Renee’ Drummond-Brown, is an accomplished poetess with experience in creative writing. She is a graduate of Geneva College of Western Pennsylvania. Renee’ is still in pursuit of excellence towards her mark for higher education. She is working on her sixth book and has numerous works published globally which can be seen in cubm.org/news, KWEE Magazine, Leaves of Ink, Raven Cage Poetry and Prose Ezine, Realistic Poetry International, Scarlet Leaf Publishing House, SickLit Magazine, The Metro Gazette Publishing Company, Inc., Tuck, and Whispers Magazine just to name a few. Civil Rights Activist, Ms. Rutha Mae Harris, Original Freedom Singer of the Civil Rights Movement, was responsible for having Drummond-Brown’s very first poem published in the Metro Gazette Publishing Company, Inc., in Albany, GA. Renee’ also has poetry published in several anthologies and honorable mentions to her credit in various writing outlets. Renee’ won and/or placed in several poetry contests globally and her books are eligible for nomination for a Black Book award in Southampton County Virginia. She was Poet of the Month 2017, Winner in the Our Poetry Archives and prestigious Potpourri Poets/Artists Writing Community in the past year. She has even graced the cover of KWEE Magazine in the month of May, 2016. Her love for creative writing is undoubtedly displayed through her very unique style and her work solidifies her as a force to be reckoned with in the literary world of poetry. Renee’ is inspired by non-other than Dr. Maya Angelou, because of her, Renee’ posits “Still I write, I write, and I’ll write!”
 

   A Philosophy of Yard by Jack Kolkmeyer takes an intimate look at poetic reflections of the past, present and future day in a philosophical manner. This book leaves the reader with an understanding of how we view ourselves and how one should grasp the universe by accepting all of the mysteries and magic that ultimately grounds us. Kolkmeyer’s book opens with a poem titled “Often as a child” (1) but ironically, the poem was written about the death of Kolkmeyer’s grandfather which took place in Cincinnati. While this poem invites the reader into the authors personal space it also stresses of the importance of a life-cycle from a child’s perspective. On the other hand the author’s theme poem “A Philosophy of Yard” (2) written in Delray Beach weaves magic of wonder as it relates to nature’s stones, plants, seeds, weeds and animals, thus allowing everything to grow and reorganize itself in due season. In this review of A Philosophy of Yard, I will weigh in on the contents and expound on the strengths and weaknesses of Kolkmeyers’ book.  Therefore, buckle yourselves because A Philosophy of Yard will travel you from the “here” to the “there,” and brings the reader full circle back into one’s very own yard, while instructing you along the way.
   The author strategically draws from poets; such as T. E. Hulme, Wallace Stevens and    D. H. Lawrence using their unique metaphor style for place and implements it into the veins of his book. While the Beat Poets educated Kolkmeyer about meter and flow he skillfully mimics their style as well and weaves that throughout the book also. This author is no stranger to writing from the depths of his soul, while using inspirations from some of the great poets before his time. Kolkmeyer surrounds himself with knowledge of the African American culture as well, which gives the poetry within this book that rhythm and blues flare; adding literary renaissance to the messages that he conveys within his body of work.
   Kolkmeyer’s poem “Coimbra Universidad” takes place in Coimbra, Portugal and figuratively points to D. H. Lawrence’s legendary writing style as Kolkmeyer opened the poem with “the sounding of a bitch bell” (106;1). The opening line is powerful, commands immediate attention and yet is definitely a controversial statement that can be viewed as offensive. Overall, the book has roots running deep in familial, providing clear imagery structured in a simplistic way. Yet, this erudite author manages skillfully to make one cogitate about the complexities of life along that path as it also relates to the human race. For example, in the poem “Everybody is Colored (a song)” (100) written in Santa Fe, the author masterfully tackles the race issue head on by addressing “everybody is colored/everybody’s got a mother/and a bag of white bones” (100;1-4).
   Talk about iron sharpening iron; this author, shrewd and skillful understands the powerful effect of carefully placed line breaks in his poetry and uses them masterfully in creating genuine stanzas which ultimately stir emotions within the reader as seen in his poem “do doo wop” (95). This poem captures the Harlem Renaissance revolutionary explosion at its best and vibes with Langston Hughes’ poem “The Weary Blues” which evokes a tone of melancholy. While Kolkmeyer’s poem “doo doo wop” (95) has that very same disposition in these lines “Street corner colors fly/faintly yellow umber/surely some blues…shining from the muted lights/prying into the night life/a street corner prophet on his knee” (95;11-17) he manages to create originality and uniqueness in his poem thus causing it to stand up against Hughes’ masterpiece.
   Kolkmeyer’s poem “Autumn” (4) and “The pod people” (6) both taking place in Delray Beach, can be compared to Robert Frosts’ poetic style, which often depicts relationships between nature imagery and humans. In the poem “Autumn” Kolkmeyer brilliantly captures the beauty of nature shared with humans as he wrote “we just wait with resignation knowing that winter is near…as we prepare a warmer spot/amidst the moves and rearrangements” (4;14-17). Whereas, in the poem “The pod people” he skillfully uses metaphors to capture that same effect within these lines “but we are in deed /the seed people/planting ourselves along furrows of time/seen differently from star to star” (6;6-9). Kolkmeyer deliberately takes the reader on another journey within these poems by shifting the reader’s mind into various periods as it relates to time which ultimately lends the authors instructions on embracing life.
   Kolkmeyer’s poems “A New Seed (a song),” “Coltrane,” “Winter Solstice Winter Light,” and “To Wallace Stevens” reminds one of Frank O’Hara’s writings, while adding dimension of self-reflection and conscious control to otherwise permissive unpredictability. At times Kolkmeyer’s poetry reads like O’Hara’s and could be viewed as bluster of rants and even provocative. For example in the poem “Coltrane” Kolkmeyer skillfully rants “nocturnal admissions…lost arcs and frozen phrases/wholly wars of redemption/tangled transgressions…play deeply” (121;7-11) and then he follows it with a question of uncertainty “how deep is the ocean”(121;12). Nonetheless, it’s important to note that O’ Hara’s works are celebrated amongst the greatest, which further adds credibility to Kolkmeyer’s brilliant masterpiece. However, all the greats are subjected to criticism and Kolkmeyer is certainly no exception to the rule.
   The author certainly captures home which takes place in Pittsburgh as he metaphorically points the reader back there within this poem “The Pittsburgh Boys” (66)  in the following lines “lost in the hills and the valleys/jumpin’ the fences/riden’ trollies… crossin’ bridges… livin’/in a together place” (66;19-25). He further adds “we were Pittsburgh boys…still we are… we’ll keep going on/because of where we’re from” (67;7-13). “Kolkmeyer’s book is a labor of love that adds dimensions and challenges to one’s understanding as it relates to how we value ourselves and those closest to us. Kolkmeyer’s book can be compared to August Wilson’s incredible play Fences, because, like Wilson, the author describes how separated and yet connected families are throughout life as seen in this particular poem.
   Furthermore, Kolkmeyer is unafraid to dig, sow and plant his poetic seeds into the grounds of richly fertilized soil, causing his literary prose and ethos to have great impact, which will influence how modern day writers approach their craft. This author’s voice is vibrant colorful, and distinctly powerful, which challenges the reader to also dig deep and wrestle analytically with the issues of life found in one’s own yard. I look forward not only this project, but, the transformation of Kolkmeyer, his growth and the poetic soul destined to become one of the 21st century greats.
   
 

             Heat closed around me, dense and moist.  Electricity sparked through the air as clouds raced across the sky to smother the afternoon sun.  Sharp winds bent tree branches above me as the air around me the air shuddered.  When it hit, the storm was going to be intense.
            I ignored all of this as I stared down where the marble inscription should have been.  In my mind’s eye, I could read the inscription— but instead of etched marble, dry grass crinkled under the toe of my shoe.  I knelt and ran my hand over the grass, watching the blades bend and break beneath my fingers.  I felt the heat of the earth beneath me as a shock of lightening glowed in the darkening sky.
                                                            *
            There was lightning the last time I took my brother to rehab.  For the first couple times, the facilities had been resort-like.  In-house patients spent six weeks in 1000 thread count luxury, daily maid service, and the best therapists and doctors in the country.  The last time was a state run facility as required by the judge in lieu of prison time.  
            My car bounced over the cracked asphalt as I turned into a parking space in front of the facility and parked.
            “We’re here.”
            It was a stupid thing for me to point out, but I didn’t know what else to say.
            “Why can’t I go back to the one in Wickenburg?”
            Those were the only words he had said since getting in the car.
            My eyes traced the peeling bark on the tree in front of us.  “The judge sentenced you here.  He’s afraid that you’re a flight risk.  Last time you—”
            My voiced died away at the anger burning in his eyes when he finally looked at me.
            “This is your fault.  You did this.  You don’t want to pay for me to get better, so you decided to send me here.”
            The word “here” was spat out with such hatred and I half expected spittle to spray from between his lips.
            “That’s not true.  Three times I sent you to the best treatment centers and paid for everything since the places you chose did not accept insurance.  Three times—”
             A nagging worried at the back of my mind— was he right?  When the judge had sentenced him to the state run facility for inpatient treatment, hadn’t I felt a modicum of relief that I wouldn’t have to pay another fifty thousand for his recovery?
          “Why do you care what the cost is?  You can afford it.  It’s your fault that I’m sick.  You owe me.”
          It was an argument that I’d heard countless times since our childhood.  He had always believed that our mother loved me more and our father had abandoned him.  He was half right—our father had abandoned the both of us—first for for alcohol, then for religion.  It was the greatest gift he could have given the two of us.  Unfortunately, my brother didn’t share my gratitude and had followed in his addictive footsteps.
I knew that we would only end up in a fight if I responded to his accusation, so I said,  “It’s only for six weeks and then you will get to go home.  I’ll come visit you as soon as they will let me.  I’ll bring pictures of Oni for—”
I flinched as he jerked the door open and slammed out of the car.
“Fuck you.”
His words were a whiplash across the face.
They were also the last words he ever said to me.
                                                            *
There was lightning the night we found his body.
            I had just walked through my front door after a twelve-hour workday and dropped everything in the entryway when my mom called.  She was worried since she hadn’t heard from my brother in a couple of days.  That wasn’t an uncommon occurrence since my brother preferred to spend his days in an alcohol and drug induced stupor that had only worsened after his court appointed rehab.
Exhaustion was put on hold.  It was after ten, but the temperature was still over 100 degrees with enough humidity to make you feel as if you were locked in a perpetual sauna.  I met my mother at his apartment.  Our persistent knocking was greeted by the barking of his dog.  We called for him through the door, but the only reply was the wax and wane of barking as if Oni was running from the back of the apartment, to the front door, and back again.
            Soon after a call to the police was made.
            My mother knew.  I guess I did too, but I wasn’t ready to admit it yet.  I didn’t want to admit it—I didn’t want his last words to me to be his last words.
            We waited.  Not in silence.  We made plans— the “what if” plans that you don’t think you will actually need, but you make anyway so you will feel better when everything turns out fine.
            Soon we were driven to our feet by the revolving lights of red and blue and a blaring siren cut through the darkness.  The police officer was familiar with my brother and was irritated to respond to yet another incident involving him.  I understood his frustration.  It was my frustration, too– though I had been responding to calls for far longer.
             After the police officer came the fire department and paramedics, with more lights, more sirens.  A couple of the uniforms scaled the balcony from the stairs.  Within moments, the arcadia door had been removed and the firemen were inside.
           My mom and I watched the jumble of activity from the parking lot below.  They sent the female firefighter to talk to us.  She was young, pretty.  I kept thinking that she was too fragile for such a tough job.  Ridiculous, I know, but stereotypes and all that.
             Seeing her walk towards us, I already knew.  Why would they send the female firefighter if he was alive?
            She never actually said the word “dead”.  As many times as I have thought about that night, I keep coming back to her words— her carefully chosen words.  Words meant to calm, to comfort.  Words she had been trained to say.  If only she knew that there were no words to calm and comfort.
            “He’s in there.  We called it in and the detective and coroner are on their way.  I’m so sorry.”
           I really hate those words.
“I’m so sorry.”
           It’s what you say to people when you know their world is falling apart and you have nothing else to say.  They’ve done nothing wrong, yet they insist on apologizing.  I do it, too.  I’m just as guilty, but I really hate those three words.
“I’m so sorry.”
         As I heard those words, I didn’t feel peace.  I didn’t feel comfort.  I didn’t even feel anger.  I felt nothing.  Aren’t normal people supposed to cry when they find out their brother is dead?  Instead I was filled with hollowness.  Numbness.  Emptiness.
Arrangements needed to be made.  People needed to be called.
          They brought my brother’s dog out on a leash and handed her over to us.  Oni pulled at the leash, so I left my mom with the paramedic to walk with her.
        I heard some of the other paramedics talking to the police.  “Looks like a grand mal seizure.  With the heat . . . could have been anytime . . . 36-72 hours . . . advanced decomp.  Dog ran out of food . . . got hungry . . .”
            They stopped talking when the saw me.
“ . . . Dog ran out of food . . . got hungry . . .”
“ . . . Dog ran out of food . . . got hungry . . .”
         The words raced through my mind, spinning until a visual began to take shape.
             I felt sick.  I wanted to close my eyes and shut their words out, but I couldn’t.  I looked over at my mom.  The paramedic was gone and she was sitting on the curb with my uncle, staring off at nothing.  I don’t think she heard.
           Another woman is asking my uncle questions.  My uncle?  I couldn’t remember when he had gotten there?  I looked down at my phone and realized that I must have called him sometime before.  I checked the time.  It was after 1:00 in the morning.
           I started at the voice beside me.  A woman with a badge and notebook was asking me questions.  Or at least I thought she was talking to me until my uncle answered.
             “I’m not sure how long his drinking has been going on.”
             There was a note of defiance in my uncle’s tone when he spoke that sparked something inside of me.
              “How long has he been taking drugs?”
              “Not long.  Not sure.”
              Anger simmered.  How can he deny knowing about my brother’s addiction?            “High school.”  The words came from me.  I don’t really remember making the conscious decision to open my mouth and speak, but all of a sudden it all came pouring out.  “He started experimenting in high school.  It was beer and weed then, then vodka and pills.  He gets the pills from the hospital for his pancreatitis.  Or at least that was the last diagnosis.”
          Commotion up the stairs drew my attention.  My response died away as a gurney was wheeled into view.  Opaque plastic sheeting covered what I knew were my brother’s remains.  I stared hard at the plastic, trying to discern a shape beneath.  It seemed deflated.  Concave where there should be shape
“ . . . Dog ran out of food . . . got hungry . . .”
          The paramedic’s words rang through my ears as I watched two men lift and carry the gurney down the stairs.  Their movements were fluid and seamless as the load him into the van.
“ . . . Dog ran out of food . . . got hungry . . .”                      
            An image shimmered into focused and superimposed itself in my thoughts.  I gasped for breath as the world began to spin in time with my lurching stomach.  The night began to close around me as tears streaked down my face.  I don’t remember making the conscious decision to cry.
            I collapsed on the grass, uncaring of the people that swarmed around me.  I could hear the urgency and worry in their voices, but it didn’t matter.  Someone picked up my wrist to check my pulse and push a water bottle in my hand.
          “Leave me alone!” I wanted to scream.  “Don’t touch me.  Don’t touch me.  DON’T TOUCH ME!”
            But no words emerged.  Instead, my eyes were glued to the flashing light of the coroner’s van as it slowly pulled away from the curb.  My gaze followed the coroner’s van as it turned onto the street and was swallowed into the darkness beyond the faint reach of the streetlights.  There was finality to the subtle roar of the engine that faded into the night.
It was over.
             In that moment, I realized that I had been expecting that final flash of lights and roar of engine of the coroner’s van for almost fifteen years.   I held my breath waiting for more tears.  More pain.  More . . . something.
               Instead there was nothing, just a vacuum of emotion and feeling, leaving me empty and tired.
             A soft brushing of fur had me looking down.  Oni looked back at me in mutual understanding before dropping her head into my lap. 

​            Current trends and issues affecting the Canadian publishing industry and impacting its creators, producers, policymakers, and administrators include those pertaining to writing genres, product formats, digital platforms, consumer habits, distribution channels, retailer pricing, competing informational and recreational media, intellectual property laws, and globalization.
            In 2017, over two decades after the advent of the internet and over a decade after the advent of social media, the digital disruption remains a major factor for Canadian writers, editors, publishers, and book/periodical retailers. Print publishers of books, newspapers, magazines, and journals have been compelled by the technological revolution and shifting consumer preferences to offer complementary electronic versions of their publications or to transition to digital format. However, Canadian book publishers must continue to publish both digitally and in print because, after their formative period of novelty passed, e-book sales leveled off and hard-copy sales still rule the landscape. Moreover, a recent study found that 80% of children aged 6-17 prefer print books over e-books,[1] and since Booknet Canada's The Canadian Book Market 2016 stated that the majority of book sales (39.4%) were in the Juvenile category, it stands to reason that print books are holding out against electronic inroads.[2] This reality, though, may soon be reversed: Pricewaterhouse Coopers (PwC) foresees that, while total books revenues in Canada (incl. consumer, educational, and professional books) will increase in 2019, electronic consumer books will surpass declining print/audio consumer books revenues by that year.[3] This despite Booknet Canada's 2016 study evidencing that respondents were much more likely to have rarely or never read e-books than to have listened to audiobooks, and that libraries' audiobooks circulation and digital loans have significantly increased in recent years.[4]
            Another important, and overlooked, issue is that Canada's small literary presses (SLPs), important publishers of high-quality works in the genres of literary fiction, short stories, poetry, and essays (genres that historically are crucial to constructing national identity)—SLPs like Calgary's own Bayeux Arts—have struggled to pay printing and warehousing costs and so have greatly curtailed expenses by going digital or utilizing print-on-demand production, eschewing even initial print runs for all but the most predictable bestsellers among their frontlists and backlists. Most SLPs have strictly limited the number of titles they release in any given year to circumscribe overhead, payroll, and operational costs, thereby greatly minimizing the number of Canadian writers, especially emerging authors, who can secure a traditional publisher for their new works, forcing these writers (who have traditionally been first "discovered" and introduced to Canadian readers by SLPs) either to self-publish or to remain unpublished, irrespective of the quality of their oeuvres. Others, like Ottawa's BuschekBooks, have simply folded.
            On the upside, following declining advertising revenues for Canada's print newspapers and periodicals, paywalls for digital versions have begun compensating for losses, and digital magazine advertising revenues have escalated concurrent with the increasing popularity of magazine websites.[5] This is a crucial bulwark for Canadian columnists, feature writers, editors, and publishers of popular, literary, scholarly, and trade periodicals.
            Countertrends constitute another aspect of the overall publishing industry picture: in America, Newsweek magazine folded as a print periodical only to be resurrected in print less than two years later; online mega-retailer Amazon.com obviated countless independent bookstores and even bookstore chains like Borders, only to itself instantiate the bricks-and-mortar model with, to date, 15 Amazon Books physical stores (none yet in Canada). Notably, print books purchased in bookstores, supermarkets, and drugstores continue to predominate the industry (2/3 of all books sold).[6] These counterintuitive, anomalous realities evince the need for Canadian publishers and publications to strike a precisely calibrated balance between product formats and distribution channels, tailoring offerings to their consumers' preferences.
            According to PwC, "Canada is a nation of avid readers, with one in three Canadians being a heavy book buyer...". The claim preceding the statistic only makes sense relative to other countries: domestically, it means, a majority (2/3) of Canadians are not avid readers. With an adult literacy rate of 99%[7], Canada's challenge is, apparently, not to increase literacy but to enlarge readerships by promoting reading as recreation and information-sourcing. Yet other data leave a markedly different impression: First Book Canada's latest statistics indicate that 25% of Canadian households don’t even own a single book, and about 30% of Grade 3 students lack basic literacy skills.[8] In an era of binge-watching television shows, movie streaming, exhibiting superhero blockbusters, downloading music and podcasts, and sharing live-streams, videos, and photos on social media...small wonder.
            This is perhaps the greatest issue facing Canadian literature producers. First Books Canada partnered with McDonald’s Canada in May 2017 to nationally distribute 2,000,000+ books with Happy Meals, helping
give kids access to books. Also counteracting the problem of early childhood literacy is the newly founded Canadian Children's Literacy Foundation, whose avowed mission is "to ensure that ALL Canadian children are skilled, confident readers by the time they complete grade school–thus making Canadian children the most literate in the world."[9]
            In terms of challenges, a close second would surely be authors writing for, and publishers accessing, emerging and expansive global markets (with rising literacy and middle-class incomes), especially India and China. The president and publisher of Simon & Schuster Canada emphasizes the need for "thinking about publishing global authors in Canada and Canadian authors in the global environment."[10] One way to do this is via writers' festivals and international book fairs, such as that of Frankfurt, where relationships are fostered and deals struck, including those licensing ancillary rights such as foreign-language translation rights. Recently, Ontario children's book publishers Kids Can Press and Groundwood Books were consecutively named North American Publisher of the Year at the Bologna Children’s Book Fair.[11] NAFTA is presently being renegotiated, and maintaining a cultural exemption will be necessary for Canada's creative/cultural industries to avoid the potential implementation of protectionist barriers to market. As part of the new Creative Canada vision (Pillar 1 - Investment in Canadian Creators), the federal government has committed to "continue to support print and digital production and [...] experiment with innovative approaches to marketing and promoting Canadian books" and will focus on creators, "ensuring they are fairly compensated, and can protect and make the most of their intellectual property."[12] Further to the latter point, Canada's Copyright Act is due for review and its Copyright Board for reform. Creative Canada's second component (Pillar 2 - Promoting Discovery and Distribution) concentrates on going global, provisioning: diplomats to expedite penetration by Canadian creators of key foreign markets; upgraded Canadian presences at major trade fairs/events; and a federal cultural trade mission, the first in Canadian history, facilitating B2B partnerships.[13]
            An additional globalization-related issue is the phenomenon of sensitivity readers, employed by publishers to ensure that authors writing of identifiable groups to which they do not belong are doing so in an accurate, responsible fashion. This becomes exponentially more relevant with the opportunities, and potential hazards, afforded by globalization.
 


[1] http://www.omdc.on.ca/collaboration/research_and_industry_information/industry_profiles/Book_Industry_Profile.htm

[2] https://www.booknetcanada.ca/blog/2017/3/8/canadian-book-market-2016-infographic

[3] https://www.pwc.com/ca/en/entertainment-media/publications/pwc-global-em-outlook-2015-2019-canadian-highlights-2015-09-en.pdf

[4] https://www.booknetcanada.ca/are-you-still-listening/

[5] https://www.pwc.com/ca/en/entertainment-media/publications/pwc-global-em-outlook-2015-2019-canadian-highlights-2015-09-en.pdf

[6] https://www.pwc.com/ca/en/entertainment-media/publications/pwc-global-em-outlook-2015-2019-canadian-highlights-2015-09-en.pdf

[7] https://knoema.com/atlas/Canada/topics/Education/Literacy/Adult-literacy-rate

[8] https://globalnews.ca/news/3748748/rising-concerns-over-literacy-rates-in-canada/

[9] http://www.newswire.ca/news-releases/heather-munroe-blum-heather-reisman-and-col-chris-hadfield-announce-the-launch-of-the-canadian-childrens-literacy-foundation-in-honour-of-canadas-150th-622985173.html

[10] https://www.sfu.ca/sfunews/stories/2017/02/emerging-trends-in-publishing-simon-schuster-canada.html

[11] http://www.omdc.on.ca/collaboration/research_and_industry_information/industry_profiles/Book_Industry_Profile.htm

[12] https://www.canada.ca/en/canadian-heritage/news/2017/09/creative_canada_-avisionforcanadascreativeindustries.html

[13] https://www.canada.ca/en/canadian-heritage/news/2017/09/creative_canada_-avisionforcanadascreativeindustries.html

I sprinkled rose petals on the tablecloth; they circled the 1940's glass bowl my mother had called her ‘rose bowl.’ She filled it with fluid and floated roses, and I use flower-shaped candles that skim the water’s surface. I rolled up the damask pattern napkins and slid individual ones through colorful rings. While these napkins are made from perma-press fabric, because of my aging, I still have, just to see and touch, the cloths and napkins given to me when I married. Heavy, beautiful items that I had to starch and carefully iron, the material has memories both tangible and emotional.
 
A wooden chest, lined with anti-tarnish felt, houses sterling flatware that had belonged to my husband’s grandparents. I imagined my own, as a bride, ornate as my mother’s had been, and the pleasure I had bringing the tinged brown spots back to gleaming as I polished. I still like sparkles: stars in the sky, sunlight illuminating ripples on a lake or making snow shimmer. The maple flatware box contains a bland-looking pattern that doesn’t satisfy my tactile sense, yet it has a generational past, and there were always more important expenses, as marriage years changed numbers, than buying elaborately designed utensils.
 
When did the crystal goblets, also once belonging to my husband’s grandparents, begin to lose the thin gold border that edged the rim? Only the unused cordial ones indicate that trim. I’d have purchased ones to finger and feel a pattern, but like the sterling, I accepted what was handed down and created my own history with them.
 
The China was selected with my husband. Our taste, and I focus on the time-line as I set a table. It’s not for company coming to dinner...my family will be here. Nothing in my home is either for ‘show’ or for guests to admire.  It’s special space to be occupied and used with the persons most dear: family.
 
When my mother taught me skills as a young girl, she had me embroider tablecloths and matching napkins in sizes from card table square to dining room length; I’ve a granddaughter that wanted a couple, and my daughter has one. Somehow, ironing the pure linen never seemed like a chore, and my cotton yarn that created a picture could remind me how I took a plain white bolt and made, with my tiny hands, a linen painting. I carted the card-table-size to my first tiny apartment and my youth and home were intertwined as I put plates on the table-covering.
 
Company. My family is company. Over the many decades, so far, since I donned a bridal veil, friends have been in and out of my life. Time and place saw those met as my husband completed medical school and left behind when internship began and we moved. More uprooting during the four years of medical residency had the temporary relationships based on available housing; then the mandatory armed service for two years had us forming friendships destined to dissolve once we left for civilian life. Small children called for friendships with couples who had offspring of similar ages so we could share playtime, adult time, holidays as we were still far from blood kin, and those were altered as political conversation or differences in child rearing caused friction.
 
I began to hear too many times about sterling only being used for company, and 'what if your child broke a crystal glass?' Why not? I’d rather it be used and my child accidentally broke it than it sat like a display waiting for another to take it when I’m gone and decide it’s just too old or not pretty enough to be kept. Tiny cracks in values caused chasms and ‘friendship’ deteriorated.
 
Only as my children grew, married, reproduced, did they notice that their offspring were seated in my dining room with the ornate table carefully decorated and hearing the stories about the sterling pattern I don’t like but why and how it came into my possession, and the ‘so what’ if a grandchild accidentally breaks a glass. My values are a constant.
 
It’s hard now. My arthritis makes polishing fork-tines enemies that I stay determined to conquer; the maple chest no longer gets lifted but I remove and replace items from where the chest sits in a cabinet. I use a step-stool to grasp the stemware from a shelf that seems higher as I grow shorter. ‘Why are you still doing this?’ I am asked. Because ‘I can’ is not quite an answer, because ‘I want to’ says more, because, the truth is, ‘I still feel that no one is more special than my family, and dining is different from biologic eating’ in my home. When will I make this easier on myself? Hopefully, never.

Bio- Lois Greene Stone, writer and poet, has been syndicated worldwide. Poetry and personal essays have been included in hard & softcover book anthologies. Collections of her personal items/ photos/ memorabilia are in major museums including twelve different divisions of The Smithsonian
 
The Write Place at The Write Time  May 2015    
copyright 2015 The Write Place at the Write Time

I removed the white net gown from the hanger; its taffeta lining rustled.  My mother’s  backless slippers were making flapping sounds as she approached my room.  She was carrying a long rectangle of the matching net.
            “Here.  This goes over your shoulders.”
            I looked at the length and burst out laughing.  “It’ll end up at my hemline.” 
            She placed the shawl-like thing around my petite frame.  “Well, you won’t be dancing with it.”  Stroking my silky hair she dramatically said, “Prom.  The Hotel Roosevelt’s ballroom.  Oh how lovely!”
            I wasn’t even sixteen yet, and I could see my mother’s expression of ‘my daughter is getting older’.  I didn’t know whether to shift my position or just hold it for her to continue with forthcoming flowery-phrases.  A boy I’d met in summer camp in the Berkshire Mountains lived in The Bronx, and it was his school’s prom.  My mother graduated from a Bronx high school; if proms existed in those days, she didn’t mention it.  I couldn’t imagine her young anyway.
            I didn’t like that stole or even the name for this absurd shawl.  It wasn’t going to keep me warm, nor was it a decoration: it just was.  “You know, Mom, a see-through jacket or coat over this dress would make more sense and have some style.  Even a little cape would be pretty.”
            “Hm.  Yes.”  My mother agreed.  “I have no time to sew a cape for you as your date will be here soon.”
            Now I didn’t know if she were teasing me or not.
            “You’ll look glamourous.”
            Well, I’m the wholesome type, I knew, with all the genetic assets, but I’d rather walk barefoot in the rain, play hard at sports, toss raked leaves on my head and have them cling to my wool sweaters than be glamourous.  To me, that very word connoted ‘stuck up’ or phoney, and I was never-ever going to be that.  Ever.  I parted my hair in the middle and inserted, on each side, little flowers I’d hand-made of tiny pieces of silk. The Bobby-pins still showed too much.  I tried again.
            I slid the Benrus Embraceable watch on my wrist.  I enjoyed both the white gold and that it actually looked as if I were wearing a bracelet.  My only make-up was my usual Powder-Pink color lipstick; I also liked my skin and saw no need to cover up even a blemish as that was also phoney.  In a tiny purse I put my ‘mad-money’, house keys, handkerchief, the lipstick, and a small comb my mother bought me with a Mother-of-Pearl handle.  She’d given me a matching compact, but I didn’t use powder, I told her, and it’s not ladylike to open a mirror and preen in front of other people, and she could give the compact to one of my sisters.  She didn’t. 

            My mother zipped up the dress, and had tears in her eyes.  Was it the prom, or that she realized one-day she’d be buttoning up the back of my wedding gown?  That one-day was certainly in the future, so I wasn’t sure which was causing tears.  We went downstairs.  I never kept a date waiting and never planned to either. 

            He came.  The white dinner jacket made him look grown up.  He had a see-through box and an orchid was enclosed.  My mother gushed.  Geez.  I thought he knew me from camp; I’m the single fragrant gardenia or sweet peas type.  The orchid was the pretentious-glamour type.  I’d guessed his father bought it for him to give to me. 
            “Oh, this is beautiful.  Isn’t it, Lois?”  My mother was so excited for me.  She tried to pin it onto my gown and it kept helplessly sagging. “Wait.  I’ve got more corsage pins in my sewing basket.”
            I wound the shawl several times around my arms.  My dad offered to drive us to the city so we wouldn’t have to take the Long Island Railroad and then walk from Penn Station.  We got into his 1948 model Oldsmobile as he hadn’t yet bought the newer 1950's style.  My mother stood in the doorway waving.
            “Where are you going after the prom?”  My dad was pleasant and kind, as always, and not making judgments or anything.
            “Bill Miller’s Riviera in Fort Lee, New Jersey.  Most are going to the Copa in the city, but we’re going with another couple to New Jersey.”  My date was happy about his choice.  He hadn’t yet mentioned that no one had a car and didn’t know how we would get to Jersey and back from there.
            “A beautiful choice.”  My dad answered, his gentle hands holding the steering wheel.  “The Palisades, and just going over the bridge and back sounds wonderful.  How’re you getting there late at night?”
            “Um.  Don’t know yet.”  My date smoothed a section that wasn’t even wrinkled on his white jacket.
            “Let me know when to take you.”  My dad looked at us from his rear view mirror.  “And we can fit another couple with no problem.”
            “Mr. Greene.  I don’t know what to say.  Prom parties go on most of the night.”
            “That’s okay.  Make sure you have coins for the pay phones.  Just call.”  My dad smiled.  I knew his dimples were showing even though I couldn’t see them from the back seat.
            The word Riviera seemed special.  I liked the George Washington Bridge so going over that twice would also be special.  And it was a special nightclub. 
            “Have a wonderful evening.”  My dad tilted his head to see us as we got out of the car at the Hotel Roosevelt.  “I’ll get you later.  You both look sensational.”
            We went inside. 
            21st century now.  Seems impossible.  I didn’t attend my own high school’s prom as I graduated half a year early. That’s what I said anyway.  I did, long ago, like Bill Miller’s Riviera, dancing with my date someplace other than in the summer camp’s boathouse, the ride in the dark in my dad’s car over the bridge, but the ballroom party at the hotel seemed strained. The girl we were seated with pretended to be womanly-worldly and kept pulling out her compact to check her layers of pan-cake make up.  I didn’t want another prom-evening of fake smiles and one-upmanship conversation from many around me.  She pretended boredom during the evening, and treated my dad as a chauffeur; I didn’t hear her say her own dad would drive us to New Jersey and back in the middle of the night.  After my dad took me back home to the Broadway section of Flushing, he then drove my date to The Bronx and then he drove back to Queens.  He said he so remembered long subway rides courting my mother who lived in Brooklyn, and didn’t want my date to have to do that. 
            21st century now.  My dad died a month after I turned twenty; he was forty-five.  Two years after that, my widow-mother removed, from a hanger in my bedroom, a white lace dress with a lining of taffeta.  She buttoned up the back, placed a veil on my head.  She stroked my silky hair and her hands evoked memories of years of kindness, patience, understanding.  I adjusted my college degree she’d framed and put on the wall, looking for the last time at my girlhood private space, also recalling my first taffeta-lined white gown.  Just Powder Pink lipstick was still my make up, and in my tiny bridal purse were similar-few items I’d carried to a prom long ago, minus the ‘mad-money’. 
 
published Feb. 9, 2012   Phoebe literary journal (online edition) ©2012 Phoebe