​Matt said that he climbed those railroad tracks at midnight, like we dared him to. Like we double dogged him to. When he was telling us this experience, I was expectin’ magic. Dwarves. I wanted to hear shadows linger in between leaf blades to sprout legs and walk between the trees. I’ve been in the woods at night, but not as far as the river or the quarry. Not as far as the railroad, the leviathan spine that lurches from the earth like a yawn.
Matt came back the next morning saying that he never saw such magic. Not the kinda magic you wanna see. Instead, he said he saw fire. Not dragon breath. Man’s fire. Said was hard to count ‘em all, he buckled down and laid low on top the Dragon’s Back soon as he caught glimpse. Who started the fires, what kinda people do that out in the woods? Geno, another kid from the black Baptist projects said that fires happen all the time in the woods. Matt said that these fires were different. They’s scattered. Multiple. Scabbed embers spottin’ and sizzlin’ long the snakin’ Cumberland. The flames. They’d lick through twisting tree boughs in the night like glow worms through a ribcage. As if they could fit their mouths around carbon and chew. Raw tongue their way to the cul de sac and spread like an itch. We all believed Matt, hell, he was my best friend. We shared the same Camel Back everywhere we went with summa Auntie Davis swig mix Kool-Aid. We sipped some from that pack when he told the story. I let him have some more since his brow done beaded in the middle of it.
We saw them, the Klan, in robes on one of the Rudolph street’s corners. Further from the Cumberland, they never got close to foot traffic, even if they did, the cops woulda wrestled them back to dirt corners, back to the sticks and away from the tourists. Tourists don’t wanna see that side of Knoxville, that side of Memphis. They’d sit in the sticks and glow from their fires, drawing moths and beetles to the flame. They never wore their robes in public. Ma never talked about them, Pa neither. The other white kids in shacks along Al Orter never had to hear none about the KKK unless another kid catches whiff of them from another kid and asks his folks. They talked about them once, at least Ma did. She gave us a rundown of Martin Luther King, they existed then, in history, in past and passing. Not now though, they was as dead as the ghosts they dressed as.
 But Matt told me last mornin’ that he saw those lights, the fires in the woods. Matt was half black, and I wondered if they’d hate half of him, strip him in two to flap in the wind. He said they’d never see the white side, no white men ever do. I told him that it was nothing, swamp gasses where thain’t none. He wanted to know what Ma and Pa thought of him. I told him they loved him. He wanted to know what Mr. Earl thought of him, what Mr. Mike thought of him, Ms. Leah from across the street. I told him they all liked him.
I hung out with Matt, I hung out with Geno, I even hung out with Chucky ‘till he had to move cuz his pa stabbed his ma. My family babysat the Virgil’s family. I was homeschooled, one of the only white kids amongst  the other black baptist kids. We weren’t allowed to trick’r treat around our neighborhood, our parents were never too keen on any of us being out at late night. Not down Lafayette at least, not nowhere near Peacher’s Mill, especially not by that grave dragged out alongside the road. We all stayed together on those nights, cooped up in the church courtyard across the street from the projects. Matt, Geno, and X would shoot hoops on the corner of the street facing west side of the projects. West side is what leads to the train tracks, the rock quarry, the Cumberland River, and the trailer parks. Balls would hollowly bounce, echoing through the air, adding their own percussion to the Run D.M.C CD on blast.
Tryin’ to juke around X, he saw me roll to the right and threw his shoulder my direction. I rolled face first into it, like kissing a boulder. X was already craning me back on my feet, not before he scored a shot though.
“Damn, son.” X waved a finger in front of his nose while using the other to dust my shoulder. Before I saw what he was referencing, several red droplets fell to the ground and drowned the dust below. I yanked my wifebeater to my nose and clogged the blood best I could. I sat back on the church steps and watched Matt and X square off. Geno was already sitting there, being a shorter size and hating being battered by X. Matt was hangin’ backwards on the basketball hoop kickin’ his feet wildly after dunking on X.
“You know,” Geno said,  “he says they’s anyone, ‘em people that started the fires. That they-”
“They’s not anyone, they’s the Klan an’ no one’s in the Klan no more.” I wished I was with Matt when he saw it, those fires. Geno was the one that double dogged him up the damn hill. I wish I coulda crawled up with him, blow out those fires, show them the smoke and mirrors behind them.
“Says he can’t trust no one, Chad. Coulda been any white boy. You think he migh think you’re part of it?” Geno didn’t gruff himself up when he asked. It was like asking Ma n’ Pa where babies came from. That question had to come sometime.
The ball bounced off the rim and dribbled itself across the street ‘till it hit a brick apartment.
“Fuck off Geno,” I hustled myself off of the porch and pounded pavement across the street.
I wanted to blame Geno for it all, say it was all his fault. If he never dared Matt to march up that hill, maybe we could all keep being friends the way we were, and wouldn’t have to thing too hard about it. I didn’t what it was, it breathed like a dinosaur in my head, rumbling out through my ears,  making me pause and think Matt, X, Geno. We all talked the same, we all sounded the same. Sometime’s older folks would remind me to speak right. To talk properly. Don’t say “ain’t” so much. They never asked my other friends to change how they talked. Just me. As if they didn’t like me sounding like them. As if the words were in the air, like bad breath. Guess that’s all I wanted, to clear the air.
 Walkin’ back from the curb, Matt, Geno, and X all stared over my shoulder. They looked like they saw a corpse that they grew up with, somethin’ that disgusted them, but nothin’ that was none the familiar.
I turned around and saw two white linen ghosts with eyes poked through the holes carrying Dollar Store jack-o-lantern Halloween baskets. They wore worn out Reeboks on their feet. The both of them were taller than us. They walked with a swung gait as if they snaked back ‘n forth to dodge invisible cobwebs. They both turned their heads to look at us as they walked by. At least, turned to look at Matt, Geno, n’ X. I didn’t feel looked at. I wondered if they looked upward, saw the church billboard with two black palms claspin’ a dove. Holding him like a clay bowl holding milk. Hell, I wondered why they looked at all. Why they walked down this part of Peacher’s Mill at all. Most white people avoided the place, too much”jungle music in the damn streets.”
The two ghosts had stopped in front of the Church, and I could hear one of them snickering. The cloth around where his mouth fluttered like a wasp wing. They never said nothing just chuckled in front of the church. Hackin’ lungs and throat like an engine usin’ the last of its oil to choke itself out.
Geno ripped the ball out my hand and teleported it across the street, into the gut of the ghost on the right. His chuckle turnt to wheezing as he doubled over coughing. What was coming next was obvious. It was two options, they’d charge across the street, kick our teeth in and punch our cartilage through the back of our skulls, or they’d tail it into a pickup truck, and we wouldn’t catch wind of them for weeks, maybe months, an’ when they do come back roun’, it wouldn’t look pretty for the church. They’d break those hands that held the dove. Blow the dust that they leave them as to scatter in the winds.
They turned and walked with the three of us slingin’ a torrent of “cousin fuckers” their way. They ran westward, lifting up their sheets and cackling the whole way. It was almost easier to square off with ‘em. At least we coulda pulled their masks off before they stomped us. Told our ‘rents through broken bones and bloodied lips what they looked like.
Goddamn it. What did they look like? I know they’re white, they gotta be white. What other color the klan gonna be? But what kinda white? I learnt the word “cousin fucker” from Matt. It’s what you call a white person when they call you “nigger.” Cousin fuckers gotta have one eye, a slanted jaw, red wiry hair that bleeds from the scalp. Sun spots nestled like scabs puckerin’ ‘cross their skin. They couldn’t look like me.
 When I laid down to sleep that night, I wondered if it even happened. But someone’s laugh was stuck in my head. I dreamt they ran westward, and kept runnin’ westward. Over the Stone Door, two flowing silhouettes against a moon-dipped horizon, plunging off the cliffs of the smokey mountains and howling into the wind as linen flapped like a dying fish. They hit the ground, and the earth rippled, absorbed them. Swallowed them with a gulpin’ silence. In this dream, you can walk over them. Get dared and double dogged to dance on their graves, and pluck the irises growing over them. Put the flowers to your ear. They’ll cackle like banshees.
I still didn’t know if we even did the right thing. They ran, we stood. ‘S all I knew.
The day after, me and Matt were walking along an abandoned railroad, using our nails to claw iron railway stakes from the earth and cram them in our pockets. We hauled up our loose pants with one hand, and wiped sweat with another. Our arms were covered in red clay up to our elbows. We were silent most of the day, digging into our own holes and only hearing the grinding slide-click of nails parting earth and slammin’ against a nail head. Most of the time, me ‘n Matt would talk comics, talk movies, talk damn near anythin’ but what’s in front of us. Now, there was no talkin’. We just dug. I jerked the rusted nails out of my pocket, tearing my belt loop off on a hook.
“So what happen’ yes’erday?” I crouched on a railway sleeper, watching the rollie pollies crawl into the cracked chasms that I shaded.
“They’s fuckin’ with us ‘swhat happened.” He didn’t look up at me or stop digging. I wanted to tell him about my dream. Tell him that they’re in the earth. The ghosts. They whistle and slice through branches with the wind.
“You think they’s KKK?” It just felt better to say it, to talk about ‘em for once. I was the only one I was comforting.
“Any of ‘em coul’ be ‘em, you know? I heard some of ‘em come from Simpson Park.”
“But they’s just kids messin’ ‘roun’, right? They ain’t part of no klan. Hell, we prolly don’t even have a klan in these pa-”
Matt struck the nail held in his hand into the clay, damn near sinkin’ his fist in with it. Only the nail head stuck out from the top, the rest buried beneath the surface. I thought about how deep does this thing cut with man? How long do those fires singe?
We always learned to love the woods. It was me and my three brothers that dragged them all into the forests, but once it became a habit, our friends would be barging into our place. Asking our mom if we could go crawdaddin’ or play manhunt far into the night. Everything we did was outside. Hell, we had huts in the woods that we took naps in, daring each other to spend the night in them. None of us ever did it.
“This is where I saw them, Chad.” He shot up and pointed at the river bend, where the Cumberland flows slow ‘n green as moss, hit’s the bank, and bleeds red from a clay kiss.
            When the wind blew through the leaves, they whipped sharply, a horse tail swatting  flies that buzz too close to it. I wished it woulda blown loud enough for the two of us to scream silence at each other, loud enough to drown in. Blow hard enough to shake out the things that lurk between ‘em leaves.
            “You, you saw what, Matt?” I tried scrapin’ the clay off of my hands and only smeared it into my pores. I just crammed my fists into my pockets, forgot they’s nails in them, and scraped on their rust the whole way down.
            “The fires, man, the gotdamn fires!”
I stood up and looked around. The setting sun had bled out over the landscape, bleaching everything pink and scarlet. The entire forest looked like a fire. I tried to imagine smoke trailing up in the night, tried to see the flickering orange flames from between dogwood limbs. The Cumberland River snaked around the hills and zigzagged eastward. It separated our neighborhood from a suburb with perfect square yards, and fungi-free grass. Right at the clay kiss. The drop of blood.
            These tracks were old, Pap says they brought the country together, people would ride around on them to see family, see different parts of the country, maybe even see a bit of themselves wherever they went. Take the last train to Clarksville, and I’ll meet you at the station. The train tracks rose above and overlooked the Cumberland, and the growing suburb on the other side. What use to be a route to connect everything together started turning into a wall, a barrier that you couldn’t help but slam into, full force. Meld face with brick, leave nothing left to see into. Somewhere, back in my head, far enough so it’d never reach my lips, I wanted the river to rise up, just drown it all.
            “But...what sides you see ‘em on?”
            Matt cocked his head at me, left eye squinting.
            “What side, Matt? What side of the river were they on?”
He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.
            “Couldn’t tell, it was dark, and they’s burnin’ in the woods, ways from the houses. Coulda been our side or theirs.”
            These were mountains I ran half naked through. I’d lie in the arms of an oak in the rain, watch the dribble of a stream feed through it’s wrinkles n’ pores, while the wrinkle of the valley drank with each tree. I looked over all of this that sunset when Matt said that, and I felt like they lied to me. It wasn’t my skin, it wasn’t me, it wasn’t my culture. Those boogie men in robes bubbled up from the curdling throat of the earth. Her clenched teeth and puckered lips yawned in an om and belched out the banshees in white, in red, in green. All bodily colors.
            It was easier to believe that than them being human. I wanted to strut up to the summabitches on Rudolph Street, sink my hands in their robes roun’ their necks and feel for fur. Crunch some scales. Stab two fingers in the eye socket and rip off the mask, revealin’ a big lizard, an alien, a wolf. Anythin’ but a human. But a white human. If I ever did rip off that mask, who’s face woulda been? Mr. Earl’s? He cut hair. The hair on my head. He’d take us potato gun shootin’ all the time while Pa was shootin’ real gun in ‘Ganistan. It coulda been his face.
            A few days passed in the summer. We spent time slamming action figures into each other, plucking crawdads from the creek, and bustin’ dried kudzu into homely shapes. Finding home and shelters in the red dust and bone-hued dead plants. I thought it would pass. Matt stopped talking about them, Geno did also.
            Their white sheets slipped through my pores. Drank from my veins. When I slept on my top bunk at night, nose to nose with the white popcorn ceiling, the dots would shift, like dancing stars. Start speckling and puckering into a triangle while two semi-circles equally apart blink themselves onto its face. I’d sleep nose to nose with it. I’d catch myself at the dead of night reachin’ my hand up, tryin’ to touch it. To feel it, see if it could feel me back.
            I told Ma that we were going crawdad picking at the creek. Early morning, try to nab them before they came out the rocks. Walking uphill north of the cul de sac, the sun pink peaked from the ogre headed clouds. Matt’s mother answered the door, kissed me on the forehead, and fetched Matt to the front door. His wavy curls were flattened on the side he slept on, and he was wipin’ a tear booger from his eye when he came to the front door.
            “We’re goin’ crawdaddin’, Matt.”
            “It’s seven thirty, man.”
I turned around and talked back to him from over my shoulder.
“It’s only gonna get later.”
            He hugged his mom and she hollered for us to be back before sundown.
Walkin’ down Peacher’s Mill, me and Matt didn’t hold much of a conversation. It seemed like all talkin’ stopped. Like Marvel and DC Comics stopped being made for this. It felt like all TV was in another place. The only thing we had to look at n’ talk ‘bout was this land, and the people springin’ up from it.
We hit the corner of Peacher’s Mill and Al Orter. Matt marched a few paces down the street before he turned and saw me inchin’ towards the woods. The fence line through Earl’s horse farm would bring us to the mountain pass n’ the railraod tracks, and dip down into the river bend that carved this place in two. I was standin’ by the wood’s hollow staring back at Matt.
The next corner over on Matt’s left, heading north going parallel with the tracks was Simpson Park. We still figured them banshees come from there.
Matt hopped into the trees with me without a word passing between us.
I use to be able to walk this pass with Matt and imagine Hyrule, we’d pluck up thick oak bark tumbling off a tree’s face and finger paint the triforce on it. We use to be able to nestle down in a thatched loft on a dogwood and overlook the mornin’ mist, see if there’s leviathans in these valleys. Somethin’ that the adults kept missin’ but we could see. None of that happened. I saw sunlight, I saw leaves. I saw the dirt, the leaves drownin’ in it, and the beatles scurrying underneath. I wondered, in that moment, if I lost something  or gained something.
            To climb up Dragon’s Backbone, you have to stab the earth with you hands, hold tight to veiny roots and pull tight for leverage. Over the course of a few years, me n’ Matt had plenty of roots to hold too. The hill was a red meaty mound with wooden worms weaving through it.
            On top of the tracks, the morning sun could be seen crawling over the horizon. Thick n’ slow light that didn’t beam so much as it bleed.
            I sat down on the tracks, tossing a nail into the dirt and plucking it out. Thunk, rip, thunk rip. Filled the void with some noise as I tried to figure out how to word it.
            “You okay?” Matt had a tendency of statin’ things with a question. He knew I wasn’t okay.
            “ I wantcha to take me there, Matt. Take me to ‘em.”
            Matt sat down next to me n’ stared out over the river. The slowness of it was painful.
            “That was at the beginnin’ of the summer, man. How’m I ‘spose to know where they at?”
            “You said you saw ‘em down near the river, right?”
            “Yeh but hell if I know which side.”
            “We gotta fifty fifty shot either way.” I stood up when I spoke and started sidestepping down the hill. I wanted to sound like I didn’t care what side it was on, like I didn’t hope the river woulda been a buffer, corralled and housing the monsters on another side.
            Matt clomped down clawin’ at the earth with each step. He leaned parallel with the slope and skidded with the soles of his shoes, hands diggin’ in the dirt to stop himself on a root. He joined me at the bottom and pointed at the river.
            “You gotta follow it a bit.”
            The river wrapped eastward, snaking through the sticks that was the back end of Simpson Park. There were truck tires every step you took. A worn down orange rusted truck leaned drunkinly against a tree, that leaned painfully against another. Matt said not to run your fingers cross the ground, or to jump on the the mattresses. Needles coulda been anywhere.
            I was staring up in the trees. I don’t know why, it just seemed if you were gonna find any of them, that’s where they’d be. Like sharp-eyed doves, like lean owls, huddled above your head with hunched shoulders. Their hole-punched eyes would be a black voiding stare, on a linen sheet background. I wondered if they waited in the woods. Lit fires and waited to see what kids would come to check it out. I had a few friends from Simpson Park. They weren’t bad people. Austin would make jokes around me that he wouldn’t make around Matt. But he wasn’t one of those banshees.
            I heard Matt make a mockingbird call below the dip of the river, right on the bend. I took one last glance through the trees, and only saw the dark green underbellies waving in the thick morning sunlight.
            I scaled down the crag, landing alongside Matt. We use bird calls when we’re on someone’s farm or hunting property n’ we don’t want anyone to know we’re there. It didn’t occur to me that this woulda been time for it.
            Matt was kneeling by a fireplace. Crushed Miller Lite cans and cigarette butts were bloomin’ from the ground. There was a charred m’ ashen log in the fireplace. Heavy boots plodded a faded waltz on this bank. Bustlin’ over to the river, and back to the fire. It was only one person's footprints. Least, that I could tell.
            Matt’s hand gripped the stick tight, real tight, as he poked and stabbed the log that was left in the pit. He squinted his eyes.
            “So...it was just one person. Right? Some guy gettin’ his drink on?”  I asked.
            Matt scratched at the sand with his stick, turning over the morning dew wet top and flickin’ out the grainy dry bits underneath.
            “He was here a few nights ago. His footsteps are faded. Might not even be the same guy from the beginning of summer.  Can’t be him. Some guy downin’ beer wouldn’t have lit a buncha fires ‘round a river.”
            “Why couldn’t it be one guy?” I kicked the log over rolling its ashen white belly upward, “I mean, shit Matt, far as we know, it’s the same kids months ago that was trying to spook us.”
            Matt started staring into the river instead of answerin’ me. It was a slower, more flat, river. A few ripples here n’ there would jumble the silhouetted reflection. Me and Matt were roughly the same height, wore the same sized shabby shirts n’ jeans. If it wasn’t for Matt’s curly hair, our silhouettes coulda fit in the same puzzle pieces. Staring into that river, it made me wonder what it’d be like to float along it. To flatten myself into a flat shadow on the surface, and glide along in a world of similarities. I wanted to stay there the rest of the morning, looking at a blank shadow of the two of us. It was easier to handle than the real us. Flesh n’ blood complicated things.
            “Matt, I heard Geno n’ ‘em talk, sayin’ you thought I coulda been one of ‘em.” I didn’t look at him. It was easier to say it to his shadow in the river. I don’t even know if I was looking for an answer. The river was a void, and casting words into it was enough.
            “Yeah...Yeah man, I prolly said somethin’ like that.”
            “So...you think I’m one of, one of ‘em?”
            Nothing could be seen in the river’s murk. It coulda been a floatin’ film. An inch thick cloud with nothin’ you could dig into.
            “Nah, Chad. Not like that. I mean, you could, you know? That’s enough to get you thinkin’.”
            I sat on the beach when he said that. Matt plopped down behind me. We listened to the mockingbirds chirp to the rustlin’ dogwood limbs. I stared at my own hands, I knew that no matter how deep I dove in that river, floatin’ along it’s edges, driftin’ as a shadow, I’d either live in a dream, or emerge as white as I was hoppin’ in.
            “It’s enough to make me think, too.” I told Matt.
            Matt scooted up alongside me, the sole of his shoe kicking up ‘longside my shin.
            “I think they look like me. Those cousin fuckers. The Klan.”
            “I think they might look like you, too,” Matt said.
            We sat and watched the river float by. Every now and then, a fish tail would flick through the vale. Break through the void. Alongside the bird chirps and whisperin’ leaves, the flick of a fish tail was a loud disturbance. Like breaking glass in a drum line.
            Matt threw an arm around me. I didn’t know if I was supposed to do the same to him. It just felt easier to do nothing. As if I woulda been saying I did somethin’ wrong if I took his arm. As if I didn’t deserve him as a best friend.
“I’m sorry I doubted you, man.”
Matt didn’t say anythin’ back, but I knew he heard me.
That night. I stared that hood in the face. I wondered if everyone white saw one before goin’ to bed? If it dangled from ceilings and trees over all of our beds? If we wished it goodnight. I wondered why it was easier to say all of these things to a river? To a void? I think we speak to darkness, hoping it’ll echo a name back at us. I stared up, directly into the two semi circle eyes. Ever since Matt mentioned them fires, I couldn’t unsee it. I wondered if when I stared at that mask, if I was staring at those eyes from the outside looking in, or the inside looking out.
 

​One evening, I was in  a bus returning home from Lekki, and there was  this man seated next to  me. He was an Igbo man and I knew that from the way he spoke to the woman seated next to him and in the way he talked with someone on the phone. At first we were discussing about Nigerian politics and some problems of Nigeria and, we moved to some of the reasons why Lagos was too congested. He told me that since there are Ports in Calabar,  Port Harcourt and Warri, he thought that government would make those ports functional so that people can leave Lagos and do their businesses in other cities because the seaport is  one of the reasons why many people are in Lagos.  When I learnt that he was from my zone,  Abia state, I switched from English to Igbo language to make our conversation more homely and enjoyable but he never replied me in Igbo, rather he used English language to reply me.   When I spoke Igbo to him again, he replied me in English. Then I got tired of him replying  with English language then I stopped the conversation.
"In many parts of the world, languages are in danger of going extinct. It might be tempting to believe that English has become the lingua franca of global business and the Internet, but when languages die, the loss has repercussions far beyond simply the loss of a lexicon. Individuals lose out on the ability to contribute to the marketplace of ideas, businesses stand to lose a customer base, and an important connection to culture is lost." Missi Smith.

Igbo people need to learn the act of being proud of their roots and appreciate their culture just as the Yoruba and the Hausa. If you are Ignorant and you are not proud of where you come from or the language, I think there is something wrong with you somewhere. I wonder why you would not be proud of where you come from.  You didn't choose  your tribe yourself,  God did. This happens also when you find yourself in Alaba International market  or Idumota market in Lagos to buy things, once you speak Igbo to a fellow Igbo man,  he won't reply you or answer you with Igbo because he may likely  think that  once he does that, you will beat down the price of the commodity you intended buying.  Or rather, that he would not sell the goods the way he planned to sell it. And these men are full fledged Igbo men who ought to be the one to uphold this language and culture that is going into extinction.

In my village Nkporo, once it is Christmas season and you happen to be in the village, you will assume that English and Yoruba language are  the official languages there. Those Igbo children born in Ghana, Benin Republic and Lagos can't speak Igbo language.  Even majority of Children born in Lagos cannot speak Igbo Language but can speak Yoruba and English Language fluently. It hurts me alot to see the parents of these young ones commending and appreciating them on how fluent they are in English and Yoruba language  against their own language. Hence, we talk about unity amongst our people of Eastern Coast.  We talk about upholding our relationship with one another while those things that bring us together are no more of value to our people.

The most  bitter part of this is that our parents also take part in this. I have seen an Igbo father communicating with his son in Yoruba language while this so called  boy can not even say a word or speak Igbo but the father can,  then why is he communicating in a strange language with his son?. 

Although, there are many reasons why languages die. The reasons are often political, economic or cultural in nature. Speakers of a minority language may, for example, decide that it is better for their children’s future to teach them a language that is tied to economic success. But we shouldn't allow our to die.

I stopped going to my town meeting because of this. I won't be in a meeting where we are suppose to use Igbo language to deliberate on our issues and someone is communicating with us in a strange language. It is disgusting! Shame on us!  Shame on those parents that prefers English to Igbo Language?  Shame on you fathers that your children are all grown up but cannot speak Igbo!  I know it means nothing to you,  yes,  some people have said that to me.  But I think it is necessary we tackle this issue now before it gets out of hand. It is very annoying, very annoying when you see your brother on the way and you speak Igbo to him and he behaves like you are speaking Chinese to him. And sometimes,  he won't even reply you. Remember, this language is our freedom. It is the only thing that can unite us as one body. A language that can keep us safe from our foes, would you allow this language to go into extinction? Would you not pass it to the next generation? Won't you keep this culture blossoming day in day out?  We now have modern Igbo language, a fusion of 80% of English langauge and 20% of Igbo language together.

This is not common with the Yoruba people and Hausa people let alone the other minor tribes in Nigeria. In Yoruba land, the first language most Yoruba children learn from their parents is the Yoruba language. It is same with their culture but this is not what we see among those parents living abroad.  An Igbo mother in Lagos State prefer teaching her son how to speak English than Igbo language. The other one in USA prefer teaching her daughter the western culture to that of Igbo. It doesn't matter where the children were born or raised. Asa, one of the finest artistes I have grown up to know was born in Paris and although she relocated with her parents and grew in her state, Ogun, she went back to France to kickstart her music career in the 2000s. Despite this, she is one of the best Yoruba singers. The likes of Brymo, Beautiful Nubia among others are doing great lifting their cultures home and abroad. Today,  Contemporary writers like Tomi Adeyemi, and the rest are writing adventurous stories with Yoruba myths serving as their materials. All over universities in the US and UK, Yoruba culture and Ifa mythology are being studied. I have once watched a video about eleven years ago of some Cuban guys living in Cuba who practiced the Yoruba religion. It is that widespread because the Yoruba value their roots.

In Igbo land, we still prohibit our children from speaking Igbo in school, we say it is vernacular and these students graduate without learning how to speak or write igbo language. What will happen to this language in the next fifty years to come?  Some Igbo children  born and bred in Port Harcourt can not even speak Igbo how much more know anything about their roots. And those ones born and bred in Lagos have made Yoruba language their language. Over 40% of Agbero in Lagos State are Igbos who have served and nationalized themselves as Yoruba.  Igbo people need to learn and be educated on how to preserve their language and culture from other tribe in Nigeria especially the Yoruba and Hausa People! I don't know why Igbo language is not made compulsory for all the students in the Eastern zone!  I don't know why a matured boy that graduated from a college in Enugu,  Onitsha,  Aba, Eboyi and Owerri can not write Igbo language! Why?  Why? Please can someone explain why? 

​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 Smithsonian selected her photo to represent all teens from a specific decade.

I love you.
            This isn’t as simple as it sounds.  Most of my friends, teachers, books, relatives have attempted to thwart that emotion.
            ‘Do you always do what your mother says?”  “Good heavens, can’t you break that umbilical cord?”  “Why do you let your mother dictate your behavior?”
            When I was a young girl, my mother was a guardian/caretaker.  I was made to wear clumsy rubber boots when it rained, to protect my feet and my health.  Itchy woolen underwear was a necessity in poorly heated classrooms during World War II.
            Parents kissed away pain, stayed up all night while I coughed, were kind enough not to shout at me for lingering too long in the sun with exposed fair skin.  My mother was a caring woman, an attentive wife who also had space for her identity, and a superstar who moved in and out of roles with seeming ease.
            When I got to college, in Psychology 101 I heard, for the first time, that the mother-daughter relationship is supposed to be conflict-oriented.
            I liked my mother.  She gave me room to develop my own interests, but instilled in me a code of ethics and values society could be proud of.  During my dating high school years, she stayed awake until I was safely inside our house, yet she only left her bed to talk to me if I initiated the action.  She told me  nothing was so awful that I couldn’t come to her with it; that I was beautiful; and that love with a man one day would be a sharing and physically stimulating experience that would improve as the relationship strengthened.  She liked me, too.
            So psychology instructors said she envied my youth, was jealous of my energy and accomplishment, did not want to relinquish control or face the empty nest of middle years.  They said she wanted to live through me, yet wanted me to emulate her and not be too educated, too career-oriented, too self-sufficient.
            No matter that all of the above did not pertain to me; if I wanted to pass an exam, I had to mimic words spewed from a lectern.
            Why are genuine feelings of love regarded with suspicion?
            During the 24th year of my parents’ marriage, my father had a heart attack and died.  My mother amazed me as she selflessly juggled to keep family circumstances and finances in order.
            Somehow, she managed money so I could attend graduate school; so that my younger sister, then age 16, could go to college, and so that my older sister and her husband could start a business.
            She gave me a wedding so lovely, it’s still sharp in my memory.  She masked her emotional pain as she walked me down the aisle.
            Her gall bladder came out, she had two massive heart attacks, pulmonary emboli, and open-heart surgery.  Alone, still, with independence vital to her self-esteem, she returned to her quiet apartment to take care of herself.
            My mother recognized the worth of each person’s life, and the brevity of same.  She didn’t want to “burden her children with an old lady.”   My father’s death left a void too big for another male to even attempt to fill; three decades of celibacy was her own choice.
            I love her.  She gave me advice when I asked yet did not insist I follow it.  She cared for my children yet reminded me that they are my responsibility, while I was her child and she was interested in me more.  What a fantastic thing for my ego.
            She sensed when role reversal was possible and when I needed to play young-one.  She was a survivor, brave even as her health declined from receiving contaminated blood during her open-heart surgery procedure.   Her liver slowly failed though her heart was temporarily fixed.  “Life, after all is precious,” she uttered without complaint.  She represented that to her children and grandchildren.
            What did I give in return?  I can’t answer for her.  I hope the way I live gave her pleasure as she set the example for me: my stable marriage;  my recognition as a writer;  my job as a college teacher of English Composition;  my “being there” as a mother;  my ability in sports, music, art, cooking, sewing.
            I like myself.  How many others feel this way?
            One philosophical statement summed up my mother’s interaction with people: flowers for the living.  She believed one should give literal or figurative flowers while a person can smell them, and not just have them displayed on a grave.
            One Sunday in May is set aside for commercialism.  Even doing that is better than saying, “Someday I’ll call or send a gift.”  Someday has a way of slipping by.
            My mother enabled me to have independence.  Psychology courses didn’t include me in statistical surveys years ago; they still don’t.
 
 
 ©1985 Gannett Co, Inc.   (author owns the rights)
Reprinted May 2000 “Fifty-Plus”
Reprinted May 2000 “Rochester Shorts”
Reprinted August 22, 2003, May 9, 2014  “The Jewish Press Magazine”
syndicated March 2004 via Clear Mountain Syndicate
reprinted May 14, 2010 The Brighton-Pittsford Post
 

​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 Smithsonian selected her photo to represent all teens from a specific decade.

​I stood in the corridor of the chemistry department;  its characteristic odor bothered me.  As I moved into the formation a teacher suggested it was time to make, I could see beakers, microscopes, atomic element charts through the panel of glass above each classroom door.
            My white graduation cloak, and white mortarboard cap with its orange and gold tassels, made me feel both giddy and sad.  I liked high school and felt going away to a university wouldn't compare to these years.
            My mother appeared in the hallway looking for me.  I waved.  She smiled and took tiny steps in her high heels until she reached me.  The shiny floor was not slippery but appeared so, and she walked with a different swing from her usual stride in case the finish was polished wax.
            I caught her fragrance of Shalimar and it contrasted with chemicals.
            "Hi, sweetie."  She touched my arm.  "You look beautiful."
            I smiled.
            She freed a few strands of my blonde hair that appeared caught under the mortar board.  "I need your ring now.  It goes to Joyce."
            I looked at the diamond set in hexagonal prongs;  two tiny sapphires were on either side.  The ring itself was platinum and the sideview that held the setting looked like lace.
            "Remember," my mother continued, "it was mine, then your sister Carole got it when she started high school, then you, and now it's your sister Joyce's turn.  Later it'll be handed down to all your children the very same way."
            "Now?"  I felt surprised that she'd come to me in the corridor right before this very special event.
            "Didn't I give it to you as you lined up to graduate from elementary school?  I remember holding your old-fashioned bouquet while you slipped it on."  My mother was pretty, although I didn't tell her that.  Her hazel eyes looked into mine and I felt her timing wasn't correct.
            "But now," I whined.
            "Now."  She didn't move away.  "Things, honey, are not important;  people are."
            I hated lectures on values, morality, philosophy.  There I was, queuing up for commencement, and I was getting a people-are-important lecture.   
            Ever since "Pomp and Circumstance" played before my elementary school diploma ended childhood, I'd worn this ring.  I loved the sparkle.  I loved the lacy look.  I loved that it was now an heirloom.  I didn't want to give it up.
            I couldn't see beyond the corridor but tried to figure out how soon this commencement would begin its parade of graduates to seats.  I really wanted to stall handing over the ring but I wiggled my fingers forcing the platinum circle to rotate.  I wanted it to rub against my skin for the very last time.  Then I used my other hand's fingers and slid it off.
            My mother inserted it into a velvet case she'd carried in her brown leather handbag.  She hugged me, reminded me to walk straight and tall down the aisle, keep my head steady, then she  walked away.
            My finger felt naked;  exposed was an indentation where the ring had been.  I worried that my sister Joyce might not appreciate the tradition, and maybe she'd lose the ring so it could never continue its generational journey.   
            "Line up graduates.  You've got about ten minutes before the processional."  A teacher ordered.
            It was bad enough I was confined to a smelly chemistry hallway so guests wouldn't see us or, maybe I was there because the corridor was long and wide and right straight ahead was the auditorium.  The cloak was getting warm and every time I moved my head in a certain position, the tassel tickled my cheek.  I stuck my small hand in front of me.  The pale pink polish I'd so carefully applied to my nails caught my attention, but when I moved my blue-green eyes upwards all I saw was a vacant digit.
            "Remember what we've practiced, students.  When it's time to turn the tassel as graduates, turn them at the very same moment;  you'll get a signal.  Make sure no mortar board is crooked!  It's not a hat to be worn as a cap or any-which-way.  Straight.  Flat top."  The teacher moved up and down the aisle of students. 
            I got caught up in the anticipation again.  My father entered.  I watched him walk and smiled at the familiar sight of his movements;  one shoulder always seemed lower than the other.  His stride was pleasant.
            "Hi, princess," he grinned.
            "I'm too old for that," I blushed.
            "Never."
            "Is it crowded in the auditorium?" I wondered.
            "Yes.  And the sunlight is streaming in from the long windows.  It's a pretty room."  He spoke softly.
            "You always see the pretty, Dad."
            "I'm looking at you, aren't I?"  His light blue eyes met mine.
            "Oh, Daddy."  I reverted to my girlhood word for him.
            "I've got something for you."  He reached into the right pocket of his double-breasted suit, and removed a ring box.
            At first, I thought it was my familiar ring and my mother had decided I could wear it for this ceremony, but the box was different.
            My father opened the box, removed a white gold ring with three tiny diamonds in a row set in a raised oval, and then moved it on my vacant ring finger.  "This is for you.  It's new.  It's yours to start on an heirloom trip through time.  Give it to your daughter, then her daughter..."
            I cut him off with a whispered "thanks" and a shallow hug so my mortar board wouldn't fall off.  I was in ecstasy.
            "Princess, remember it's a thing.  Wear and enjoy it, but it'll outlast all of us.  People are precious and not things.  Don't 'save' it because it's new."
            Why, when he gave a speech did it seem unlike a lecture?  Was it his tone?  Was it his quiet way that revealed his sensitivity?  Was it that fathers to girls are special and not role models to be accepted/fought?
            "We're ready to move."  The teacher ordered.
            The school band could be heard introducing the processional.
            "I love you, Daddy."  I looked at my beautiful ring.
            He kissed my cheek and I inhaled the scent of his Yardley after-shave lotion.  I knew I'd wear only that ring until I was engaged.  My high school class one would go on my right hand, whenever it finally came from its Boston manufacturers.
            What had been, to me, a stench from chemicals was now mixed with Shalimar and after-shave lotion.  The chemistry corridor seemed less offensive since getting my ring, and I marched, with my group, out of the science wing and into the auditorium to assigned seats.
            Under the spot of ceiling light, I wiggled my finger, watching the stones sparkle while the commencement address was being recited.  I turned my tassel and felt grown up.  Of course I'll wear my ring and not save it, and maybe eventually understand the 'people not things are precious' philosophy, but for now I just want to look quickly and see if I can find where my parents are sitting.

Charles Hayes, a multiple Pushcart Prize Nominee, is an American who lives part time in the Philippines and part time in Seattle with his wife. A product of the Appalachian Mountains, his writing has appeared in Ky Story’s Anthology Collection, Wilderness House Literary Review, The Fable Online, Unbroken Journal, CC&D Magazine, Random Sample Review, The Zodiac Review, eFiction Magazine, Saturday Night Reader, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, Scarlet Leaf Publishing House, Burning Word Journal, eFiction India, and others.

​Much has been sung about the land of opportunity, this America that seemingly infinite choruses herald up as the God blessed one.  I don’t know whether these songsters really believe that or whether they just enjoy hearing themselves sing. Either way there is a lot of it that goes on and it takes only a drop of the hat to get it started. I suppose it all depends on where you are coming from. If you are coming from somewhere over there, out there, or almost anywhere beyond the hallelujahs and amens, you kind of wonder how can they honestly do that. If you are coming from among the songs and waving flags then I expect it’s just your special kind of opiate and it just feels too good to matter whether it is true or not. Bring it on for you are ready, you think. Hell you’ve always been ready. This is America. But even here the clock of existence has changed. No clock remains set in place.
      I know it has been with great confidence that this America was built with a devil may care brand. The things that were read and seen were served up especially designed to compliment that confidence and thereby easily tweak a little piece of the action. But suppose we were to bring together where we have been and where we are going. Not in the sense of a history which they say can be rewritten at any time. Nor in the sense of the experts for they are almost always fixed. But in the sense of the marginal, the less blessed, those outside of the fix and unlike us. It is a consideration that all good patriots of the hunt must do in their search for the truth.
     The fixed promises of the hunt which we must lay aside in order to do this will resist this temporary retirement, for these promises are built upon the rule that they must always figure in when it comes to the perceptions that are necessary to really see. Our songs are always quick to demonstrate this principle with their anthems of moving heroism, where the hero, who diligently adheres to the principles of the promises, performs glorious things. To abandon these promises and travel awry will raise voices of Gregorian admonition and emergency instructions to return to that well trod trail and it‘s accompanying muzak. Many are the institutions built to house these structured forests of provision. Laws are handed down, in the name of civilization, to avoid the unsightly bypaths that we might lightly reconnoiter. But laws of structured promise can not contain the truth of the unsightly real if we deign to look. In an honest and necessary hunt, to see all that can be seen is required. We must see the eyes cloud and the being fade as well as the bullet strike. We must feel the melancholy hollow in our breast as we stand at the abyss. We must know what we have done, without the tutor of singing voices and structured promises. We must see the kill as it is and allow no further insult to visit it. We must be.
 
 
 

​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 Smithsonian selected her photo to represent all teens from a specific decade.

​ Ouija Boards had rules to follow during play.  Seriously. With its numbers, letters, pointer, some words, a person may communicate with unseen.  Don’t ask a question that might give a frightening response, and play it outside your home so the spirits’ energy will not invade  your private space.  Whew.  The little thing that moves while yours and your friends’ steady fingers touch it, planchette, must not be left on the board as bad luck could result.  So many scary things seem associated with this game, quite popular when I was a teen.
Yet, today, might medical science bring back Ouija Boards for life determination?  According to The Wall Street Journal, Friday March 22, 2019, Opinion Page, if a physician in America suggests a patient has six months left of life, and the human does not die in that framework, a hospice provider might sue the doctor for fraud.  “U.S. v. AseraCare is a civil fraud case, so the dispute is about money.” (‘Medicare’s Hospice Rules Could Make Your Doctor a Criminal’, by Kyle Clark and Andrew George, The Wall Street Journal, Friday March 22, 2019, Opinion Page)  
My older sister’s stomach cancer was aggressive; her congestive heart failure coupled with diabetes, shifted spine, and more were merely ‘things’, as was her open heart surgery.  Part of the stomach was removed, chemo, but eventually the entire stomach left her physical frame and a feeding tube was inserted.  She told me she was going to miss cream cheese, a childhood joke about her taking the whole package and putting the cheese between halves of a bagel and trying to eat that.  The 3,000 mile distance made visits by phone; she lapsed into a coma.  Her offspring were called to come.  This woman rode a camel in Egypt, traveled alone to places in the world few might do with a companion, and so wanted to live to sign up and be among the first passengers to soar into space.  Life-oriented, and daring, dying was just not an option to her brain just as physical/medical limitations to her were not ‘limits’ but just challenges. The family waited.  Since hearing is the last to go, when I telephoned and the receiver was cradled against her ear, she spoke and knew it was me, giggled about childhood, asked about my family.  The coma returned, but so did my phone calls and her becoming alert.  Her family waited longer.  She just liked life too much to allow it to leave in the time frame expected with such disease.  Some spark just took longer than predicted to extinguish.  If this were now, and not in 2005, might her doctors be sued because something in her will-to-live allowed more time?
       Most have heard “I want to live through Christmas” from a terminally ill person, and, in spite of science, the ‘will to survive’ gives that human a last family celebration?  If spirits might be aroused with a Ouija Board; hopes ignite via a Chinese fortune cookie; predictions anticipated from a horoscope; why can’t the force called life be, somehow, pushed and stretched for longer than calculations suggest?
Down with being subjective. ‘Based on scientific knowledge, I predict’ has to be an absolute. Sue the sports’ coach who said ‘if you warm up and exercise you lessen your chances for injury’ and you get injured after warming up and exercising.  What is ‘lessened’ anyway?  The dentist assumes your tooth crown will last ‘x’ years and it fails before that; sue him/her.  There’s a lifetime guarantee on your pillow’s firmness but a limited warrantee; what does that mean?  Hm.  Maybe that’s the way an American doctor can prevent being taken to court because all realistic calculations should have a terminally ill patient deceased within six months but stays alive longer: there’s a lifetime guarantee the person will die; there’s a limited warrantee in judgment to exact date.

Charles Hayes, a multiple Pushcart Prize Nominee, is an American who lives part time in the Philippines and part time in Seattle with his wife. A product of the Appalachian Mountains, his writing has appeared in Ky Story’s Anthology Collection, Wilderness House Literary Review, The Fable Online, Unbroken Journal, CC&D Magazine, Random Sample Review, The Zodiac Review, eFiction Magazine, Saturday Night Reader, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, Scarlet Leaf Publishing House, Burning Word Journal, eFiction India, and others.

​It is through self consciousness that the master-slave dialectic is born. This birth is the result of a struggle by one party to survive under the domination of a stronger party. When relationships and their interactions are at least fair and respectful, if not equal, little if any struggle will take place for they are simply interactions between humans who happen to inhabit the same planet. In a word, life, au naturel, in its static sense. But when a stronger party injects a struggle into the relationship by allowing their strength and lack of self consciousness to disadvantage the other party the master-slave dialectic via the other party’s self consciousness, or struggle, is established. Consequently, the stronger group, lacking the degree of self consciousness and struggle that the weaker group has, will over time become weaker. And the weaker group will develop more strength through their struggle until they become superior and the former master-slave dialectic is reversed. It is here where true change can take place. Mandela’s South Africa comes to mind.   
Upon becoming superior, the former oppressed created a fair and respectful relationship in its static sense, by not using their newfound power to disadvantage others. By doing this the birth of nations or peoples can  come with their own destiny, new life. Until one or the other parties of that life tries to fix something that isn’t broke.
     In the beginning the war on terror developed between the United States and parts of the Middle East. And it did not occur in a vacuum. It took place because the more self conscious wanted to establish, for all to see and respond to, a pronounced master-slave dialectic. The dominant United States, although with as much power for insight and correction as power for dominance, chose to “turn the screw” of dominance and pay back. In a sense our response to the attack on the twin towers of the World Trade Center was so extreme that the screw became set. Some would say that this was a natural requirement for perpetual war. And that it was done with full knowledge of this because decline was imminent for our society. And the best way to deny this, but secretly acquiesce, was to show our power and say that we will go down swinging, an American concept that has been wielded about like no other. Perhaps, more simply, it was our time and the grace necessary to do it any other way did not exist. Every attempt to turn a screw that is already set is ultimately a waste of time and resources and does nothing more than shorten the time of the dialectic.
     Rome wasn't built in a day, for sure, but once the dialectic took place, as Paul Harvey used to say, “you know the rest of the story.” And it was not a long one. History is replete with such examples from the colonial powers on down to almost any power. “There is a time and a purpose to everything unto heaven.”
     Those that say that what we do is for the sake of our children, while those same children have to overcome their natural instincts to live and let live in order to honor their parents, seem to believe that history will respect them, where it did not the Romans and all others. When the screw is set to advantage, or compensate, one party or another, only the opposite can occur.
     There were those in power that knew, but dared not say, these things. They tried to mitigate some of what is. Surely, only by sleight of hand could this be done, for a people scared to acknowledge the obvious screamed and hollered that they were being deceived at every turn. But that is part of the dialectic as well. It would be too much of a struggle to do otherwise. May the journals that can, unblemished, make it through this, acknowledge those magicians who knew the score and still tended their kind. They were not defeatist. But they were not heifers that would follow a hay wagon into a slaughterhouse or a hovering mini-gun either. Enough struggle still lies there to get some of them through each day. So far.
                                                  
                                       
 

In the Measuring
by Carol Smallwood
Publisher: Shanti Arts Publishing (October 7, 2018)
Paperback: 116 pages
ISBN-978-1-947067-38-7
$14.95
https://www.amazon.com/Measuring-Carol-Smallwood/dp/1947067389/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1532597733&sr=1-2&keywords=carol+smallwood
​

Life itself is divided into minutes, hours, and every enigmatic feature associated with time.  Distances can be measured in feet, yards, and miles.  Life can sometimes be measured through personal achievements, downfalls, but still continues until it eventually ends.  One of the key aspects of life is that measurements help people understand the world around them.  Given the fact that writing is both qualitative and quantitative reveals the fundamental fact that great writing is both creative and written productively.  Carol Smallwood is currently one of the most prolific writers in the modern world, and her poetry once again strikes a chord with readers given its examinations about life itself by using measurements in In the Measuring.
Carol Smallwood opens her newest poetry collection with a famous quote from Emily Dickinson: “The Truth must dazzle gradually / Or every man be blind."  Those powerful words directly relate to the profoundly moving poems that Carol Smallwood wrote to remind readers that life must be lived step-by-step instead of being rushed.  Time does pass by, and sometimes it might fly, but there really is no need to race against the clock because life itself is a continuous journey from birth until death.  Some people might also be impatient, but waiting is actually necessary in order to understand all of the joys that life can offer.  In fact, a day is measured by a 24-hour cycle, but it really depends on how people use their time that ultimately defines their true character.  Some people might strive to make every moment in life count while others would waste their time instead of contributing to the world around them.  Life itself is not always easy, but it must be lived in a way that acknowledges the fact that it is sometimes better to live a life that is measured in moments instead of minutes.  Sometimes things do take time, but every moment spent on meaningful activities, such as helping other people or expressing kindness, can give people the chance to relish in all of the beauty that life can offer (but slowly and gradually, of course).
Through seventy-seven poems, Carol Smallwood once again presents her unique poetic style that deals with enigmatic concepts like time, space, and life itself.  Some of her poem titles actually connect with the poems themselves to present writing that is in the form of the stream of consciousness writing technique.  For example, the poem titled, "Movement" continues with the lines "is one way to tell if / something's alive (1-2).  That statement is powerful because movement demonstrates crossing through time and space, but there is a warning that just because something that moves does not necessarily mean that it actually lives.  That notion is true in both the literal and figurative senses because something is moving simply means getting from one place to another.  In order to have a meaningful life, though, one must be willing to explore, grow, and change rather than remain stagnant.  Such a powerful poem reveals the famous idea of the key difference between existing and living passionately.
Carol Smallwood is truly a gifted poetess who explores the humanity that unites all people.  There is a sense of humility to her writing because her poetry reveals the fundamental fact that people are different and diverse, but still share common traits in spite of such differences.  The themes of measurements and the beauty of the world suggests that all people can live harmoniously if they choose to accept and love one another rather than let conflicts tear them apart.  Smallwood is an expert on how the ordinary really can be extraordinary, and that life is both simple and beautiful just because reality is what it is.  Carol Smallwood once again reminds readers about the basic facts of life through the quantitative measurements that people must use in order to understand the world around them.
 

​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 Smithsonian selected her photo to represent all teens from a specific decade.

I wiggled my fingers so the sunlight would play with the pearly shine on my nails. The platinum-color polish glistened.  My dad really didn't like the iridescent hue, but it was a statement that I seemed to be making: I’m grown up.  It is 1952!
The Hotel Niagara had a strange shape, but my parents were told that it was the best place to be on the American side.  Since they were treating the family to a celebration of my older sister's wedding, they wanted her extended honeymoon to be the best.
Niagara Falls. A place for lovers. My older sister, Carole, is in love, and Joy, my younger one, too adolescent to understand;  I wanted what Carole was feeling so I simply called attention to myself with those icy-cold nails which everyone hated. Me too, but I, of course wouldn't reveal  that.
"Are we going to Canada for the Maid of the Mist?" I sipped at my chocolate milk that I poured over ice.
"The Cave of the Winds looks dangerous. Slippery." My mother mentioned after glancing at the tour pamphlet.
“Good." I perked up and stopped annoying everyone with my fingernails. "Let me see the brochure."
Carole smiled at her husband, Bennet, as if they had some special secret between them. "The college girl wants danger." 
"How about rolling in a barrel?" Joy, age 14, asked me. 
"Yuk, yuk," I said sarcastically. "Go ahead everyone.  Pick on me because I like trying things. I also want to go into a wax museum, ride on that gondola thing over the water in Canada.”
My mother cut me short.  “We all know your zest for things.”  The words came out with some admiration and not chiding.
“Okay.  Let’s cross the border.  Mom and I will watch you from above.  The Cave of the Winds should have slippery spots so be careful.”  Dad protected us with his sentences.
We left the shop and walked across the Rainbow Bridge.  My parents paused between two country’s flags and I snapped a picture.  I wished that a real rainbow had suddenly appeared in the sky, and I wouldn’t even have had to caption the processed photo.  The name was romantic.  I couldn’t really believe I was leaving the entire United States, an actual country, and crossing a border into a foreign one.  A pretty-named bridge that I strolled across wasn’t like going to places I learned about in history books where crossing a border had guards and wooden wands going up with security approval/police dogs/ and suddenly everyone is speaking a language I don’t understand.  This was more like going from Brooklyn to Manhattan.  Only the change of flags made me consider this was a connection between, well, two places I was supposed to think were different.
I loved the heavy, yellow-colored, rubber slickers, and the spray of water from the falls wetting my face, the slippery feel on wooden steps of the Cave of the Winds.  I wished I had someone I loved to share this with.  Sure, I loved my family, but not like what Carole had at that moment.
“It’s scary,”Joy grabbed a wooden railing on the steps.
“It’s supposed to be,” I remarked.  “The Maid of the Mist won’t be, since we won’t even get off the boat.  But there’s a long drop in an amusement-park like car on a cable to get us down to the boat.  That’ll be the only scary thing there.”
“Why are these steps so slimy?”  Joy clutched the bannister.
“You’re walking on wood that’s always soaked, and slime grows well on that.”  I pretended I knew the answer.  I noticed Bennet was helping Carole by supporting her with his arm.  I didn’t want to admit I was jealous.
“Are we really under the falls?”  Joy kept her head down.  “Will we go into a dark cave?”
“It’s called Cave-of-the-Winds,” I sounded out each syllable, “because we are under the cascade in this one area where the sound is as loud from the steep falling water onto rocks, and the splatters, as the real wind moving around.”  I looked up but my eyes caught forceful spraying water.  “We can touch the falls.  What an exciting thing!”  The water’s sound was incredible.  “Mom and Dad are really missing this.  I’m really part of the rushing drop and not just standing on some observation desk looking down at it.”  My clothes were damp under the slicker, and my hair quite wet.  I loved the sensation. 
Later that evening, after dinner, we saw the falls lit up with pretty colored lights. My parents hugged, as they always did anyway. Carole and Bennet made silly faces at one another.  Joy talked about the wax figures in the museum and how very real they looked.  I thought about the porcelain cups and saucers with red roses decorations, and my mother, who told me I should put these away for my trousseau and remember buying them at a pretty China shop in another country.  Was that supposed to make me feel better about being a middle child?  Well, I’d 'used’ that middle-child thing a lot and couldn't play on her sympathy for being ‘caught’ in a never first/never last situation.  I don't think she realized I was in love with the idea of being in love until I blurted out, “I hope my next vacation won't be with family but rather with a husband of mine.”
The eight-hour train ride home was as quick as that going. We got on a sleeper, in our private compartment attached by doors to the newlyweds on one side and my parents on the other. We had dinner on the train, went to sleep, and awoke in New York City. 
Silly wishes sometimes become realities;  my father died two years later and I never again did take a family vacation. And two years after that, I walked down the aisle with my mother, and a void my father left that couldn't ever be filled. 
Platinum polish lacked warmth. And Niagara Falls always reminded me of statements that can reach Fate's ears, yet I live, now, only 90 miles from that area. 
Summer 1999, my daughter and her family drove up from Cincinnati, Ohio, so my husband and son-in-law could be golf partners in a country club tournament in Rochester, New York.  She wanted to go to the Falls and show her two children this wonder , while the guys were on the links.
We put on thin blue plastic ponchos for The Maid of the Mist, and the spray in my face made me feel both happy and sad.  I still liked water spraying on my skin.  Her children, David, age 12, and Jennifer , age 9, were giggling, and we captured our expressions using a throw-away camera. I told them about the heavy, yellow, rubber slickers. An elevator took us to the boat, but I mentioned the cable ride of 1952, and how I thought it might not quickly stop before crashing since it seemed to speed downward. 
I watched from an observation spot as they walked on wooden steps, Cave of the Winds, but elected not to chance slipping or navigating so many stairs.  I saw my sisters and myself in my mind. 
At lunch, from the highest restaurant tower we found on the Canadian side, my daughter, Sheryl, was completely taken by the exquisite view from so many stories up:  I noticed the Hotel Niagara. It looked old, and the odd shape seemed more peculiar. Windows, once so modern,
were rectangular eyes and I wondered if the guests inside were looking across the border at the tower we were in. Was it shabby behind its brick facade? Did any other hotel ever copy its strange, yet unique form?  How many happy/sad stories did plaster walls hear?  Was another girl, taking parents' love and life for granted, prancing around the lobby showing off her pearlized nail polish?  I mentioned I'd stayed there in 1952, and it was a pricey place then.  Then.  So long ago. I didn't want to spill out my immature actions, and hurtful statement about not wanting anymore family vacations as if I were ‘cool’, but found my lips revealing such.
So long ago. Words that I've regretted.  Parents dead. The Falls area changed.  A casino, more roadways and congestion.  My grandson had bought a computer mousepad at a gift shop after the Cave of the Winds walk. Computers. Certainly didn't exist in 1952.  Neither did air-
conditioned cars, cell phones, camcorders, for starters.
But the falls keep falling. Water keeps rushing.  Visitors with similar wishes, or feelings, or regrets, or cooing at new mates move between two countries without needing passports. Change, yet unchanged.
My grandchildren listened to my outpourings with wisdom I didn't have when older than they.  David said it was all right now, and Jennifer said she loved me.  Sheryl has always been available to hear my tales about my past as I presented a real me with flaws as well as assets. She was glad I was sharing this with her children.  I was more than Grandma.. . multi-dimensional with sensitivity and sometimes self-anger. 
The Rainbow Bridge connected and confronted  me with an unresolved past.  But I knew now that the 90-mile trip would be one made often because there are memories of a special day with Sheryl and her children.



©2000 The Jewish Press