meet her daily labors with renewed hope, but was met by her father instead. He appeared troubled. Looking at the ground he stated, "You will be married tomorrow to the man known as Sloth. Our Spirit Protector has made this clear to the shaman." 

The air was tom from Celia's lungs. She opened her mouth, desperate for air, desperate to protest, but her father never gave her the chance. 

"If you refuse, the Serpent will turn you into a lifeless statue. You are left with no choice." 

The chief left her to inform the villagers and begin preparations for the wedding. 

Celia was trapped. Her father was determined to do the will of the shaman. She felt like the little bird living in the crocodile's open jaws, pecking out a meek survival, living on scraps found between its teeth, but worst of all, never knowing if or when the jaws would snap shut. 

I will never find happiness, Celia thought. The possibility of a life with the woodcarver has been snatched from me! I've fallen victim of the crocodile, like my mother and brother before me. With this realization Celia collapsed with grief.

Twilight descended and an alternative dawned on Celia. The woodcarver could see something in a piece of wood, that others could not. Could it be possible he'd seen something in her? With a hope filled heart, she made her way to the river. 

Celia stood before the source of her family's sorrow and barrier to her future happiness. She took a deep breath and stepped into the river. The river moved slowly, patiently waiting for rain. With sharp eyes she surveyed the surface. The water climbed to her shoulders. She raised her arms as if learning to balance the water jug for the first time. 

With each step the water receded. Celia emerged on the other side. She found the trail the woodcarver had used only the day before. Moonlight and shadows danced across the worn path. 

Celia rounded a bend to find a clearing. Cut trees were stacked near the entrance. Beyond was a small hut with a kayak resting beside it. Tools were scattered around the fire. The woodcarver was hard at work, shaping the wood to his will, bringing out the object he saw in the wood. He stepped back to admire his creation. 
Celia's pulse quickened as he turned and revealed a beautifully carved statue. Celia stared in shock and wonder.

It was like looking at her reflection in the river. She stood speechless staring at herself. For a moment she feared she fell victim of the Serpent's curse and was a spirit looking back at her petrified body. 

The woodcarver's confident smile welcomed her as his voice brought her back to reality.

"I couldn't bear to lose the memory of you by the river so I preserved it in this statue." 

The seed of an idea took root in her mind. Celia explained everything to the woodcarver-the vision the shaman shared with her father, the arranged marriage, and the threat of the Serpent's curse. Finally, she revealed her vision and together they put her plan into motion. 

The next morning the chief stood silhouetted in his daughter's doorway. She looked peaceful, blanketed by shadows. Drawing closer he realized the familiar sounds of sleep were missing. The stillness of the hut weighed heavy on his heart. He rushed to his daughter's side only to find a statue in her place. The chief was distraught. Celia had disobeyed the serpent and had been punished! 

The chief cradled what remained of his daughter and walked toward the water's edge. The villagers were shocked as he passed, but none more than the shaman and his pawn. 

He walked into the water. The chief released the statue into the current, entrusting his daughter to the river, to join his wife and son in their final resting place. He watched it drift downstream. 

The chief blinked back tears as remorse filled his heart. Something appeared on the horizon making its way back upstream. It was a man in a kayak with a young woman behind him. Was this man the River Spirit sent to return his daughter? Could he make things right if given a second chance? 

The kayak came to rest beside him delivering his daughter. She smiled and they embraced. The chief was overcome with emotion. 

Celia explained her drastic action and introduced him to the woodcarver, the man she had chosen to marry. Understanding dawned upon the chief, bringing light to the darkness that had eclipsed his heart and mind for so long, and enabled him to see how the shaman had deceived him. Those who plotted against the chief's family were punished and cast out of the village. 

Sloth left in shame to live in the caves at river's end. 

Word of the shaman's treachery spread forcing him to live out his days as a wanderer. 

The wedding celebration commenced and the two villages once divided became one, with the woodcarver as chief and Celia queen. Clouds clustered overhead and rained down their approval. Their hearts swelled with the rising river and the promise of a prosperous future. 

Trust Me: The Story of Wunder, a Guide Dog for the Blind

A Children's Story by Peggy Schenk

Things were very exciting in the whelping pen at Fidelco kennels in Bloomfield, Ct., where guide dogs for the blind are born and trained.

Uma had given birth to her puppies, Wrangler, Wedge, Woodstock, Weaver, Windy and Wunder.

Uma was very proud, for they were beautiful and very unique puppies.

One morning after breakfast and before their morning nap, Uma called the puppies to her for an important talk.

"You are not like other puppies," she told them. "You are very special. One day you will be the eyes for a person who cannot see. You are Fidelco guide dogs, and you will bring independence and great joy to a person who is blind. Trust me" said Uma.

And they did.

"But first you must go and live with foster families, who will love and care for you," Uma told the puppies. "These people will teach you to 'sit' and 'stay,' to go 'down and under' a chair when they sit, and to 'come to heel,' which you must do to get into your guide dog harness, when you are older. They will give you treats when you do well and take you places. Each week they will bring you back to Fidelco so that you can play with each other again and learn new skills. You will have happy lives with your fosters. Trust me," said Uma.

And they did.

When it was time to leave Uma and his littermates, Wunder went to live with Grammy Pegs and Grampy, who gave him lots of treats and played ball and stick with him. Other pups went to families with children and a few went to fosters who live all alone.

Every day Grammy Pegs took Wunder for a walk. She taught him to stay on her left side, because that's where guide dogs walk with their blind persons. He learned to remain close to her and not pull on his lead.
"You are learning very quickly. You will be a grand guide dog," said Grammy Pegs. "Trust me."

And he did. 

Grampy fed Wunder special food to ensure he would grow strong and healthy. Grampy brushed his fur and clipped his nails. Sometimes Grammy Pegs helped giving Wunder a treat each time Grampy clipped. Even with treats Wunder didn't like clips, but Grampy said, "Easy boy. Trust us."

And he did.

One day Grammy Pegs and Grampy took Wunder to a city called Hartford where there was a Walk for Fidelco to raise money for the guide dog program. It takes a lot of money, about $20,000, to raise and train just one puppy to become a guide dog for the blind. There were many people and many dogs in the city. Some blind people were there with their dogs too.

Wunder met a girl named Annie, who couldn't see. She asked Grampy if she could pet Wunder.

"Of course you can," Grampy said. "Wunder loves people. He will like you. Trust me."

And she did.

"Next year when I am old enough, I am going to have a guide dog," said Annie. "I have to be 18 years old. I can't wait. My dog will be my friend and help me find my classes, when I go to college. I would like a dog just like you, Wunder. Your fur is very soft, and I can tell you are very smart. You would be a fine dog to take to school. Trust me" she said.

And he did.

Many weeks later, Grammy Pegs said.

"Wunder, you are a very good dog. Soon it will be time to go to guide dog school. You will learn all the things a guide dog must do. Trust me," said Grammy Peg.

And he did.

Back at Fidelco, Wunder lived with other guide dogs in training. 

He liked his new trainer, Wendy, who took him for walks in the city, where there were lots of people, strange sights and smells and noisy traffic. Wunder was not afraid. He had been to the city before. But now he learned how to halt at curbs, walk when the cars were stopped, turn right and left on command, recognize danger and avoid it. Wendy and Wunder practiced every day. 

"You will be a good guide dog," Wendy said. "Trust me."

And he did.

Many months later, when Wunder finished his training, Grampy and Grammy Pegs went to Hartford him work. They saw him walk done the busy city street and stop at the curb to watch out for cars. He went up the escalator in the Civic Center and through the mall filled with people going in all directions. All these things he would have to do when he was guiding his blind person.

There were tears in Grammy Pegs' eyes, but she wasn't sad now.

"These are happy tears, tears of pride. Trust me, Wunder," she said.

And he did. 

Soon Wunder would meet the blind person he would guide. He was very excited.

One last time Wendy took him to the city. They walked down a sunny street with trees and houses. Then Wendy said, "Halt," and she knocked on a door.

"Come in," said a friendly-sounding person, as the door opened. 

It was Annie, the girl who could not see.

"Hello Wunder. Remember me?" Annie asked. "I met you during the Walk for Fidelco. I'm 18 now, and I'm so happy that you will be my guide dog," she said as she ran her hand through his fur.

Wunder liked her touch, and he was happy too. He stayed very still and let Annie pet him. 

"Trust me," her hands seemed to say.

And he did.

Wunder wanted to jump up and lick her face, but he didn't. Guide dogs don't jump on people, he knew. Instead he nuzzled against Annie with a gesture that said, "We will be such good friends and go everywhere together. My eyes will see the way for you. You can trust me, Annie."

And she did.

Diner Day Dreams

An Essay by Mary Cahill

“Listen, I know what I’m doing. You don’t put the lettuce and tomato on the hamburger, you put it on the side.”

“Okay,” the cook looks at the blond waitress with a grin. “We’ll do it your way.”

I hear these two argue from my corner booth in Rosie's Diner. It’s breakfast time at Rosie's; the aroma of fresh coffee and burnt toast fill the air. The regulars begin to arrive taking their usual seats. You can always spot a regular-they're comfortable, as if they just shuffled downstairs in pajamas and slippers for their first cup of coffee.

“Where’s Rosie?” asks a big man perched on a stool, worn workman boots bracing his weight. He wears a green plaid flannel shirt with a vest. The shirts not tucked in exposing an expanse of bare skin just above his buttocks.

"Rosie's got a cold," says the waitress balancing a breakfast that could feed a poor family for a week. Three over- easy eggs with a huge mound of home fries and bacon surrounded by six triangles of burnt toast.

“You burnt the toast.” The waitress shoots the short order cook a look of disgust.

“ That’s not edible, Frankie.” She throws the toast in a garbage can near the grill.

“I’ll toast some more.” She glides to the toaster and slips three slices of Wonder Bread into the slots. 

Grabbing the coffeepot, she proceeds toward my table.

“You want the usual?”

“Un huh.” I reply as she pours black coffee into the white ceramic mug. She knows what I want, poached eggs on dry toast. I’m a regular and proud of it. 

We all have our obsessions. Diners are mine. Red Neon signs flash -Diner- Open 24 hours-Eat. Who can resist an invitation to enter a world that has almost disappeared? When I see the barrel shaped roof of a diner, I stop like an antique hunter who searches for the perfect addition to a collection. I, however, gather memories and more than a few unnecessary pounds.

Diners come in many styles. Rosie’s captures the post World War II diner in all its shiny glory. The facade of stainless steel has pastel green and yellow panels which remind me of the Ford Fairlane popular when I was a girl. I fell in love with diners as a child. On Sunday, after church, my father would drive his '52 black Chevy from diner to diner looking for the best pie. 

“Margaret,” he would say to my mother. “ The apple pie at the Main Street Diner in Middletown is the best I’ve had so far.”

“Oh George, I love the lemon meringue at the Southington.” 

Year after year the debate continued. My sister and I would mouth their words behind their backs making circles at our forehead to indicate they were crazy. Once, when I was nine we went to Michigan to visit cousins. I know we must have visited all the sights but I only remember the diners. Each day we would stop at a different one to sample the pie. Lemon Meringue three times a day. I don’t remember if we ever reached satiation-I only remember the smells of coffee and bacon. Then they would send us on our way with directions to the next diner to visit.

Another of my favorites is the hidden diner. During the Sixties and Seventies diners were no longer popular. Many older diners were remodeled adding wooden facades. The Royal Diner in New London suffered this fate. Wood paneling and muted green paint hides a diner. The remodeling, thankfully, never made it past the front door. The long green Formica counter with black Naugahyde stools remains intact. Last week I had lunch at the Royal. 

George, a handicapped man, who lives in the neighborhood, came in the door dropping into the big booth and propped his silver walker against the wall. I knew the rules; even a party of four is not allowed to sit in this special booth. I waited for the waitress to notice his obvious transgression.

“George,” says Sylvia, a dark-haired woman who has worked at the Royal as long as I can remember. I hope she will not be mean to the poor man.

She approaches the table, smiles and pats his arm. “I hope you're hungry. We made ham today, that’s your favorite.”

She notices me watching and must guess what I’m thinking- I know I would not be allowed to sit there; my envy must show.

“He’s a big guy. He needs a lot of room,” she tucks a napkin in his shirt collar. George basks in the affection of this extended family. He is most definitely a regular. Through the years I have noticed a group of elderly and disabled people who are regulars. The portions they receive feed them for an entire day. These people would not go to food kitchens. They are too proud. The Royal sends them home with Styrofoam packages for their evening meal-a far cry from the franchise, which weigh and measure every portion. 

My children have inherited my obsession. My daughter recently called me from college. “Mom, there’s a diner I heard about in West Hartford.” She has thrown her bait into the water. “ My roommate says it’s great and there’s a used book store across the street.” Hooked, the next Saturday finds us in the Quaker Street Diner in West Hartford.

I call my sister Barbara, who lives just around the corner.

“Barb, I’m right down the street at the Quaker Street Diner.”

“I’ll be right there. Isn’t it great?” She arrives in five minutes and we slide into a corner booth.

The Quaker Street Diner is small, as diners go, with seating for about twenty people. This rare find, a transportation diner, dates to the nineteen thirties. They collect transportation memorabilia. Hunter green and shaped like a small dining car, when trolleys rolled to Hartford this diner fed the customers coffee and eggs. The trolley is a memory but the diner remains. Tin trolley signs adorn the walls, plus photos of women in summer dresses with hats and gloves.

“Those look like pictures of Grandma,” says my sister swiveling her head to capture the ambiance.

“When I get my apartment, I’m going to decorate my kitchen like a diner,” says my daughter.

My son, a salesman, finds new diners in his travels around the East Coast. He stopped in last week.

“Mom, there’s a great diner in Fairfield. We’ll go next Sunday.” 

“I thought you were only eating healthy this year.” 

“Its great, serves vegetarian.”

Vegetarian, now that’s interesting. The diner evolves to the next Millennium? Are diners safe for another generation? 

Sabbatical

An Essay by Robert Crooke

Paul awoke on the pullout couch in the cottage parlor. He glanced at his watch for the time, seven-fifteen, and the date, September 12, 2002. Their first week together was ending and he was looking forward to sleeping upstairs for the next seven days. Like the rental car he’d agreed to share, the upstairs bedroom with the four-poster had been put on an alternating schedule once Janet arrived, and the rest of the tiny house had been divided into “safe zones.” His desk was the antique colonial “secretary” in the tiny alcove just off the parlor. Hers was an old sewing table in the other small upstairs room, which, Paul speculated, had once been a nursery.

He walked out into the kitchen and waited for the Krupp’s Cafe Express 2000 to finish brewing. He’d set it the night before with enough ground coffee for four cups, two each, and he suddenly smiled at this semiconscious habit, one of many false accommodations his personality had made over the years in order to simply keep the peace. Oh, well, he thought, anyone deserves a cup of coffee in the morning for god’s sake.

As he waited, he stared out the kitchen window and considered his day. It was her turn for the car. And so, he’d be here alone, reading some of the research material he’d photocopied at the West Point library the day before. Alone in the quiet house, he’d be able to write a section of his manuscript to explain how George Washington had used West Point to control the valley during the Revolution. Washington had been so concerned to keep British ships from coming up out of Manhattan into New York State and New England, that he’d actually stretched iron chains across the river here. He’d also kept a few divisions of the Continental Army protected at West Point during the summer and fall. And all of this—the standing army, the defense of the river, the fate of the Revolution—he’d put in the hands of his best, certainly most courageous general, Benedict Arnold.

As the last drops of coffee dripped into the pot, Paul heard Janet moving around above him. She’d be down soon, wanting to use the one small toilet just off the kitchen, so he ducked in and quickly relieved himself. When he opened the door again she was there in the kitchen, shivering a bit, holding a cup of coffee like a hot water bottle in her hands, near her chest, impatient.

“Sorry,” he muttered, stepping out and walking back toward the kitchen.

She uttered a deflecting sound, and shook her head, as she put her cup on the table and hurried past him into the toilet, shutting the door quickly behind her.

He went to the coffeemaker and saw that she’d poured him a cup already, but hadn’t put any milk in. That would be taking civility too far, he thought to himself. Or maybe, this was merely her own way of maintaining domestic tranquility, since she never seemed to get the exact mixture just right for him anyway. So, he poured his own milk and then stepped outside onto the small front porch. From there, he could see across two empty acres, where the big house once stood. He could see the vague outline of the old foundation, with wild barley grown up around it. And beyond that open space, a line of trees ran along the edge of a steep slope, which dropped off several hundred yards, ending at the river’s eastern shoreline. There’d been a waterfall somewhere along here, he’d read, but it had dried years ago, the result of some diversion farther upstream for a golf course irrigation system, or to feed the wells of new homes.

He looked beyond the trees to the cliffs below West Point on the other side. And at the bottom of the sheer cliffs, he could make out a bit of the river. He heard his wife come out of the bathroom. Moments later, he heard the old stairs creak as she made her way back to the bedroom to get dressed. And as he stood there breathing the soft, late-summer air, waiting for her to leave, he felt the cramped sense of the week’s disappointment briefly lift off his chest.

He’d been teaching American history at a small Nebraska college for a decade, long enough to be familiar with disappointing visits to historic sites—the battlefields, churches, forts and convention halls that represented such dramatic events and ideas in the abstract of the classroom, but withered under three-dimensional scrutiny. It was odd, therefore, to have been so unprepared for the weary condition of the mid-Hudson Valley. The tiny house he’d rented here in the hamlet of Garrison, New York was perfect for researching his new book, and he’d been lucky to get it for the full run of his sabbatical, September through December. But only days after arriving here, Janet had called to say that she’d changed her mind and would be joining him after all. And so, twice in one week since coming east, he’d been blindsided by dashed expectations.

The last leg of his flight from Lincoln to JFK had taken him straight down the Hudson toward New York. Glancing out at the city as the pilot turned northeast toward the airport, he’d gotten his first real glimpse of the great empty space, heartbreaking as a mastectomy scar, where the twin towers had been. Of course he’d seen news video many times of the damage, and had followed reports of the slow, contentious process of recovery and redevelopment. But nothing he’d watched or read had conveyed anything like the sense of lost faith he felt in that brief fly-over.

And yet, even as the plane had moved out over the vast Atlantic for its wide last turn back to Kennedy, his conscious thoughts had been distracted by the expansive forests he was shocked to find still existed all the way down the Hudson Valley. This, in fact, had been the journey’s most astonishing discovery for a son of the Great Plains raised on empty spaces.

He’d rented a car at the airport and driven up from the city to Garrison, and it was soon after arriving that he’d felt his first wave of unanticipated dissatisfaction. There was something about the trees up close that hadn’t been visible from above—a grayish pallor to the bark, a dusty drabness to the leaves, presumably from years of acid rain and factory haze. He mentioned this to the caretaker during a brief tour of the property, after turning over his check and taking the keys. And the man at first seemed dumbfounded, then wary, as if Paul were trying to change the deal at the last minute.

“They look green enough to me,” the man muttered, gazing up into the shade canopy of great oak limbs, before shaking his head, clearly vexed, and walking back to his car.

But Paul’s observation had been merely that—a comment, an aside—certainly no ploy to get a break on the rent. And frankly, if he’d wanted to make an issue out of feeling let down, he wouldn’t have stopped at sick-looking trees. There were definite oxidation stains—the geological equivalent of liver spots—along the proud face of the valley’s western cliffs. Even the river looked dreary and black, like an empty highway, from the cottage porch.

He remembered reading in the New York Times about Riverwatch, a celebrity-powered environment group that had gotten legislation passed to reduce the river’s toxin levels from where they’d been 20 years earlier. But this had been only a partial victory, as much as a few movie stars and a powerful New York family could achieve, because two big corporations with upstream factories had their own celebrities—CEOs, raised to an odd star status by the national stock mania. And they were flaunting court orders to clean up the bulk of the toxic waste that decades of runoff had layered into the bottom silt.

As a result, the river was suspended in some middle space between clean and dirty, alive and dead; a condition that mirrored the very sense of stalemate Paul felt in his marriage, his profession—the entire national discourse of the moment. It seemed that everything in America was being held tightly in the grip of opposing convictions.
The caretaker had driven off at last, leaving Paul alone to consider the little 18th Century servant’s cottage, which the state parks commission maintained as a scholarly resource. Almost instantly, it had reminded him of his grandparents’ Nebraska farmhouse, and he’d taken refuge in the safety of that memory, and in the new book he’d come east to write. The cottage was actually a remnant, all that was left of an estate on which Benedict Arnold had briefly lived in a now-vanished manor house, during the summer of 1780 when he was commander at West Point directly across the river. The infamous treason had been hatched on this very property. And Paul’s book would reexamine the plot, proving that it had been instigated by Arnold’s second wife as a way to impress their co-conspirator, the British intelligence officer John Andre, who’d been her lover.

Janet, an English professor at the same college where Paul worked, had started research on a new book of her own—a study of the minor, 19th Century poet, Meg Warren. An early champion of women’s rights, Warren had leapt into the river from the cliffs near West Point in 1831, rather than bear the child of a man who’d abandoned her. She’d mentioned her pregnancy once, briefly, in a journal, but there’d never been any mention of the man’s name. And though Warren’s writings revealed a fiercely independent spirit, the complex circumstances of her death had discouraged the post-modern academy from fully embracing her. The problem was that she could be made to represent such opposing cultural assumptions that she was as useless to the modern world as she’d apparently been to her own.

But Warren’s life and reputation—frozen together in a state of perpetual mystery and promise—had always invoked great sympathy in Janet, who at least understood the sheer defiance required for self-determination. During the past year, Paul had watched her gather the strength to gamble her career on this difficult and unpopular subject. But at the very moment of her decision, she’d finally acknowledged that their marriage was over. Like a poorly conceived thesis, neither more time nor effort would ever make it seem reasonable. And yet, even in this realization to which they’d both come, there were lingering sorrows, which had seemed to stun her. Paul’s own assumption had been that the mere habit of “being married” was the obstacle to working out an acceptable divorce.

And perhaps something of this realization had finally come to her as well, for she’d been at first reluctant to rent the Garrison cottage with him. Yet here she was, bringing with her the same untenable emotions that existed back at home in Lincoln. Paul imagined that she could tell herself she’d come east to review the cache of Meg Warren’s letters and journals preserved in the nearby Vassar archives. And there was a minor financial benefit, perhaps, to sharing rent—Janet was, in the most charitable description, thrifty.

But there were plenty of reasonably priced motels and inns along the river. So the closest thing to absolute truth he could imagine Janet admitting to herself was that she’d followed him here to this scene of ancient crimes seeking absolution for her own. But what he’d seen from his window just before landing must have stunned her too, he thought. In the face of such a harsh reality, what hope did the world have now for forgiveness?

Now, Paul felt a rueful smile creep across his lips as he sipped his cooling coffee on the porch. He suddenly saw that after all this time they actually had something in common again in their unforgiving vision of the future, and their sense of man’s futility, which somehow had exposed the sheer vanity of their disappointments.