Sardines (poem)

Lying close
Playing sardines
We are quiet
In the night air.

The air is
Not so cold
It bites you
But you wear
A jacket,
And gloves,
And a hat.

I see people
Running, or walking funny
I know they've found the man
I walk with them.

I fall down
My hands break
My fall
And I squeeze in
With everybody else.

When somebody comes
and falls down
I hear a
Muffled thump.

I hear
The breathing of
Lots of people,
Especially the person
Next to me.

I smell
The stink
Of the person's
Breath next to me.

I try to turn
Over, to look at
The stars, but give up
Afraid of making too much noise.

I wait until
The person with
The flashlight comes by to
Say it's time to get up.

Ruby Fore
Fall 2004

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On Account of Snow (short story)

It was one of those beautiful Spring days. The sun was out and had been for most of the week. The grass was dry, that is, not dripping, and the flowers everywhere were lush and vibrant. Most of the neighborhood had long ago ripped up the sod between the sidewalk and the street and put in gardens of every imaginable kind. There isn’t much that doesn’t grow in Seattle and the neighborhoods just north of the Ship Canal were known for their eclectic taste. A stroll along a single block would take one past mini orchards of apples and pears, through dense tufts of pampas grass, beside wild blackberry brambles and along stepping stone paths amid tulips and hyacinths.

Billy didn’t pay much attention to flowers, but he liked the tall row of palms just south and east of Ross Park. They reminded him of tropical islands, he said, though he’d never visited one. And who couldn’t help but love the mammoth big leaf maple directly behind home plate.
For anyone standing in center field it created the perfect backdrop behind the entire infield. This was Billy’s third year of playing baseball. His dad, Richard, was a coach for the Orcas and was determined that Billy would learn to love the sport. It had been a trial at times as Billy didn’t take to it naturally. He seemed to be as interested in the clouds and the sky as he was in the infield. The first year this seemed age appropriate behavior. None of the little kids were able to stay concentrated for the duration of a game. But by now, some of Billy’s cohort were exhibiting a genuine interest in the game. Throws to first base actually got there more often than not and good old Cyrus regularly hit the ball into the outfield.

Billy could throw the ball pretty well thanks to regular practice but he occasionally got creative. His upside-down-between-the-legs shot was as accurate as anybodies, but had once cost his team a run. And his backwards-over-the-shoulder rarely arrived on target. He was a kid who had no difficulty thinking outside the box. His challenge was recognizing that there was a box in the first place. Nevertheless, Richard stuck with baseball with the belief that it would help him learn to focus, to follow rules and to be a team player. So far there had been some positive progress on the last two but Billy had never yet achieved what had become Richard’s holy grail– for Billy to get a hit.

Ever since Billy was old enough to play catch, Richard had walked him down to the park when he got home from work. He and Billy joined the other dads, kids and dogs exiled from their homes while the moms prepared dinner. These were the dads that had learned the wisdom of acquiescence in the face of maternal edicts such as “Going to work is a vacation.” or the ultimate trump, “I gave birth to him.” Being around other men with their kids had a very salubrious effect as it put all of the problems of dealing with bosses and wives and children in context while the kids and dogs ran each other. It was an enjoyable ritual and Richard used the occasion for male bonding with his son as much as with the other dads.

Like any father, Richard’s hopes for his son outpaced the boy but he was not a task master. He was naturally patient and wanted their park time to be something Billy would some day remember wistfully: evenings in the park with dad, swinging, running playing catch. As Billy started school, however, Richard realized that ball might be more important than that. Billy was having trouble staying focused, his teacher said early on. It was nothing to worry about, she insisted, just something to keep an eye on. But as that first year progressed, it became clear that Billy was indeed having a very hard time focusing on the lessons. When the same issues came up with each of the next two teachers, Billy’s mom simply rejected the idea that it was appropriate for an eight year old boy to sit down all day and focus on fine motor skills. After the previous seven years she felt that ten might be a more appropriate age for boys to begin school. But while she and Richard dismissed any suggestion of professional help, they agreed to search for creative ways to help Billy learn to focus. That’s when baseball became more than just a game.

In the beginning, baseball had looked very promising. Playing catch could hold Billy’s attention for an hour or more and he enjoyed whacking the ball off the T. But the move from T-ball to pitching had totally flummoxed Billy. The pitch seemed to arrive at random and his swings never connected. True, he would occasionally foul. But he never got to base without a walk. Richard was now the only dad left who cheered when his son chipped the ball over into the dugouts. It wasn’t for lack of practice. Richard and Billy would start a practice session batting off the T and would segue into soft pitches. Richard got quite good at pitching to the exact spot where the ball sat on the T. Billy did best when he closed his eyes but Richard kept telling him, “Keep your eye on the ball.” Not wanting to disappoint, Billy would open his eyes but he always looked at his dad’s face, expecting to learn from him where the ball would arrive. His strategy didn’t change when he played a game. He knew that the pitcher, or some other player, knew what was coming. He would study their faces, looking for some inscrutable raised eyebrow that would let him in on the secret that the other kids already knew.

That strategy had not paid off yet in this game. Twice at bat, twice struck out. It was more painful for Richard than it was for Billy. Billy wasn’t particularly concerned with winning or with the praise of his teammates. He wasn’t a pariah, as he did occasionally catch a pop fly, and his antics often got a laugh out of his buddies if not their parents. But the laughs were getting less frequent. Other days he might compensate with even more outrageous throws but today, his dad’s birthday, he was trying to “stay focused”.

From his spot in center field he had watched every pitch and every swing this inning. With one batter out and two strikes for the current one it couldn’t last much longer. But this focus was painful for Billy. His very flesh became anxious when he slowed himself down and tried to pay attention to just one thing at a time. It was antithetical to the random access nature of his personality. Who was the next batter in the lineup? What was happening in the playground behind him? Who was that mom talking to on her cell phone? Luckily, the batter struck out and Billy could relax again, taking in the entire world at once.

He stood there in center field chewing on the leather strings of his glove. He savored the salty taste as he looked up at the towering elm trees. A slight breeze loosed a little flurry of papery seeds that sparkled in the light. They floated down and dusted the green grass around him. Billy saw that the trees still held enormous quantities of seeds that had dried to perfection in the last few days. He raised his face skyward and blew as hard as he could. Another breeze ruffled the treetops sending an even thicker flurry down upon the game. Days like this made up for all the games played in the cold, gray drizzle.

As the next batter stepped up to the plate Billy focused more intently on making the wind blow. He cupped his hands to concentrate his breath, aiming it at tree after tree. He sawed with open fingers while he blew hoping to make ‘choppy’ wind that would more effectively knock the seeds loose. He squatted down and blew while jumping into the air to increase the speed. And all his efforts seemed to pay off. A stiffening breeze was sending little paper disks all over the playground in the upper park and filling the air above the ball field in the lower park. What had started out as a flurry was quickly developing into a snowstorm. The blue sky was now nearly hidden by the glittering mass. Billy looked over to right field. The golden chain trees were in full bloom but were quickly disappearing in the snow. Around him it was already ankle deep. The parents in the bleachers were barely visible as the storm turned into a violent blizzard. “Surely, they would have to call the game on account of snow,” thought Billy. He stood there, enjoying the scene until he heard his dad’s voice, “Come in Billy. Billy, come in. Your up at bat.”

Billy hustled over to the dugout where Richard met him with a helmet and a wooden bat. No aluminum ‘tchink’ for this team. The Orcas lived and died by the solid ‘crack’ of wood. “What were you doing out there?” demanded Richard, exasperated. “I was watching the snow Dad,” Billy replied. Richard looked out into the field which was indeed carpeted with the lovely white seeds. “Yes, it is beautiful,” he agreed, “but you really have to pay more attention to the game. You didn’t even know the inning was over.”

Billy looked down. “I’m sorry Dad.”

“That’s all right, just try to stay focused. It’s your turn at bat right now.”

“OK, Dad.”

“And remember. Keep your eye on the ball”.

Billy walked up to the plate, disappointed that he was going to disappoint his dad. He took his stance and looked out at the field. The snow was still falling, though not quite as heavily. Some on the opposing team were watching him while others were kicking at the elm litter. The pitcher looked like he was going to throw the ball low and outside. That’s probably what he meant by pounding his glove like that. It would be better to wait this one out. Billy watched as the ball flew past. “Strike one,” called the umpire. He looked over at his dad. “That’s OK, Billy,” Richard called out, “just keep your eye on the ball.” Billy looked to the first baseman. There he was looking back at Billy. He didn’t seem to know anything. The kid in left field was talking to his friend in the bleachers. The pitcher wound up again and Billy decided to swing this time. As the ball approached Billy closed his eyes and swung, following though like Richard had taught him. The ‘thock’ he heard told him he had connected but it was immediately followed by the voice of the umpire, “Foul ball. Strike two.” He heard his dad in the dugout shouting, “Way to go Billy! That’s it. Just keep your eye on the ball.”

Well, the positive side was that he’d be able to sit down after one more pitch. Elm seeds fell off the pitcher’s cap as he jerked his head to first and then third base. Some of them fell into his glove. The pitcher worked the ball in his glove and Billy imagined him packing a snowball. The longer the pitcher took, the more certain Billy was that something fishy was going on. Wouldn’t that make him look foolish. Throw him a pitch he could hit and have it turn out to be a snowball. Well, he wasn’t going to fall for it. If the pitcher threw a snowball Billy just wouldn’t swing at it. No umpire could call a strike if the pitcher didn’t throw the right kind of ball. The pitcher wound up and Billy looked at his face to learn what was coming. It didn’t help. He grew tense as the pitch left the mound. Which one was it, a baseball or a snowball? It was white and round. But he couldn’t see the seams that would identify it as a baseball. Time wasn’t going to slow down enough for Billy to be sure. In a flash, Billy remembered a lesson on outer space from last fall. Comets were balls of ice and dust. As they hurtled through space the sun’s rays created a tail pointing away from the sun. Billy watched intensely. He didn’t see any sign of a tail on this ball. He gritted his teeth, swung and … CRACK!

Billy was stunned by the noise. For a moment, so was everyone else. Then they started screaming: “Run! Run, Billy run!” Billy ran. As he neared first base he heard his dads voice, “Keep going, get to second!”. Billy was getting ready to slide into second as he’d seen other kids do when he realized that people were still yelling, “Run, Billy run.” There was some confusion in center field but Billy barely noticed. His heart was pounding and as he approached third base his ears were filled with voices shouting, “Keep going!” “All the way, Billy!” “Don’t stop!”. His looked at home plate where the catcher was waving and shouting at his teammates. Billy’s legs were getting tired but he pushed them to keep going. As he neared home the catcher had disappeared, running out into the field. Billy slid anyway and came to a stop directly on top of home plate. He lay there for a few moments, breathing as hard as he ever had. Through all the other voices he hear his dad shouting, “I knew you could do it!”

Billy pushed himself up. His teammates were pounding on the benches and stomping their feet. His dad had let loose his hearty, infectious laugh. The other parents in the bleachers showered Billy with congratulations. Some congratulated Richard. Billy took a deep breath and felt a weight lifted from his shoulders. His dad was waiting for him at the edge of the fence with a huge grin. As he walked off the field, Billy looked out past second base. The entire opposing team was out there, milling about, searching for the ball in the waist deep snow.

Jonathan Callahan
Winter, 2002

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Baby in a Minute (poem)

Tugging and pulling they walk down
the path through the park
past the bridge near the pond
to the bench.

The diaper bag goes plop,
the mama goes plop
on the bench and the boy
gets busy.

The boy grabs gravel and bangs on the rocks.
He throws sticks, he jumps, he hops.
He’s happy outside.
She’s happy outside.

Mama watches a duck and sun on the pond.
The pond lies flat with weeds and a log—
an ordinary pond.
A duck goes poking and nosing about—
an ordinary duck.

The duck turns in the light snapping at weeds
it turns and feeds, turns and feeds, gliding
in and out of the sunlight.

The boy bangs and skids and crashes;
Mama sighs
and watches a dragonfly race hotly by.

What that duck doing, Mama?

His eyes lock on mine and I’m surprised.
He saw the duck all along
as it poked and it moved through the brush round
the log as it turned and it fed and it spun
on the pond.

Then everything stops,
and everything moves.
And the world spins
into the moment
and into our hands.
With the duck in the center and our minds
poised like stars,
this moment stretches out to the future as a memory that shines
on our past and burnishes the days
of worry and care.

And so the tug and the pull
dissolve into sunlight on a duck
on a pond
on an ordinary day.

Leska Fore
Summer ‘98

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Om (short story)

Everything was silent. The combination of snow and Sunday had shut the city down so completely that you could briefly imagine it away. The Olympics were awesome in their new ermine with veils of cloud still clinging to their shoulders. The immediate surroundings, timeless and soothing, inspired nothing so much as sitting, resting, being. Rounded boulders, invitingly warm in the summer, were perfectly soft and smooth -- natural snow lanterns rising above the tufted snow on the ground. Gnarled Japanese maples, ablaze with color two months back, created a spidery black-and-white lattice against the snowy backdrop of Queen Anne. A red osier dogwood, backed by the darker woods, mimicked the pattern in pink.

The north wind had ceased blowing that morning, just as the snow had stopped. It was one of those rare, quiet afternoons of fresh snow before the rain inevitably came back to wash it away. Michael hoped the cold would stay for a few more days so that his sister and her family could experience the park as he was seeing it right now. He always brought them to The Peak whenever they visited. It was his safe place -- the place he returned to whenever he needed a respite from urban living.

He and Grace had been here so many times in every season that it was now their chief calendar. In January, you could have the park entirely to yourself. On the rainiest days of the year the low rock outcropping in the Southwest corner streamed and dribbled water in a series of tiny cascades. By February the first snowbells and crocuses began to bloom. March sunsets told you the precise date with the equinox setting exactly into the Brothers. Migratory birds started to arrive in April and May. Grace knew that spring had finally arrived when she heard the song of the white crowned sparrows. Resident chickadees began to nest in the houses scattered around the park and Michael loved the tiny laughing voices of their chicks. He imagined the parents telling them a joke every time they returned.

In June Michael and Grace would watch sunsets from the end of the nurse log near the bleeding heart. From there the solstice would set the ornamental maple in the northwest corner of the park on fire before drifting slowly beyond the horizon. July and August were for foraging blueberries and then blackberries for humans while the masses of hummingbirds came for the aster, hyssop, columbine and penstemon that grew in the tiny meadow and the beebalm and honeysuckle that edged the cliff. September was Michael's favorite. While the sun retraced its steps, skipping from peak to peak with every passing day, fall colors started to appear. There was no better place for watching the returning clouds envelop the Olympics or scud across the Sound and city.

In October the serviceberry, firebush and various maples reached their climax. Every day the spirit of some zen master would arrange gold and red leaves just so on the boulders. Other days, a low fog would creep up to the very edge of the cliff, floating the park over a world of mystery. Grace imagined fairies inhabiting the park and would weave the dried grasses into little hearts and stars for them. November storms would clear out all the colorful leaves, opening up the view and here it was December again.

Michael got up from the bench where they sat gazing out over snow covered Ballard. He turned around when he heard a cry followed by a crash and then laughter. It was Billy and Paul, his neighbors, though he didn't know exactly where they lived. Michael and Grace had quite a few neighbors that they saw only at the park. People had busy lives and unless they were involved in the same activities it was usually at the park where they met each other. Billy had been walking along the nurse log and Paul had helped him out with a barrage of snowballs. The two boys took turns hurling snow and dodging behind the maturing firs and cedars. Michael called out to get their attention.

"Innocent bystanders here! Hold your fire in the demilitarized zone."

"Oh. Hi Michael," said Paul. "We were just coming to check out the ice."

"Ice?" asked Grace, who had gotten up. "What ice?"

"It's right over there," said Billy. "You've got to try it out."

Billy lead them over to the rock outcropping. It was low and broad with a shallow pool in the center. Billy and Paul stepped up and brushed the snow off the now frozen pool. What had in the summer served as a birdbath and a foot puddle and a dog bowl was now covered with a thin sheet of ice. The boys pulled back their hoods and took off their mittens. They made cracks at the edges of the ice and then lifted thin, paper sized sheets of ice over their heads.

"This is our winter ritual," they said simultaneously and then laughed out loud.

"Ready, set ... Om, mani padme hum," they chanted together and then broke the sheets of ice over their foreheads. They beamed as they looked up, dripping, at Grace and Michael. "You should try it!" they encouraged. Grace, having grown up with brothers, was not one to turn down this kind of dare. Michael looked on, amusedly, pondering the effect school yoga was having on today's youth. Grace pulled another hunk of ice out of the pool and asked, "Do I need to say the words?" "Oh yes," the boys answered. "It's required." Solemnly, she chanted, "Om mani padme hum" -- crash!

She faced the boys, all three of them, her eyes closed, with a small shard of ice hanging off the end of her nose. "Well," asked Michael, "how was it?" A long pause and then ... "Awesome! No. I mean, really. It's this quiet moment followed by a burst of sensation. It just, well, brings you to your senses." Paul and Billy cheered while Michael dipped a finger into the pool. "Well, there's no accounting for taste," he said and quickly put his glove back on.

Grace wiped the ice off her red nose and looked at Paul and Billy. "So what else do you boys know about that I've been missing?" she asked. They proceeded to ask if she knew about the banana slug hotel in a hole under the big stump or the wolf spiders between the two boulders near the sidewalk. No, she hadn't noticed those. Did she know that the two best spots to do rubbings were the brass bird plaques near the entrance and the bug ones on the underside of the picnic table? She'd never discovered the bugs. Did she know that an eagle once landed in the big cedar tree carrying a dead crow and then dropped it on their picnic blanket? Gross! Or that, except in winter, you could usually find every color of an eight pack of crayons in the park? "Really? I'll have to try that some time." And did she know that there were elves in the park that made little ornaments out of braided grass? "Oh really?"

It was wonderful for Michael and Grace to see the park through 10 year old eyes. They had indeed been missing a lot. The little forest had seemed merely a buffer between the street and the view but they now realized that it was a park within a park. They always imagined The Peak as a mountain with its rock outcroppings and view. But it was also a miniature forest in their dense neighborhood, with mini wildlife and mini adventures for those willing to slow down and look close at hand. Grace wondered how many of her neighbors had yet other perspectives on the park. Who else came here and what did they do? There were times she wished she could experience people from the perspective of the park instead of the other way around.

Once again, The Peak was working its magic on her. She went to the park almost daily for the expansive view but she had long ago realized that the park was teaching her how to see. She often felt that she and Michael didn't choose to go to the park so much as the park brought them to itself. The Peak was tiny by most standards but at times it seemed the entire world. It gave the neighborhood such a sense of place that she couldn't imagine its not having been there. And although no one lived in the park, it was the neighborhood living room. The safe place, as Michael called it, where you never knew what would happen other than it would be good.

Michael interrupted her reverie with a reminder that they had only two days left before his sister's family arrived. The house needed cleaning and decorating and they had promised his nephew they would decorate gingerbread houses. The bread would never harden properly unless they made it today. Michael and Grace said goodbye as the boys headed toward the street. Michael reminded them that Santa still had time for last minute adjustments to his schedule so they had better be good in the next few days. "OK, we'll try," was the laughing response. They boys were already at the sidewalk when they waved and shouted a final "Merry Christmas!" back at them.

Grace turned to Michael. "You know what?"

"What?"

"If you close your eyes I'll give you a surprise."

Michael closed his eyes in anticipation. Grace made him wait and then said, "Repeat after me ... 'You love me.'"

"You love me."

"I love you."

"I love you."

"Om, mani padme hum."

"Om, mani padme hey! Wait a ..." CRASH!

Icy drips replaced the warm kiss Michael was expecting as he sputtered something about false advertising and Grace's name. But his demeanor gradually changed from a scowl to a smile and he finally agreed. "You know, it really does bring you to your senses." Having attained enlightenment, he received his reward and, after a last look at the view, they walked home with their arms around each other, leaving three legged footprints in the snow.

Jonathan Callahan
Winter, 2002

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In the beginning ...

It's time to join the blog bandwagon. In doing so I hope to test whether a blog can be used to create a long lasting web presence rather than an ephemeral one. I'd like for this to be a place where I can post my own writing and that of others. In my 'best of all possible worlds', this site will become a nexus for those who wish to publish creative writing and photography about Seattle Parks.

Of all the community building infrastructure a city can spend money on, libraries and parks are the most cost effective elements that promote the mental and physical health of citizens. By encouraging myself and others to play in the parks and then to write about those experiences I am following very ancient advice:

Orandum est ut sit mens sana in corpore sano.
(You should pray to have a sound mind in a sound body.)

-- Juvenal

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