Excerpts from the 2003 Copper Blade Review...
In Memoriam--Mike Schovel
(With special blessings for Elaine and family.)
Fred F. Feagin
Love...laughter...lightness of heart...and joy are all words that describe Mike Schovel.
July 1, 2004, was a sad day in the world of his family and friends--
It was the day of his birth into the kingdom of the Heavenly Father--
And the world is a darker place without him.
In ancient times, when a specially loved person passed away,
He would be equated with a comet in the sky, or a blazing star.
He would become a source of light instead of a reflector of light.
While on earth, Mike was a source of light to all who knew him.
After learning of his death, I started scanning the heavens to see Mike
Zoom across the world; while I did not find his comet stream,
Yet I became aware of the vastness of the heavens and the worlds
That exist there. They could be the new homes of our dearly departed.
A favorite image that I learned recently seems to help my grieving heart--
God opened a door into His mansion and invited Mike to please come in.
Mike, with smiling heart and brilliant face, greeted the Father with love.
The two embraced, and Mike's life now continues in Paradise.
All of the words in the dictionary cannot help up forget the pain felt
When Mike departed this world, his lightness of heart,
His laughter shared with everyone he met, and his joy that brought
Light into dark corners of the heart went with him. But, thoughtful as always,
He left behind an abundance of love for his family and his friends,
And we rejoice in having known and been loved by Mike, always a shining light.
I Am
Lois Coker
I am from a long lost dream
From shades of love
And songs of hope
That streamed into two lonely hearts.
A chance taken in time.
I am a song that can’t be sung.
A verse of life,
A moment to excite,
That moves and dances as it weaves.
An effortless image left unseen.
I am a brief interval in time.
A patch of blue,
A sunlight gleam
That patiently strokes and tints the clouds.
A moment given to beautify this earth.
I am a gift from the Father above.
A child of laughter,
A perfume of happiness
That saturates the days with joy and
Freedom evermore.
I AM ME—A HAPPY CHILD OF GOD
The Keepsake Box
Candace Zarcone
(Dedicated to my mother, Penny Wiggins Mother’s Day 1995)
To others it’s just ordinary
high upon a shelf.
To me it is extraordinary
a glimpse of her inner self.
A cardboard box filled with the life
of a girl I never knew.
This girl so beautiful and special,
Mother, was that really you?
Papers and photos, trinkets and notes,
newspaper clippings and cards.
Swimteam mementos and diaries,
a letter to a …. Moron?
Hopes and dreams, dates and friends,
fear and insecurity.
Silly and fun, flirting and feigning,
sounds so much like me.
I’m glad my mother kept this box
here for me to see.
The girl she was makes me proud,
someone I’d like to be.
Someday my daughter will look in a box,
filled with pieces of success.
I hope she will be proud,
and challenged to be her best.
Dances with Daddy
Larry Katz
She has six more weeks of spinning in your
fear-filled dreams and belly pink.
A snip of the wire and she'll wiggle at your
chin with tears and whispered promises.
Hunger is sudden, lights too bright but her room has butterflies.
Cold can shiver little limbs but Grandma made a duvet...
And she's already this Daddy's princess.
Oh, breezes will nip at those drapes of lace
crayons crack and Valentines crumble in the
three-o'clock rain
Freckled quarterbacks will fumble and miss the chance
to dance with this Daddy's princess.
But she'll have angels in her pockets,
butterflies on her walls
and this knight to fight her dragons and
hold her trembling in these arms
and there will be tea parties with teddies
there will be dances with Daddy beneath
butterflies on her walls.
Hush-Puppies
Helen Cook Lamb
I have looked in Funk & Wagnall’s Standard Dictionary, Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary, Random House’s American College Dictionary, the New English Dictionary, by Oxford, the legal dictionaries, and such dictionaries on religion, medicine, psychology and physics to which I have had access, and I have never yet found the word or phrase "hush-puppies". I presume that when the dictionaries were compiled and Messrs. Funk & Wagnall, Mr. Webster, Random House, the Oxford Press, the lawyers, the ministers, the doctors and the other professors of knowledge, undertook to define "hush-puppies" they found such objects to be of such nature as to be beyond definition.
Fish without hush-puppies is like turnip greens without hoecake.
The true origin of the word "hush-puppy" is not definitely known, but it is presumed to have originated among the fox hunters during the pioneer days of Florida. At night the hunters would all gather around the bonfire, tired from a day’s hunt, waiting for supper to be cooked. The dogs were always hungry and restless. The cook would stir up a bowl of corn meal, season it with salt and shortening, form it into patties and fry them quickly for the dogs. When cooled, the cook would hand them out to the dogs with the rather nervous admonition "Hush, puppy!"
In searching for description adjectives, one would begin to define hush-puppies by saying they are vegetable. However, for a full and complete explanation to one who has no knowledge whatever as to what hush-puppies are, it is necessary to venture into the mineral world, the animal world, physical setting, and atmospheric conditions.
I have seen in print a recipe for hush-puppies, but at the end of the recipe that one so versed in culinary art had only begun.
My definition and explanation of hush-puppies, with ingredients and process of preparation, would be something like this:
Sift a gallon (do doubt about that amount for they are usually made on picnics and everybody likes them so well that you should allow for at least six per person) of water-ground (that phrase is superfluous, for to a true southerner there is no other kind) meal. Into the meal, chop finely at least six medium-size onions (and if you don’t like onions you don’t like picnics to begin with). Season with salt to taste. Those are the basic ingredients. If water is added to the mixture in a sufficient amount to make a thick paste, that paste can be dropped with a spoon into hot fat, fried a rich brown, and served while hot. At that point, such a dish can possibly be called "hush-puppies". Those are city hush-puppies—dining room hush-puppies.
From that point, there are variations. Some authorities and experts in the making of hush-puppies will add to that mixture a half dozen eggs (if they raise their own chickens; if they have to purchase eggs on the open market and they are scarce or high in price, three will suffice). To that, some cooks add baking powder, or buttermilk and soda, dependent upon whether the cook like fluffy hush-puppies or prefers more compact or "tight" hush-puppies. Some add shortening which in some instances is pure hog lard and in others a vegetable oil.
The true process for cooking is to dip a heaping tablespoon full of this mixture, slip it into the palm of the hand, pat it into a pone about three inches in length, two inches in width, and one inch thick, the ends oval, with fingerprints imprinted lengthwise.
These little patties are dropped into deep boiling fat alongside the fish which are being fried. The flavor of frying fish is very necessary to the correct flavor of the hush-puppy. The fat should have been used one or more times before for frying fish and hush-puppies.
The vessel in which the hush-puppies are fried should be one of the three-legged pots, or a deep iron spider, but that pot or spider must be of long service to be properly "seasoned". Preferably, such a frying vessel should be one which has been handed down from the Civil War days, one which the slaves used for frying fish and hush-puppies.
Under that vessel should be a charcoal pot in which has been built a fire with "light’ood knots" and charcoal, for the hush-puppies should be flavored with smoke from the fat turpentine in the splinters, and garnished with a few cinders from the crackling charcoal.
When the hush-puppies have cooked to a golden crisp brown, they are lifted from the boiling fat with a fork which is made for the purpose. This fork has a handle about thirty-six inches in length. They are then placed in a pan or boiler which can be covered for keeping warm until such time as the table is spread and the picnickers are gathered around the table. They have probably already gathered, for the aroma from the frying fish and hush-puppies reaches far and attract the hungry like honey ants.
One of the most important ingredients of the hush-puppies, one not essential but which adds greatly to the flavor, is the masculine touch. For some unknown reason, men can prepare better hush-puppies and fry fish better than women, and usually wherever a picnic crowd gathers, a familiar sight is a masculine cook sitting on a stool beside the smoking fire turning the fish and hush-puppies as they brown on one side, and removing them when they have cooked the proper length of time and to the proper golden shade.
Since I have known Don, he has been head chef at the fish-fry. He can cook fish at just the right degree of golden brown, and he knows just when to remove the hush-puppies from the smoking grease.
The setting in which the hush-puppies are served is a cleared place on the banks of a river, a stream, a lake or pond, or on the shore of the gulf or ocean. This setting, if proper, must be off the beaten path where no sound can be heard except those sounds made by the insects, the animals, imaginary or real, and the lapping of the waves or ripples against the shore.
If the nights are dark there must be a bonfire piled high with fat wood from the nearby forest or swamp, the light from the fire sufficiently illuminating the picnic circle, with a reflection casting weird shadows upon the surrounds and creating imaginary witch-like figures in the background. If the moon is shining, and picnics are usually planned for full-moon nights, the bonfire is not such an important factor, for a Florida moon shining through clear southern skies needs no help from artificial lighting.
Hush-puppies taste good on a crisp, cool night when the picnickers hover around the open fire; they taste good in the spring time when the air is filled with songs of the birds and fragrance from budding nature; they taste good in the summer time when the salt breezes blow from the sea to whet the appetite; and they taste good in the fall when the leaves are falling and the approach of the winter months is evident everywhere.
Hush-puppies do not mix very well with formality in dress or manners. They blend well with bare arms and bare shoulders when the weather is hot, but with those bare arms and bare shoulders, they like bare legs and bare toes too.
They are strangers to social protocol, for the seat of honor may be the largest tree with roots which most comfortably fit the curvature of the body and that seat of honor belongs to the one who finds it and get to it first without breaking a bare toe over another tree root.
Those are real hush-puppies.
Expectations
Steven Page
I think Dickens may have said it best, "It was the best of times; it was the worst of times." Confused? Good. That just lets me know that I’m not too crazy. After living with an expecting woman for three years running, you really begin to wonder.
Now I realize that I may have a small section of my audience here a tad confused, but bare with me. I assure you that my wife and I are indeed card carrying members of the human race. Of course, I wished some of those cards she carried didn’t have that annoying habit of collecting these things called balances, but that’s a story for another day.
Back to my sanity (or the questionable possession thereof)… The more astute of you may realize that since my wife and I do claim to possess homo sapien DNA, a three-year pregnancy is a bit of a stretch, even if I did grow up in Texas and tell maybe a tad more than my fair share of tall tales. The simple explanation here is that we’re talking about three separate pregnancies—one right after another right after another. Sorry, no alien babies bursting through to a grisly birth or anything like that. Of course, with the multiple pregnancies the typical question that I hear is, "Was there a drug or alcohol problem going on at the time?" There were no drugs or alcohol going on though, at least not in the traditional sense. We were simply two newlyweds that couldn’t get enough of each other. I know…I know…again with the drug or alcohol question, but I can only answer that if there was a drug involved it would have been that we were addicted to each other.
Addictions, however, come bearing costs and how many times have we heard that abstinence is the only 100% effective means of avoiding pregnancy? A bit of advice here and now, listen to those nerdy stat-boys on that one; they really do know what they’re talking about here, though exactly how they know, I'm not touching.
Oh yes, there is that other question I get a lot when people find out about the multiple pregnancies—what birth control measures were you taking? And, don’t worry, I’m getting to that. You see, one of the hurdles I’d been forced to face during our engagement had been the fact that women in my then prospective bride’s family had major problems carrying a child to term and it was very possible that she and I would grow old together and never have any children. Now that may sound really sad to some, but to a virile young man like I was back then, that was just incentive to practice the mechanics of reproduction more (as if young men really need a reason, but it was sound logic to me back then). This is not to say that we totally disregarded birth control measures, for while we were aware of her difficulty of carrying a child to term, she could still get pregnant though her chances were supposedly significantly reduced to the point that it was probably more likely that I would be hit by lightning. At the time I took that language as doctorspeak for "ain’t gonna happen."
Ever been hit by lightning? I mean because then you get an idea of my shock when my wife tells me that beautifully dreaded phrase, "I’m pregnant."
Up until that moment, I never truly believed in time travel. Upon hearing of the impending birth of my offspring, however, my consciousness leapt eighteen years into the future as I watched my daughter bound up the stairs to her dorm room—her new home for the next four years as well as the recipient of the family college fund. I leapt back to the present then ahead to six years to her first bicycle ride without training wheels, then back to her first "Dada!" Ahead again to her first school play, then on to her college graduation before going back to her first tentative steps, then on to her first skinned knee. Ahead once again to her first day in school, on to her first little crush on some boy, further on ahead to her college graduation, her marriage, and on to her own child’s birth. I felt the heavy weight of my mixture of fatherly pride and concern for what was without a shadow of a doubt my most wonderful creation.
And then my wife yanked me back into the present with her all too obvious disappointment in my reaction, which looked to her more like a non-reaction. Apparently, while my little quantum leaps presented me with incredibly vivid memories, the three second lag of any facial expression struck my wife as incredible male insensitivity.
"You’re not happy. You don’t want …"
I placed a finger to her lips to try to stop the onslaught of pregnancy-induced ranting. I would have been more successful trying to plug the Hoover Dam with said finger. She blasted me with a torrential verbal assault that left no doubt in my mind why we refer to nature as a "female." And even as she raged and she ranted, still I bounced between memories of a future and the reality of that present moment. Just as she had taken on some of Mother Nature’s aspects, so too had I found the Father Time within me and verily, her storm passed and she sank into my arms. There's a line from a movie that says, "Life will find a way." Our first addition to the family was joining us in spite of birth control pills and army BCGs, a military acronym for Birth Control Glasses- glasses so gosh awful ugly that your prospected mate would either a) be blind herself b) high or drunk (again with the drug or alcohol question) or c) madly in love with you. I would rather like to think it was C. Love makes for good ground to build a family on. Not to mention that C is usually the correct guess on multiple choice questions anyway.
Some ten months later, she once again delivered the news of another joyous addition to our young family. This time, however, I was a year older, and with a newborn baby and a delivery room experience under my belt, ten years the wiser (at least in my own humble opinion).
I could almost see the anxiety resting there on her shoulders when she walked in the door from the doctor’s office from her eight week check-up. We had followed the doctor’s orders of no "reproduction mechanics" for six weeks and that check up had gone fine. It now looked as though the eight week check-up hadn’t gone anywhere nearly as well as the six week one had. She was close to tears as she made what should have been a happy announcement, "I’m pregnant." Deftly I recalled my fresh memory of my reaction to the news of the first pregnancy. I flashed my biggest smile, flung my arms wide open and belted out my heartiest, "Congratulations sweetheart! I’m so happy!"
The thunder of her slapping my face cracked the peaceful air of the house and let me know without a doubt that it was not nice to fool with Mother Nature. For those of you who have been hit by lightning, imagine my surprise at being hit a second time. That pregnancy was the most difficult one of the three for me. I had this annoying habit of existing it seems. Everything I set my hands to was wrong. It was my fault she was pregnant again. I privately thought about suing the condom company that I had placed my faith in. I breathed wrong—too loudly at times—and of course other times she worried that I wasn’t getting enough oxygen. I never quite got the logic of this train of thought, however, and frankly I don’t expect you to either. I ate wrong. I’m pretty much carnivorous. I love beef, any kind of beef and well, she couldn’t stand the smell of cooked meat. I took to grabbing my dinner before I came home. Of course that led to me smelling wrong. I actually considered just getting myself a hotel room until the pregnancy was over, but there was that adorable little girl of mine that I rocked in one arm and played strategy computer games with the other hand. This too served to make the wife mad at me. How dare I have the gall to sit there with the baby and have some kind of fun while she was miserable with her pregnancy? How could even I attain such heights of insensitivity? Our son was born in due course and the boy looks so much like me that he might have sprung directly from my skull. Of course there is that told wife’s tale of unborn children looking like the person the mother disliked the most during her pregnancy. All I can say to that is, thank God for the science of genetics and the knowledge that a child’s looks are all scientifically determined through genes and such. Nobody believes any of those old wife’s tales anyway, right?
I’ve heard it said that God smiles down on and protects the innocent and the foolish. I’m quite sure that I missed that first category and went straight to the foolish all in one fell swoop, because for the news of the third addition to the family I would have to say that God actually did smile on me. Of course it was probably one of those smiles that come after a really good hearty laugh, but nonetheless, it was a break, and one that I sorely needed.
My wife and I had met, dated, and married all while serving in the military so our kids are for all intents and purposes "army brats." Those first couple of years had been fortunate for us in that we had not been separated, but when you work for Uncle Sam, geographical separation becomes a fact of life sooner or later. January of ’96 saw me off to an army school halfway across the continent and right in the middle of nowhere—Ft. Leonard Wood, MO, land of very seasonal weather. Unfortunately, I happened to be visiting during my least favorite season—winter. I should probably remind you that I’m a southerner and winters in the south are relatively mild when compared to mid-western winters. Ok, ok, when compared to Midwestern winters, winter doesn’t exist in the Deep South, but once again I digress.
I arrived at Ft. Leonard Wood in the middle of January and a trip to the phones outside our barracks meant dealing with the elements. The phone booths were small glass enclosures with a small metal bench surrounded by glass on three sides. The booth had no door and privacy was something your fellow soldiers gave you by their space away from the booth while you talked to your loved one. Of course, during those cold January days, you got plenty of space as soldiers generally didn’t want to stand in the cold and the snow waiting for a phone when they never truly knew just how long that wait was going to be. Generally, though, phone calls tended to be either pretty short or very uncomfortable in the frigid weather.
I dialed the number to my house with all the speed my gloved fingers could muster. My wife’s voice came through the receiver with a weariness that was all too familiar, and I had a brief mental image of Lucy confessing the crazy results of some hair-brained scheme of hers gone awry to her husband Ricky.
"Honey, I’ve got something to tell you," her voice strained to hold back the torrent of tears that pushed against her emotional damn with all the relentlessness of Mother Nature. I knew instantly that my short phone call had morphed into one of those uncomfortable ones I mentioned earlier. I sat down in the little booth preparing myself for the worst when the cold realization of a deep intuition hit me. Either that or that little metal seat in the phone booth was really cold.
"Let me guess," I said my tone calm and steady. "You’re pregnant." Given the words, my voice was surprisingly absent of sarcasm, and even more surprisingly full of compassion. I have problems recalling very much of the conversation after that. I was once again doing the quantum leaping thing, but I suppose things went well enough. I must have said, "Yes dear." and "It's going to be alright." in all the right places. Like I said earlier, Providence must have smiled on me that day. That and the fact that we were adding yet again to our family, this time in spite of the highly spoke-of shot which was supposed to be 98% effective. I know she had to be beyond shock. Me? Well, I had learned something from being hit by lightning twice before. I was wearing rubber soled boots for the third lightning strike.
There are times when I look back and can't help but chuckle a little at how calm I remained through those revelations from my wife. Of course hindsight is 20/20 and it’s easy to see that such a feat shouldn’t be surprising in the least. That’s what you do when you love someone—you comfort them when you can. You ease their pain as best you can. You share your life with them always. Yes, Dickens had a point, but for me, personally it was the worst of times; it was the best of times.
Brother, Dear
Michael Schovel
The dayglow orange ski cap bobbing up and down in the high, front door window played with the late afternoon sun on the front hall runner. It told Doris all she needed to know, but she decided to let him in anyway. She started to pretend surprise while undoing the deadbolts and opening the door, but then swore under her breath at breaking a nail.
When she finally swung open the door, she greeted him with, "Hurry in, before you let all the heat out, it’s freezing outside…and wipe your feet." Her designer slacks and angora sweater made her look catalog fresh, but they were no match for the icy tendrils reaching around the door for her.
"Hi, Sis. Good storm, huh? Just thought I’d bring you some things from the store so you wouldn’t have to drive in all the snow. Julie says, ‘hi’." He wrinkled his nose at her potpourri of the week. She didn’t let on that his after-shave had long since been overpowered by the combined aromas of dairy, meat, and produce.
With polished ritual, she set about securing the door while the furnace wheezed back to hoisting the thermostat needle to eighty. "Why couldn’t I have been born and raised in Arizona?"
"Arizona? Who’d want twelve months of summer? That’s for lazy people. Besides, there’s nothing like a good, hard winter to make you appreciate a little summer."
"Little is right!" After a peek at what was in the bags, Doris said, "Honestly, Dennis, I don’t know why you think you have to personally fatten me up. Everything you bring has the fat content of a can of Crisco. The labels ought to read, ‘Serving size: Just enough to pack one artery.’"
"Dor, life means nothing if you can’t share it, especially with family."
With the door closed and all the deadbolts re-latched, she turned to watch him clump to the kitchen with the two bags of groceries. As he turned sideways to get past the potted fern, he called back to her, "You could use a few pounds." His down parka, ski pants, and open galoshes made it hard to tell, but she was sure he had put on more weight.
Annoyed that his boots were shedding snow down the waxed oak hall, she called after him, "Why do you always have to barge in right after a snow storm and track every bit of it into my house?"
"’Cause I just like to share with you best."
"Well, don’t put those bags on the table. I just polished it." From the antique hall buffet, she retrieved a handful of paper towels kept for just such visitors and began mopping up each one of his steps.
Before he could clear the kitchen door, Doris burst out, "And don’t even think about leaving one of your presents, Dennis Deavers. I’m sick and tired of your little game. I don’t want to play anymore, understand?"
Ignoring her, he asked over his shoulder, "May I please have permission to put the bags on the counter?"
Her exasperation beginning to show, Doris said evenly, "Fine! On the counter. Just make sure you don’t take anything out of the bags. If it will make your day, the fake cockroach caused me to mop up a pot of spaghetti sauce. I do not enjoy your juvenile humor."
"Hey, you got a cuppa coffee for your little brother?" His ski cap was a wild mismatch for the shock of red hair trying to escape out the front. The hair, oversized matching eyebrows, and Santa Claus cheeks were a unit that completed a colossal color clash with a red parka and lime-green ski pants. It all scarcely hid a portly but agile frame. His walk was still all-state linebacker, but his game face now had extra padding.
"You know I only drink decaf."
As he filled the teapot with twice-filtered water from the fridge, he replied, "Yeah, I know, cream of hoity-toity or something. What happened to the can of Maxwell I brought you last fall?"
The teakettle was on the stove with the heat on beneath it when she joined him in the white-tile, brass, and crystal kitchen, and disposed of the towels into the trash. She offered, "Oh, that. It’s still in the back of the pantry, I think. Go ahead; make some if you must. Raymond keeps me nicely supplied with my coffee, thank you."
"Raymond. Still carrying your torch, huh?" He set the electric opener to its task of separating the coffee can from its lid.
Over its noise, Doris replied, "Say, what you will, but he treats me very well."
"Not well enough to move back in, though?"
She waited for calmness before saying, "He’s got his life, and I’ve got mine."
Tossing the severed lid into the trash, he said, "Does his wife know that there’s still an occasional overlap between you two?"
"Don’t be vulgar."
"Well, it’s true, isn’t it? You need your coffee, and he needs…"
"Dennis…!"
"Sis, let the poor sap go, will ya?"
"He’s not poor, and he’s not a sap. Incidentally, our relationship is none of your business. And I’ll thank you not to wait for him on my front porch with a ball bat like you did for Andy back in high school."
Brightening at the memory, Dennis said, "Andy! I almost forgot. Hey, he broke my big sister’s heart! I couldn’t let him get away with that."
"We only had a little fight, but thanks to your protection, I didn’t get to go to the dance at all. I really did want him to take me in his dreamy convertible."
With a teaspoon from the dish rack, Dennis measured coffee grounds into his sister’s French coffee press. "Okay, I was wrong on both accounts. Raymond’s a decent guy. But, let the rich fool go, will ya? What hold do you have over him anyway?"
"I suppose he fell in love with an image when I was still modeling full time. He just doesn’t want to let it go, that’s all."
"And you don’t want to pry any of his fingers loose." While he watched his sister’s face for a reaction, a teaspoon of coffee grounds clinked against the carafe and spilled half its contents onto the tile counter top.
"DENNIS...!"
As he adjusted the gas flame under the teakettle, he turned to his sister. His hands on the counter edge behind him, one on each side, jacked his elbows out and up giving him the appearance of twice his bulk. "Dor, face it. At thirty-five, you’re about finished in the fashion industry. You’re just drifting along in a sealed capsule, and the only view you have of the world outside that teak front door is through your forty inch TV screen. If you don’t like what you see through the porthole, you just change the channel or turn the view off. You’ve got a string of ex-lovers and a longer string of wanna-be’s. All you do is vacuum and dust the house and your overpriced possessions. The thought of one drop of water leaking into your pristine, synthetic world sends you into a tizzy. To you a tragedy is a spot on the carpet. What are you going to do with your life?"
Rolling her eyes to the Tiffany over the kitchen table, she intoned, "Brother, dear, not only do you bring me loads of fat for my physical health, but you can’t wait to torture me by bringing up this old gingerbread and curlicue prison--two stories of last century’s architectural leftovers on back street blizzardville. You know very well I’d sell this house and move somewhere warm if I could." The teapot concurred with a warm, wistful whistle.
Undaunted, Dennis pressed on. "How many times have we been over this? You’re the one who promised Dad you wouldn’t sell the house."
"I only did it to give some peace of mind to a dying old man."
"Yeah, his peace of mind in exchange for most of the inheritance! You both found your comfort level with him on his deathbed."
"That old man did nothing but cause me a lot of grief."
"Only because he wouldn’t always let you have your way…"
"Oh, I’d sell this Victorian barn in a minute, and don’t you think I wouldn’t! In fact, I’ve had some very good offers."
"What!!? Hey, you’re not serious, are you? You can’t just sell this house! I might have to do something to keep that from happening. A promise is a promise. He was our father."
"Keep your shirt on, oaf. Why don’t you move in so I can leave?"
"Well, if I could afford to keep up with the maintenance and taxes I would, but,…"
"Yeah, I know, Julie’s wheelchair can’t get up and down the stairs. How unfortunate."
As he poured steaming water into the coffee press, some splashed onto the counter top, mingling with the spilled grounds. Doris’ blood pressure climbed another notch. The fire in her eyes was contradicted by the calm in her voice. "As for me being finished in fashion, if you have all the answers, how come you’re still putting in sixty-hour weeks counting the green bananas coming in the back door and bemoaning the black ones that don’t make it out through the checkout lines?"
"I happen to like continuing what Dad started. The store is the last bit of shopping in the downtown area that people can walk to instead of having to drive just to put up with parking hassles and crowds of strangers at some ‘super’ market."
"Oh, I forgot, you have a thing for bag ladies and drunks."
"Sister dear, I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, but the rest of the world is not kept by a collection of love struck admirers. The rest of us actually have to do something to earn our daily banana. And, despite the so-called booming economy, there are still people who don’t have college degrees handed to them, fashion portfolios, and legs up to their ears, and who can’t find work. Some of those folks are older than you or I have any right to expect to reach. They can’t drive, but they still value their independence."
"So, the food pantry, the Boy Scouts, the parish thrift shop, and the store are all striking blows for independence of the grubby, grimy masses, are they?"
"Oh, for the love of Pete, it’s about people. You may not agree that they’re good people, but they’re still people. God love ‘em. The store does all right. Julie and I are comfortable, and Tom and Andrea don’t lack for what they truly need. Besides, when my lotto numbers come up, we’ll be on Easy Street."
Her mood now matching the dark steeping liquid, she said, "The lotto. Are you still throwing your money down that rat hole? Dennis, you are crazy, and when you’re around, you make me crazy."
"Come on, Doris, lighten up. It’s for a good cause, and I can certainly spare the five bucks a week. Besides, how would it look if a lotto vendor didn’t play?"
"Good cause? What good cause? So called education? Can you show me where or how education has changed for the better since the lotto bill passed? Well, can you?" After a second’s pause, she added, "A few politicians got a bill past the legislature so that they and their friends could skim from the largess of a couple of million uninformed fools, but there’s been no real, measurable change in the education of our children, certainly not for the better. I wouldn’t take a nickel of that money. NOT ONE NICKEL!! Do you hear me?"
Dennis plucked a hand-thrown cup from an oak mug rack and playfully tossed it from one huge hand to the other. "Hah! You mean you’d turn down any part of a forty million-dollar jackpot? You wouldn’t have to worry about whether or not dear Raymond will ever get tired of keeping up appearances at the country club. What will you do when the stress of keeping your little secret from his wife blocks the flow of blood to his heart? After his funeral, then what?"
The sight of the coffee dripped acid into Doris’ deepening agitation. When her little brother fumbled the cup and recovered it in his two spread hands just two feet off the tile, she shot, "Did you come over here to fight, or just to smudge up my hallway, dirty up my coffee pot, and drop an expensive coffee mug?"
Unruffled, Dennis let the sound of pouring coffee fill up the space, then answered, "Actually, neither. Julie and I just had our wills redone, and I brought you a copy of mine." The look on her face prompted him to add, "Don’t worry, we’re not going to saddle you with the kids." Her relief was quite visible.
"It’s not that I don’t like them or anything, it’s just that…"
"Yeah, I know, they don’t fit your lifestyle. One of them might track a piece of dust onto the "Snowball Dazzle" in the living room."
As she reached for the neatly folded and stapled sheets of legalese that he had pulled from somewhere inside his parka, she informed him, "The color is ‘Tibetan Snowdrift’ and it is very expensive carpet."
"Whatever. It’s too bad no Tibetan will ever set foot on such a sacred object." He plopped the will into her opened hand as he sipped at the rim of his cup, which was all but engulfed by his huge left hand. Despite all his blowing across the top, the hot coffee scorched the tip of Dennis’ tongue. His wince was practiced, but genuine.
As he retracted his hand from delivering the will, he glanced at his watch. "Oh, man, look at the time," he blurted. "I’ve gotta be at the Scout meeting in thirty minutes. Sorry, Sis, gotta run." A few more urgent cooling puffs allowed a moderately long pull of the elixir. A driblet escaped the company of its cup-mates and made a run for it down his chin. Before he could confine it to a parka sleeve, it merged with a mustard stain halfway down his parka. Setting the mug down hard on the counter top, he headed for the front door. "Enjoy the rest of the coffee!" he teased as he sidestepped the fern and tackled the gauntlet of door locks. "I’ll tell Julie you said, ‘hi.’" With his linebacker’s touch, eighty-five pounds of brass-hinged teak jarred his sister’s nerves.
Doris tossed the rest of Dennis’ coffee at the sink drain and swore out loud when some splashed onto the countertop. After toweling it up, she put his still warm cup into the dishwasher. She’d pour out the rest of the pot later. Next, she rolled her eyes and headed to the closet to get a mop. Dennis’ still-wet boots had left small puddles in the kitchen and glaring moisture marks the length of the hall floor.
Before mopping, she visually searched the hallway. With pursed lips, squinted eyes, and arms akimbo, she relived Dennis’ visit, or rather, raid. She wondered how long it would take her to find it this time. Why couldn’t he just come and go like normal people? Why did he always have to leave a little surprise just to torture her? The rabbit "pellets" in the hall fern last fall showed how low he would stoop to keep her on edge. Little brothers! Snips and snails, whoopee cushions and fake barf pads. After putting away the mop, she searched the hall and kitchen, the fern, the closet, the pantry, behind and even under the coat rack, and under the throw rugs. Maddeningly, nothing. Oh, well, whatever impractical joke Dennis had left would turn up later. Until then, it would simply eat at her, which it did for six months, one week and four days.
She undid all the deadbolts and opened the door as they crossed the wooden porch and before they could ring the bell. She was glad they had called ahead. Some of the summer mugginess crept in with them, but the air conditioning dispatched it leaving them all in its sixty eight degree guarded relief. Following the direction of her head nod, they filed into the living room. When Doris sat daintily on the edge of the pure white settee, the three took their cue to be seated. Hand-tailored black suits and Gucci ties, set off by glowing white shirts and collars, the three magpies perched on the plush expanse of a white couch.
The three lawyers found themselves staring across the glass and chrome coffee table at an immaculately quaffed and perfectly made up woman whom they had all seen before, but could not place at the moment. Their professional masks did not betray the fact that each would have loved to have gotten to know her while taking great pains to closely guard the acquaintanceship. Wives could be so insensitive about things, particularly such things as the way another woman’s strand of pearls, paralleling the edge of a scoop-necked, black velvet dress can hold a married man’s attention. Simple, elegant understatement, draped on a model’s figure, has been known to lead to more than just errant thoughts.
With the mantle clock’s whispered ticking, Doris’ gaze fastened on the spot where one coffee table leg disappeared into the Tibetan Snowdrift carpet. Aside from an occasional eye blink, and her pearls keeping time with her breathing, the only part of her that moved was her perfume. Deliciously, subtly, her Obsession filled the room.
When she made no attempt to speak and put them at ease, the man in the middle took it upon himself to break the silence. "Ms. Merryman, please accept our condolences. The tragedy of your brother’s passing must be a terrible burden. We thought it best to talk as soon as possible after the funeral. If this is not a good time, perhaps we could return another day."
A slight head shake was Doris’ response. She was uninterested in the passing scenery outside her capsule.
"May we continue?"
A quiet, "Yes," was all.
"Your brother was apparently a very thoughtful man. If his sunrise memorial was any indication, he knew that small details make a big difference. Since it is now getting late in the day, we will try to be as brief as possible."
"Thank you," she nodded at the coffee table leg.
"As I told you on the phone, we represent your late brother. Having just come from witnessing the consumption of Mr. Deavers’ remains, we are here to settle your part of his estate. Forgive me for my apparent impertinence, but I am required to ask, ‘Are you Doris Deavers Merryman, sister to the late Dennis Deavers of Half Penny Circle?’"
"Yes." Tomorrow she would move the coffee table two inches closer to the sofa so that the carpet could spring back up from the pressure of spending this week under the four legs.
"And, Ms. Merryman, are you aware of what was bequeathed to you in your brother’s will?"
She gazed up now. "Won’t it be some time before the will is read?"
"If none of the involved parties wish to contest the will, there won’t be need for a formal reading. Are you familiar with the contents of your brother’s will?
"Well, no. I…I never actually read it."
"You do have a copy, do you not, signed, witnessed, and dated in January of this year?"
"I do. But, it’s in my safety deposit box, and I can’t get it until Monday."
Unlatching the large briefcase he had laid on the glass and steel coffee table, the spokesman continued. "It’s of little consequence. The instrument your brother executed in January is truly his last will and testament. Are we correct in saying that he personally delivered a copy to you?"
"He did, but he didn’t say anything remarkable about it."
"Indeed. Perhaps he considered it best at the time not to inform you."
"Inform me of what?" Something of mild interest flashed by the capsule window.
"Ms. Merryman, how would you characterize your brother’s lifestyle?"
"Dennis? Oh, I would say that he lived modestly; never beyond his means. Was he in some sort of trouble? Did he do something illegal?"
The three on the couch exchanged glances, then the spokesman continued. "What would you say were his means?"
"This doesn’t sound good at all. I can’t imagine Dennis doing anything to get himself into the slightest bit of trouble. Please explain where all of this is going."
"We don’t mean to alarm you. It’s just that we find it hard to believe that your brother didn’t mention anything at all to you about his will. He just dropped off a copy and went about his business, did he?"
"Well, he was in a slight hurry, but that was usual for him. He had to go to some meeting or other. He always had a lot of obligations, but he seemed to do all right with the grocery business. I mean he provided for himself and his family, and they were never in real want of anything. They’ve always had a nice place to live, decent food and clothing, a dependable car, an occasional vacation; that sort of thing. Nothing extravagant."
"Ms. Merryman, would it interest you to know that your brother’s estate was valued at over twenty five million dollars?"
A large expanse of white now showed around each of Doris’ irises. All she could manage was a subdued, "Excuse me?"
"Ma’am, the week before he died, your brother won the state lottery. The prize money totaled sixty five million dollars. Didn’t he tell you?"
"He did no such thing! I mean…Dennis…my brother…a millionaire? He never breathed a word… Why that’s quite preposterous!" Her voice trailed off to nothing.
"No, ma’am, he settled for a lump sum payment of just under twenty six million after taxes, and he left a portion to you!"
Stunned silence. It was all too much of a twist for Doris. But for being unfocused, her eyes never left the spokesman. After a while, he asked, "Wouldn’t you like to know how much?"
Still nothing.
"Ms. Merryman, are you all right? Can I get you something?"
With a slight start, Doris declared, "This isn’t real! It’s one of Dennis’ practical jokes, is it not?"
"No, ma’am, I’m glad to say it is not a joke. Thanks to your late brother, you are a millionairess!"
Weakly, she asked, "Not a joke?"
Again, the three glanced at each other. The mouthpiece answered, "No, not a joke. You have just inherited seven million dollars!"
"Seven…? Seven million dollars?" She looked away now—at the mantle, the drapes, the light pattern through the stained glass over the front door in the hall. Suddenly, her head snapped around to face them. Almost hysterically, she exclaimed, "That’s why I never found it!
"I beg your pardon?"
She continued, very animated now, her excitement building. "It was the will all along! How stupid of me. Of course…of course. Why, that little sneak."
"Mrs. Merryman, what…?"
"His will, that’s what! His will! Oh!…but how could you know? This is all so incredible! I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to say. Could there be some mistake? This is all like a dream, and I don’t know whether or not to be afraid to wake up."
"Again, let us assure you, it is all quite real. In fact, your brother has actually given you enough to pay the taxes, so that the seven million dollars will be yours free and clear."
It was beginning to sink in now. What had been a clear, wide, slow river of thought was suddenly confined to a narrow channel, and her mind began to race. She could drop out of sight, out of the snow belt, out of the country if she wanted. A name change…how to go about that? Ideas presented themselves at a dizzying pace, boulders in the maelstrom. At last she could and would be free of this old prison. Why not just give it away? Let the historical society keep it up for posterity. Everything was spinning now around a dark, muddy whirlpool out of which questions kept popping, too quickly to be answered. She could forget about Raymond; poor love sick Raymond. Oh, the possibilities!
"There are two conditions, however."
Her head snapped upward out of the vortex. "I’m sorry, what did you say?"
"I said, there are two conditions to your inheriting the money."
"What sorts of conditions?"
"For a woman of your financial means, they are really quite small and practically inconsequential."
"How small and inconsequential?"
"Well, the first is that you use one hundred thousand dollars of the money to take out full-page advertisements in the five largest newspapers in the state."
The spinning stopped abruptly, which was just as dizzying. The whirlpool still had a tenuous, annoying grip. "Ads? Ads for what?"
"The purpose of the advertisements is to extol the positive accomplishments of the lottery in behalf of public education. The details of placing the ads are spelled out in these pages," he said, handing Doris a thick nine by twelve envelope. "The actual page layouts are included as well. All that is required of you is to have a new photo taken and placed in the ads."
"Me…in ads for the lotto!?"
"Why, yes. I should think you would be more than anxious to do that, unless you are concerned about the publicity. Is there something wrong."
The blow had reduced her to staring at the envelope in her clenched hands, her knuckles now white. As if to shake loose an unpleasant image, Doris tossed her head and asked, "Second?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"The second condition. What is it?"
"Oh, yes, that. Your brother loved this house, and all its memories, did he not?"
"Why yes, he was quite sentimental about it; even more so than our father actually."
"Apparently, he appreciated the fact that you have always kept the house in such good order, sort of like a shrine, so to speak."
With thinning patience, Doris answered, "He never said thank you directly. It was a family matter. Could you please get on with it?"
Undeterred, the lawyer continued. "He wanted you to keep everything exactly as it has been for some time, not to move or to change a single thing; is that correct?"
"Yes, yes, that’s right. I had to fight him tooth and nail just to be able to brighten up this room and the kitchen."
"Ms. Merryman, the second condition of your inheritance has to do with your brother’s final resting place."
"But, I believe Julie, his wife, is to determine where his ashes will go."
"Had you read your brother’s will, you would know that he wished to have a part of him always be here with you in this house. Would you be opposed to that?"
"A part of him? You mean some of his ashes?"
"Yes, that’s right, some of his ashes."
"I don’t know. It…I suppose it would be all right." She said, "I could put him, I mean his ashes, on the mantle," and used a slight gesture to hide the fact that she had almost said "basement." After a slight pause, she agreed, "If it means receiving the inheritance, then all right."
"Good. Now, if you would be so kind as to signify your agreement on this form, we will shortly be on our way." She affixed another copy of the same signature that graced the labels of a modest line of lingerie and a few bank bill boards.
With the forms filed away, the three stood. The spokesman withdrew from his briefcase a small, attractive stainless steel cylinder that resembled a miniature thermos bottle. "Ms. Merryman, your brother’s wishes are quite explicit. You have agreed that, in order for you to accept and to keep the money which your late brother, Dennis Deavers, has bequeathed to you, he is to remain in this house, exactly where we place him, never to be moved or removed for as long as you shall live."
Turning to his associates, he said, "Gentlemen, I believe Ms. Merryman has agreed to the conditions of the will. If you would, please?" With that, the other two picked up the coffee table and moved it to one side. Doris, alarmed, stood up, one hand to her mouth.
The leader quickly unscrewed the cylinder’s top and poured both tablespoons of Doris’ share of Dennis in a small, rounded, very noticeable gray pile on the Tibetan Snowdrift carpet in the exact center of the spot where Doris had kept the spotless see-through coffee table for the last seven years.
KETCHUP CONFESSIONS
C.J. Bryant
"Hey, pal, you gonna hog that ketchup all day?"
The question belonged to a round roly-poly of a man in a sweat stained but very expensive business suit and it broke Albert out of a fitful daze.
"No, take it already," he replied, handing over the bottle of Heinz like it had suddenly turned into an electric eel and was about to eat his hand.
Of course Albert did not want the stupid ketchup and could not for the life of him imagine why he had picked it up and held it so long in the first place. For that matter, could not fathom why he had stopped to eat at such a greasy roadside diner at 3:33 AM on a Saturday.
He needed some sleep and fast. He was desperate for it, needed it more than food and certainly more than he needed processed tomato paste.
Why was I holding the ketchup? He wondered to himself as he shoved his head in the crook of his folded arms. I hate ketchup!
"Hey, buddy, you want the ketchup back?" It was the well-dressed roly-poly again. "You feeling okay? You look like your cat just died or something…"
"Fine," Albert managed in a low growl, never looking up. "I’m just peachy."
"Okay, no need to get snippy fella, I was just asking. You just got the same expression on your face my Uncle Sal used to get when he passed a kidney stone…maybe you should order something to eat it might make you feel better."
"Somehow I doubt it," Albert replied sarcastically. "Methinks the roaches in this city would not eat the food that they serve here…"
The man must have thought it was a joke and laughed. Tiny specks of the grits and scrambled eggs he had been eating flew from his mouth and soiled Albert’s own conservative suit and tie.
Albert wanted to gag. Who puts ketchup on grits and eggs?
"I’ve been eating breakfast here for nearly ten years and it hasn’t done me any harm."
"Obviously."
"Stella is a great cook even if she is a hundred-years-old and half blind. You should try her bacon-cheese omelet it’s her specialty!"
"No thanks, I’ll pass."
Mr. Roly chuckled, "pass out is more like it. You sick or something? There is a bug going around, I hear, and this humidity is just so ripe for something like that hit you."
"No I am not sick!" Albert was getting angry now. Aside from the infamous octogenarian cook, Stella, he and the fat man were the diner’s only occupants.
He looked him right in his plump face and cried, "And what is it with people and this never-ending myth about a ‘bug’ going around? God forbid that someone should get sick or even look sick and some ignorant yokel is fated to sit next to him and declare it to be the product of some mysterious ‘bug’ that is making rounds and taking prisoners.
"Well, excuse me for living…I…"
"What is your problem, anyway? Do I look like your long-lost best chum? Or am I just some random victim you picked to steal ketchup from and then drive insane with your bottomless prattle?"
"I did not steal your ketchup!" Specks of grits and eggs flying again as the man got up to leave. "It is not your ketchup to begin with! Son, you need therapy!"
It was Albert’s turn to laugh, "That may be the most intelligent observation your mouth has so far managed to utter."
Without another word, the man paid his check and exited the diner in a huff. Stella shot Albert a disapproving glare and then went about her business de-greasing a deep fryer that looked to be twice as worn and ancient than its owner.
Sleep. He wanted to go home and sleep the sleep of a thousand hours and forget that the last day had ever come to life. The sweet slumber of the sandman called to him like a siren in a dangerous fog, but he knew he could not, would not, find its welcome embrace before he dealt with the demons that possessed his mind.
Why was I holding that stupid bottle of ketchup?
Albert had spent the whole of the previous Friday in the futile search for a job, any job, as long as it paid enough to help keep the bill collectors at bay and his wife satisfied that he was trying to do something "decent" with his life. Of course, since losing the latest candidate in his quest to "find the worst employment possible in the world," Albert was all out of ideas and energy.
Let that nag support us for awhile, he thought quietly. She makes more baking cookies than I could earn killing myself for minimum wage at some deadbeat job. Why did I marry her anyway? Sure wasn’t for love…
"You ordering or not?" Stella’s shrill, thin voice called to Albert from behind a flimsy white chef’s uniform. The phrase "Miss S" was written with a red marker on the top right corner of a rainbow-stained apron.
Startled by her sudden appearance Albert squealed, jumped to his feet, and immediately attempted to collect himself. He knew it would have seemed comical to any onlooker having allowed an old biddy like that scare him so severely.
She added, "What you come in here for if you ain’t going to eat?"
"I…I…" he found himself oddly at a loss for words, and such a thing never happened to him. "I need to go to the bathroom…"
"Well, hell, I ain’t stopping you, boy!" She pointed a bony finger towards a short row of table-booths and said, "The can is back around the corner there and its clean, I just cleaned it good no more than an hour ago."
"Th-thanks," Albert mumbled, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his palm as he headed to the restroom. Once inside, he shut the door, flipped on the light, and locked himself in.
Amazingly, while it only had a single sink, mirror and one tiny toilet it was immaculately clean and very tidy. Albert had to take a moment and wish his own bathroom at home was kept so pristine.
He turned on a cold spray of water and attempted to wash the nervous weariness from his face. As he looked in the shiny square mirror over the sink he saw the beaten features of a middle-aged man past his prime staring back at him. Now, for the first time in his adult life since he could remember, he wanted to cry. Not simply let tears flow down his cheeks in a cleansing shower, but just open the floodgates and bawl his freaking head off.
"I am a man now," he chided his reflection gently. "My Father’s only son and his stout pride and joy…I can’t cry…I am man now…"
Nevertheless, the tears did fall from his dark brown eyes and he let them. Lost in the throes of the sheer and sudden sorrow, Albert was at a loss to discern the source of the never ending torrent.
The ketchup…I’m forgetting something important about the ketchup…
A man should never allow himself to cry, his Father’s booming voice echoed in his mind, sending thoughts of the popular red condiment far from his consciousness. It was an old motto and way of thinking that the retired Army Colonel had engrained into his being throughout his first eighteen years of life. A real man does not cry because it represents a lack of character and dignity unbecoming to any son of mine.
Albert sobbed meekly, "I can’t help it, Sir, I don’t know why…I…"
Button it up, boy! You are not a man if you cannot control your emotions!
"I’m completely worthless…I can’t keep a job…I’m miserable all the time…and I just want to crawl in a black hole and quit breathing…"
Son, there is nothing wrong with you a good, stiff drink and a kick in the rear wouldn’t cure! You have always been found lacking in focus and initiative!
"But the ketchup, Daddy…"
The voice answered, forget the insignificant crap! It means absolutely nothing!
His grief slowly beginning to subside, Albert fell to his needs beside the sink and gripped the edge of the toilet to keep his balance. He said, "You don’t know what I have been through…you never did…never listened to a word I had to say if it did not involve good grades, football or discipline…"
I did my best by you even after your Mother died! She spoiled you those first ten years that was the problem, catered to your every whimper and trivial wish!
"You are not allowed to talk about my Mother," Albert replied angrily to the porcelain titled floor, a floor so clean he could literally eat off it. "If anyone deserved to die violently in a car accident it was you, old man! She was the one supposed to live to a ripe old age and die a peaceful death of natural causes…"
Control those emotions right this minute, boy!
"No! Leave me alone! You are not real…you’re just a voice in my head and I control you!"
I am always going to be here! You cannot rid yourself of me so easily!
"Go away!"
And just like that, the voice of his past disappeared and Albert managed to gather himself enough to leave the bathroom. Inside the diner a few scattered customers now held Stella’s attention and Albert slipped out the front without pause.
Sleep, he silently considered inwardly, all I need is a few good hours of sleep.
He thought about sleep and nothing else but sleep the entire thirty-minute drive home. Once home, he collapsed on the couch and hoped quietly he had not caused enough noise to wake his dear wife from her early morning slumber. She would just have too many questions that he did not have the answer to and then the nagging would really commence.
Ketchup…ketchup…ketchup, was the last notion that entered his mind before he closed his eyes to surrender to the sandman’s call. Then, as if poked with a cattle prod juiced-up with a room full of batteries, he jerked fully awake and got up to head back into town.
"She told me to get a bottle of ketchup this morning before I left," he sighed putting on his coat and walked towards the garage. "She’s going to kill me…"
Sliding the keys into the ignition of his 1994 Camry he thought, I hate ketchup! A real man would never forget to buy ketchup!
Once again, his Father’s voice spoke up.
A real man would let his wife boss him around either! Tell her to buy her own stinking ketchup!
"I seem to recall you doing anything Mom told you to do without question."
That…that was different…your Mother was a saint, one in a trillion…
"Sure, old man, that’s what they all say."
Then the voice that had so long permeated his thoughts, so infected his decision making abilities, and had scarred him for life grew silent. With a renewed sense of energy and vigor Albert managed a half-hearted smile as he drove.
"I definitely hate ketchup, but I love it when I win an argument with myself!
COPPER BLADE REVIEW, ISSN 1096-4118, is published by the Creative Writing Club of Troy State University Dothan, P.O. Box 8368, Dothan, Alabama 36304, (334)983-6556. © 2004 by COPPER BLADE REVIEW. All rights reserved. Except for use in a review, the reproduction of any part of this publication is forbidden without the permission of the publisher. The persons mentioned in the short stories and poems are products of the authors; any resemblance in them to actual persons is coincidental unless otherwise stated.
