Issue 10 Vedriti 2023

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The Ultimate Shelter

Manuela captures poverty, need, and friendship in the photos she takes of three young boys begging on the streets of Dublin.

Trust

Mike flies to Spokane, Washington, in hopes of finding a way to get to Trail, Canada, for a work meeting. With no rental cars, and during a time before internet, he willingly puts out his thumb.

Rain-Washed Streets

Dublin Street photography by Jim O’Callaghan.

An Angel Without Wings

Having struggled to find support after her son was diagnosed with a developmental disability, Stacy started a foundation to help families within the community get the help they need.

Selûne’s Wanderer

A short story about two lonely outcasts who find solace in their unexpected companionship.

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To the Grown-Ups Who Let Us Be Kids

Emilia writes a dedication to the adults who gave her and her siblings a safe space to be kids, learning valuable lessons about themselves and life.

Homecoming

An excerpt from an autobiographical novel in progress.

Lake Bohinj

Photography of Lake Bohinj, Slovenia

Beyond the Magazine

Learn more about the people highlighted in this issue and see where you can view more of their work.

Submissions

November Issue Reveal

www.ethnospheremagazine.com

Editor

Madeline C. Lanshe

editor@ethnospheremagazine.com

Editorial Staff

Mitchell Dunbar, Maureen Gregory, Madeline C. Lanshe, Marcia Neundorfer, Mike Neundorfer

Designer

Madeline C. Lanshe

Photographers

Manuela Dumay, Mitchell Dunbar, Madeline C. Lanshe, Jim O’Callaghan

Writers

Manuela Dumay, Hannah Fortune, Faith Lanshe, Mike Neundorfer, Emilia Resanović

Other Contributors

Alexandra Corey

The Ultimate Shelter

by Manuela Dumay

Thesepictures were taken in 1973 Dublin, on O’Connell Bridge, over the dark waters of the Liffey, just before it throws itself into the open arms of Dublin Bay.

This little boy caught my eye first. He was begging, as were the other two, but they were standing a little further away. They joined in when they saw me talking to him. It was drizzling. They were used it.

Why was this young boy looking so lost? Was he a motherless child? Or beaten when he came home with too little money after his day’s begging? Or was it sniffing glue that gave him this blank look?

What has become of these young fellows? What sort of life have they had? Are they still alive even? And what prompted me to take these pictures? I was 19, adamant about equal rights and social justice, and I wanted to give them a feeling that they had worth: worth their photograph being taken, worth some attention, worth being given money.

But they had something more to keep them going: friends and companionship. They had each other.

TRUST

by Mike Neundorfer

Mitchell Dunbar

Hitchhiking was an excuse to sling myself into the unknown, trusting people I not only didn’t know, but couldn’t even imagine. When I did most of my hitchhiking, in the late 60s and early 70s, the uncertainty was amplified because there were no cell phones, no GPSs, and no internet. Hitchhiking was a time when I could be out of touch, lost, and willfully ignorant of everything but the present. I narrowed my inputs and responses to each moment and trusted the good in people. My sphere of control was limited, and my sphere of influence was determined by my instincts and actions. It brought me a lot of joy.

The trip I describe here took place about thirty-five years ago. I lived in Cleveland, Ohio with my wife Marcia and our three young boys. I ran a small company, working with heavy industrial plants to reduce air pollution. One weekend, I had a rush consulting job where I committed on a Friday to meet the following Monday with engineers and management at a copper smelting plant in Trail, British Columbia, a small industrial town in the western Canadian mountains.

Trail was not easy to get to from Cleveland. Based on airline schedules, I would have to take the whole weekend and make connections through Vancouver. Weekends were precious time with my boys, so I looked for an alternative.

I checked a paper map and saw that Trail was only about 125 miles up a two lane road from Spokane, with a border crossing into Canada. I could get a flight from Cleveland to Spokane Sunday afternoon, so I could spend the weekend with Marcia and our boys. How hard could it be to get from Spokane to Trail, only a three or four hour drive? I didn’t discuss the details and uncertainty of the trip with Marcia who trusted

my decisions. She was glad to have me home on the weekend.

I flew to Spokane, arriving, with the time change, early Sunday evening. If there had been internet available, I could have learned before I even left that there would be no rental cars available to drive from Spokane to Trail. There wasn’t even a bus.

Outside the Spokane airport, as the sun was setting, I put my thumb out with both trepidation and excitement. I had hitchhiked thousands of miles in the past, and I felt freed from control, relishing the adventure of living and adapting to life on the road.

I stood for a half hour before an old pickup truck with a covered low bed stopped. A middle-aged Native American man with long dark hair got out of the driver seat and opened the back of the truck, since the cab was already full with two other guys. In the low light, I could see that the back was also full of people. The first person I saw was an old man with long gray hair and a thin beard, smoking a pipe emitting a smell I didn’t recognize. Behind him, the truck was full of men and women, old and young. The driver told me to go toward the cab, where I could recline on a board across the truck bed, since there was no headroom and no other space available. I carefully climbed over other passengers to get to my place. As I got in, I asked him to drop me on the main road to Trail. I reclined on the plank in the windowless back of the truck, trying to imagine the lives of my fellow passengers. Were they part of a family, a tribe or otherwise connected? Where were they going? No one spoke. When the driver stopped after what seemed like an hour or two, he opened the back and, trying not to step on anyone, I climbed out into the dark night.

I found myself at the edge of a small town. As the sound of the truck driving away turned to silence, I tried to get oriented. I had a burst of anxiety as I realized I was not on the route to Canada. The only lights were a few blocks away, at the far end of town. The rest of the buildings were dark and silent. I walked toward the lights, which turned out to be the police station. I went in and explained my situation to the Chief of Police. He said his daughter, her husband and their kids were heading toward the road I needed to be on, and they would take me. My relief was immediate.

I got in their VW beetle, where I was warm and securely crowded in silence with the family. Over the thirty minute drive, I may have even shut my eyes for a few minutes. They stopped, and I stepped out, going from the comfort of a warm car and family to being alone and cold at the intersection of the road to Canada and a smaller side road. The only sign of life was a bar on one quadrant. I stood with my thumb out for almost two hours, with only two cars passing, as the temperature dropped. Sometime around midnight, I walked to the bar. It was nearly empty. I ordered a beer, and when I told the bartender where I was headed, he informed me that the border had closed at 10:00 pm, so there wouldn’t be any more through traffic that night. He said I might get a ride from someone when the bars closed, but it wouldn’t do me much good since I couldn’t get into Canada anyway. I paid for the beer, left a tip, and walked back to the intersection. I was cold, tired, and wondering what the rest of the night would bring.

After a couple more hours of waiting at the intersection, a car pulled out of the side road, stopped and the passenger door swung open. The driver said, “Get in, you won’t get a ride tonight.” It was the bartender going home after his shift. My mood lifted, although I had

no idea where he was taking me. We went up the road toward Canada for a while, turned a couple of times down smaller roads and finally drove down a gravel driveway. I followed him into what I could tell in the dark was a one room log cabin. He motioned to a couch near the door and said I could sleep there. He went to the corner of the room and got into bed with his wife.

I was awakened by sunlight streaming through the windows of the cabin. I went outside to the outhouse. The cabin was set in a verdant wooded valley. Near the cabin, there was a babbling creek; chickens were out; there were a couple of pigs in a pen; and there was a pot of fresh flowers in the outhouse. When I went back into the cabin, the bartender’s wife was cooking bacon from their pigs and eggs from their chickens. We had homemade bread with a jam she made from local berries. It smelled wonderful. I felt like I was in heaven. The cabin was warm, welcoming and a perfect part of this beautiful valley.

I didn’t have a lot of conversation with my log cabin friends. I asked them where they were from, and expressed appreciation for their hospitality and food. We seemed comfortable with each other, but without a lot of talk. When the bartender said he would take me back to the highway, I did not want to leave.

When he dropped me off, I almost immediately got a ride with a tractor trailer. I always liked riding in trucks, because the view was great and the drivers were always interesting. The border to Canada was staffed by one officer in an outhouse-sized wooden shack. The driver and I went in, showed ID and answered the questions. We walked out, but for some reason, the driver turned and said to the officer, “He’s a hitchhiker”.

My heart sank as the officer told us to come back. He asked more questions, and when I finally showed him my plane tickets back home, he said, “You are not like most hitchhikers who come through here.”

The trucker dropped me off south of Trail and after a couple of easy, short rides, I reached the plant about 20 minutes early for my meeting, feeling well fed, not too poorly rested, and satisfied that I had made it. I had not worried about being on time for the meeting because I gave up control of my schedule as soon as I put my thumb out. I had a feeling of accomplishment, but mostly, I felt deep gratitude for the generosity of those I trusted and who, in turn, trusted me.

Rain-washed Streets

Jim O’Callaghan

An Angel Without Wings

by Faith Lanshe

Oneof my favorite Christmas movies that I watch with my family every year is It’s a Wonderful Life. “Mom is going to cry,” my kids always say. And I always do. In the movie, George Bailey has big plans for his life: traveling, going to college, seeing the world…But that’s not how his journey unfolds. Instead, George puts others first and his plans second. Through Angel Clarence, George is given a tremendous gift to see how each of his “random” acts of kindness and selflessness transformed the lives of his friends, family, community, and even Clarence, in a positive way. His story epitomizes the truth that one person, one selfless act, one moment of care and love, can truly impact the universe.

When I think of this lesson, one person, whom I have the honor and privilege of calling my friend and colleague, comes to mind, exemplifying selflessness, and probably unaware of just how much she has changed the lives of the people she has touched.

I met Stacy over ten years ago. She runs a nonprofit organization called Zane’s Inc., formerly

the Zane’s Foundation. I found Zane’s because my youngest son, Gerry, was diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder when he was six years old. When we received this diagnosis, we were lost. How do we find the help we need? Who can we trust? Where do we put our efforts and resources? We had started to build Gerry’s wonderful support team, when his speech therapist said, “I think an iPad would help Gerry. There are apps he can use to help him with communication, language, and social development.” She told me about an organization that granted families iPads. I applied, and Stacy came over to our house to meet and talk with us. Gerry loved her instantly! She spoke with him and wanted to know what he was interested in, let him show her his trains, and wanted to know how he was going to use his iPad. That interview changed the trajectory of our lives. Stacy shared so much information with me and encouraged me to come to the community meetings to learn more. She gave me hope for Gerry’s future. Back then, people got together in person for meetings, with live speakers, a snack, and networking. I attended these monthly meetings faithfully for years and

learned so much valuable information to help our son and family. Eventually, Stacy “talked me into” joining the Board of Directors for Zane’s, and there I sit today, fulfilling the mission and vision of helping others with developmental disabilities through financial support, education, and community outreach.

Stacy founded Zane’s Inc. 15 years ago, in 2008, after she discovered how difficult it was to find the help, resources, and support that she needed for her disabled son, Zane. She could have focused all her attention on her own family, their struggles and challenges, and only Zane’s needs, but she didn’t. There are organizations for specific causes such autism, Down syndrome, cerebral palsy, but there wasn’t a nonprofit focusing under the umbrella of “developmental disabilities,” which would encompass many situations. Stacy knew that children aren’t a label, but are able to grow, learn, and optimize functioning to become their best selves. Zane’s was established to assist others facing these obstacles because she wanted to make it easier for them and help their kids reach their full potential. As of 2023, Zane’s Family Support Fund Initiative has proudly assisted 306 children and families through financial assistance, totaling more than $300,000. But the number of families they have helped in many other ways is numberless.

Stacy also has the gift of remembering the situations and faces of the people who receive assistance from Zane’s. I don’t know how she can recall all these details from over 15 years of talking to families and hearing their stories, struggles, challenges, triumphs. She will say, “Remember we helped this family five years ago when they needed a special bike for their child?” I’m like, “No, I really don’t.” I admire this ability and I know it impacts families when they recognize that someone heard them and cared enough to remember their story. I cannot begin to comprehend the number of selfless hours

Stacy has spent on the phone over the years with crying, confused, and shocked parents. I was one of them over ten years ago who was given a folder by a doctor and told, “Good Luck. You are lucky that Gerry has a family.” Good luck? Little did he know that he had the gift of prophecy, because as “luck” would have it, we found Stacy and Zane’s.

Think about what $500, $1000, or $2000 would mean to you: maybe a nice piece of jewelry, a weekend get-away, an airline ticket, landscaping, or a new piece of furniture? To these families, it means opportunity, growth,

joy, belonging, relief. Many families said that their child would not be able to receive what they needed without Stacy: an adapted bicycle, extra speech therapy, summer camp, respite, safety cameras, therapeutic horseback riding, water safety and swimming. Rereading my own testimonial reminds me of where we were in 2011, floundering to know where, how, why and with whom to seek help for our son. That year, I wrote this: “Besides helping Gerry with an iPad, Stacy has encouraged me in other endeavors and has been an emotional support for me. She has included me on the email list and I am receiving valuable educational resources. I cannot say enough about how helpful and supportive Stacy has been.”

Stacy knows that the work she does, the hours she devotes to Zane’s, the innumerable calls that she makes takes are helpful, and that she is providing a very valuable service to this under-served population. But I want her to know that she has changed the course of many people’s lives, including mine, just like George Bailey. It’s not easy, and I know that at times she is exhausted, especially right before the big annual fundraiser! But she continues to encourage others to be hopeful and persevere in their journey. I recently thanked Stacy for working so hard and bringing joy to others. She said, “This is where I am meant to be.”

My hope is that, in return for her boundless selflessness, she, too, will be taken care of, the comfort she spreads coming back around and enveloping her and her family.

“I literally cried when I found out the assistance that was provided to my family. I am so thankful there are people who do understand the difficulty in raising a child with special needs. Zane’s is proof that people do still care and have restored my faith in so many things.”

“When we applied for this funding, I was hoping to get help with our son’s very expensive summer treatment program. We have struggled to get insurance coverage and assistance for him because mental health coverage and support is so far behind other disabling conditions. Zane’s not only saw my sweet son for his potential, but they also provided so much more than just a check. I learned so much from Stacy. Most importantly, I felt a caring safety net for our family as we guide our son towards a successful future.”

“The life of families with special needs children and young adults can be so lonely and make you feel isolated. But Zane’s makes you and your special needs child feel valued and supported.”

“Thank you for everything that you did for my daughter. I am so glad that I know you. You made me feel like part of the family and now I know that I am not alone. I have amazing guidance. God bless you.”

“Stacy, not only is the iPad incredibly helpful to Susie, but you gave me many other ideas to work on for her.”

“We love everyone at Zane’s, especially Stacy. Everyone is kind, helpful, friendly, and supportive. We have felt financial relief but also understood the stressors from having a special needs child.”

“Stacy, if it weren’t for Zane’s, Julian would not have received the therapy he needs this summer. Thank you so much for helping him to be the best he can be. You are truly a gift to the world.”

“After coming in contact with Zane’s, our world opened up and new opportunities became available. You are a blessing to us and every family you cross paths with.”

“Zane’s has been a key part of my son’s journey to a better quality of life. He is learning ways to control his body through extra occupational therapy, and we are learning ways to assist him.”

“Thank you so much for taking the time to help our family in our time of need.”

“ We truly appreciate what you have provided for our son. He is making great strides with his therapeutic riding. We have seen him become more focused and better able to listen and follow directions.”

Below are words from just a small fraction of the families whose lives Stacy has changed.

Selûne’s Wanderer

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by Hannah Fortune

In a world where mysteries and magic intertwined, there existed a young wanderer named Iralei—a girl reborn under the full moon, destined to wander in the shadows of her past. She bore healing powers that saved lives, and destructive abilities that protected the innocent. Yet, she knew not her origins, her memories lost to the passage of time.

Guided by instinct, the moon, and the whispers of her goddess, Iralei roamed through forests and fields, a solitary figure, not knowing her purpose amidst the chaos. She encountered numerous adventurers during her journey, but none left a mark on her fragmented memories like Wallace, a giant lion man. Wallace, with his rugged exterior and tumultuous past, somehow offered Iralei the sense of belonging she had long yearned for.

As they traveled together, Iralei observed Wallace’s struggle with identity, a reflection of her own internal battle. Despite the vast differences between them, they understood each other in ways words could never capture. Wallace, a warrior with a heart of gold that was hidden beneath the surface of his stoic exterior, found solace in Iralei’s silent presence, and she found comfort in his protective nature.

One stormy night, rain cascaded, drenching the world in a relentless downpour. They sought shelter amidst the trees, but the rain’s persistent assault seemed unyielding. Iralei, already soaked, felt an unexpected warmth when Wallace extended his massive palm above her head, a simple gesture that spoke volumes, a tenderness that transcended spoken language. Though the rain had already penetrated her frail form, she understood the compassion behind the act, even though she was not one to understand others well. In that fleeting moment, a sense of gratitude and a glimmer of an emotion she couldn’t quite grasp filled Iralei’s heart.

Their journey continued, marked by the unspoken connection that weathered storms and stood firm against the passage of time. In each other’s company, Iralei and Wallace discovered the beauty of finding shelter not just from the rain that poured outside, but from the tempests within their own souls.

To the Grown-Ups Who Let Us Be Kids

by Emilia Resanović

Through the multitude of fanciful stories created together, Joan knew I was in love with paper dolls. So one year for my birthday, she dressed me up, had me pose, and then surprised me by gifting me with what immediately became my most prized possession: a paper doll of myself, accompanied by outfits and costumes she drew and cut out herself. Can you imagine? I was important enough to be a character in my own story. Joan had not only gifted me ample space in this world, but space in the world of my own imaginings.

Each generation lives to see its own beauties and its own horrors, each probably thinking what they’ve lived through is the most unimaginable. And no one’s wrong, but the way we navigate difficult times, especially as children, depends

heavily on our community or those adults who serve as a haven in a storm–those who let us just be kids.

I won’t pretend I had a horrible childhood. I didn’t. I was blessed with loving parents who have only ever done their utmost to support my siblings and me. However, there was a period of sudden and abundant change that would have robbed me of the freedom of play and childlike innocence if it were not for very key adults in my life who protected that space.

Born in the beginning of 1994, I was only six years old when the attacks on the World Trade Centers happened September 11th, 2001. As Flight 93 was hijacked somewhere over eastern Ohio, I remember being sent home from school that day, not understanding what was happening. I felt confusion and fear, followed by frustration that I couldn’t watch my kids’ shows because the image of those two towers enveloped in smoke were on every channel, on every front page. I think there was a general assumption made, reinforced now whenever I talk to people only slightly older than myself, that “the children” were too young to remember it. Perhaps it was more of a blur to us, but we were certainly old enough to remember the

tangible shift in emotions of those around us, the general rise in tension and uncertainty.

Around the same time, my maternal grandfather suffered a major stroke and my paternal grandfather fell extremely ill and was unable to continue living alone in Cleveland. My parents made the decision to have the latter come live in our home. This choice is one they do not regret, but it indisputably affected our home and family dynamics. We had no guest room, so my grandfather slept, ate, and lived in a cushy recliner in our family room–the room where previously we would gather for movies or play. I remember his coughing and visible pain. We thought he was dying, and essentially he was, though he truly passed away in 2005, only after his own son, my uncle, prematurely died from a brain aneurysm. This grandfather was also a retired Orthodox priest, and while kind and possessing a particularly dry sense of humor, his character was also very stern and stoic. His old parishioners would often come visit him for spiritual discussions and advice. When this happened, we could not even go into that part of the house. The atmosphere became frequently heavy, teeming with topics not necessarily in line with my age or needs. For example, I overheard a lot about what we believed about the ‘end of the world,’ only shortly after having arrived in it. Naturally, I ended up spending a lot of time alone in my imagination seeking ways to escape the gravity of it all.

This seeking of refuge brings me to the heart of this story: the adults with whom we found a place to just be kids. My brothers and I were lucky to have a few people who, even into our adulthood, guarded and nourished our need for creativity and laughter, our need for choice, and our need for unconditional love. Are these not fundamental necessities for both children and adults alike?

The Temos Family by choice, not by blood, Aunt Joan and Uncle Larry Temo lived just down the road from us and for innumerable days their home itself served as a safe space to run away to after school or on hot summer days for pool, spontaneous pizza, and perpetual mirth. Larry owned and ran the last hand-dipped chocolate store in Akron, Temos Chocolates, where he’d let us go at the scraps of unused chocolate each holiday: a child’s dream! Joan used to be an art teacher and as such, whenever we visited, she encouraged our creativity and fed our imagination. With her, we would spend the day finding ways to transform “junk” around the house into treasures for elaborate play and story-telling. A cardboard box in the garage became a most well-dressed house for the cat. Socks and string were paired with “sets” which we hand-painted together to put on puppet shows, lost in laughter all the while. We could call her late at night for help on a school project and she’d come over and paint with us.

Joan and Larry helped me feel seen. What I expressed not only mattered, but was put at the forefront of my time with them. Furthermore, they had a way of laughing through adversity that was so foreign to me. They never took life too seriously, and did all they could to teach me to do the same: to escape the solemnity of overthinking and to see that the bad could be funny and the good, funnier.

Ann Sekerak

Or Annie, as we lovingly called her. Never married, never had children of her own, she was our great aunt but she was truly like another grandmother to my brothers and me. She was sharp, stylish, feisty, stubborn, and loving. She was one of those people who knew how to have a spat with anyone in the family–an art really–but with children? We were the kings and queens of her attention. My brothers and I would visit her every Friday night or stay with her for weeks over the summer.

Annie was Annie and if you didn’t like it she didn’t care. She used to say if she could be reincarnated, she’d come back as a bird just to poop on people who annoyed her. She was unabashedly herself, listening to radio theater in the kitchen, singing loudly and poorly along to music from the 40’s and 50’s in her car, “South of the Border… down Mexico way…” Annie allowed me to “talk back” as a child, to talk as equals, but she’d always remain a worthy opponent. What a rarity for me otherwise! I was more often strongly deterred from pushing back against, or even simply questioning, adults. Annie’s stubbornness told me I could be stubborn, her temper told me it was okay to say “no” and mean it. And oddly enough, with all

her fiery, outspoken nature, I believe she gave me a kind of security that comes with decision and self-respect.

Most people might say she spoiled us, taking us to the mall, the movies, buying us new shoes; but I argue that she gave us the gift of choice. She asked what we wanted to eat, where we wanted to go, what we wanted to do, to see. With Annie, we knew we could safely speak our minds and voice our preferences. At a time when I felt isolated and powerless, Annie allowed me to be a child with a touch of control.

I remember the warm, sleepy nights of my childhood hearing the wind chimes on her balcony clink out their tangled lullaby as summer storms rolled in. The magical hum against the tempestuous deep blue-green of a clouded night sky. Years and miles upon miles away, I have my own set of wind chimes now, on my own balcony with their own summer storms and, in the midst of any tumult, they’ll always take me back to the peace and security I felt at Annie’s.

The Ondreykas

Anita and Richard Ondreyka’s house was the spot for us kids. The over-the-top Christmas decorations, the Easter egg hunts with excessive planning and prizes, the countless sleepovers with all the cousins. We wondered if they weren’t just “big kids” themselves. Teta (Aunt in Serbian) Anita would haul all of us to Blockbuster to rent movies then let us loose at the local grocery store to pick out snacks to our hearts’ content. We’d sing silly songs all the way home. Uncle Richard would watch us in church while our parents sang with the choir. He played. He teased. He listened. Even into adulthood he’d always gift me some ridiculous singing plush toy for Christmas.

Teta and Uncle Richard have always embodied warmth, humility, and unconditional love. The cackling chaos of their home was a place of much needed escape and distraction from the opposing weight of my own home. We could run, be loud, make messes and be loved. Teta and Uncle Richard helped me discover feeling proud of myself. They came to every dance performance and theater play. They brimmed with unsolicited praise of what I did as a child, and even still what I have done as an adult. I can “fail” and they’re still proud. I can be lost, and they’re there to sit over a cup of tea and listen with this clear expression of knowing that I’ll “be alright.”

Children will inevitably encounter a number of experiences and events that go beyond their control. Experiences that threaten their childish enthusiasm, that prematurely push their sense of self into adulthood. The only means of survival are the “grown-ups” who understand that the world has enough knocks of its own to give, and who will thus choose to give you the space to explore, express, create, choose, and push limits. Who will love you no matter what. I grew up in a confusing environment, one that while rich with love and best intentions, was everchanging and overwhelming. I struggled to feel like I had a place in the world. These beautiful souls, without calling or hesitation, made it their responsibility to provide one for me.

Homecoming

by Manuela Dumay

Cup of tea, pale and delicious, grasped in both hands.

Through the rain-stricken window panes, we gaze at the tall trees swaying in the wind. The radio, volume down, crackles faintly. I recognize, however, the familiar voice of Gay Byrne. Still cluttered with leftovers from breakfast, the kitchen table will wait till we have caught up on months of news before getting cleared. I’m back at Jean’s, my second mother. Her open face, animated by a kind expression in her blue eyes, her presence and her attention, comfort me. It has always been like this. I feel good here, in this house, with her and family. When I was young, everyone had made room for me: I had my seat at the kitchen table, a work corner, and in our shared room, young Nev had even moved his posters for me. James Joyce, hands in his pockets, reigned between the lurking tiger and a football star. Nestled in the hollow of my second family, I forgot that I was a cuckoo in the nest.

Translated from French by Alexandra Corey

Lake Bohinj, Slovenia

Madeline C. Lanshe

Lake Bohinj, Slovenia

Lake Bohinj, Slovenia

Beyond the Magazine

Alexandra Corey was raised in Portland, Oregon, where she completed a BA in English at Reed College before pursuing an MPhil in Comparative Literature and a PhD in Early Modern French Studies from Trinity College Dublin in Ireland. Her research focuses on intertextuality, rhetoric, and reception, particularly in Middle French and Neo-Latin court poetry of the sixteenth century. She greatly enjoys traveling to the archives in Italy and France as well as translating from French into English in order to explore the nuances and resonances of both languages.

Born and raised in Paris, France, Manuela Dumay is a translator and writer. She spent a lot of time in Ireland during her adolescence and since then. She is a published author of several literary translations, literary articles, and two personal works. She has completed her third book. She now makes her living as a guest house owner in the historical district of Le Mans, France.

Instagram: @ logis_saint_flaceau

Hannah Fortune is a designer and illustrator from Akron, OH. She graduated from The University of Akron with a BFA in graphic design. Hannah loves creating characters and bringing them to life in her art. She is currently working in the video game and entertainment industry for a studio called Snack Video as a Compositing Artist, and LOVING it!

Website: hannahfortune.art

Instagram: @hannahfortuneart

Faith Lanshe is the proud wife, mother of seven, and extremely happy Grammy with six grandchildren. She has been a registered nurse for over 30 years, and a nurse practitioner for six years. She is passionate about helping people optimize their health and wellbeing through Functional Medicine. In serving others, she serves God. She loves the beach, warm weather, summertime, red wine, a good book, occasional solitude, the laughter of grandchildren, and the love of family and friends.

Magazinee

Madeline Lanshe is a writer from Green, Ohio, with a passion for traveling, rock climbing, photography, and getting lost in the night sky. She taught English for two years in Le Mans, France, which now feels like her second home. She works at Advanced RV as editor-in-chief of Ethnosphere, as well as in media production. Besides dreams of becoming a published fiction author, Madeline is a volleyball addict. She believes life is about collecting moments of magic wherever you go and immersing yourself in the things that light your heart on fire.

Instagram: @mudpuddlephotogrpahy51

Mike Neundorfer is the president of Advanced RV. He supplies ideas and motivation, enabling his team members to take ownership of their roles. Mike and his wife, Marcia, toured the US and Canada in four different class B motorhomes, inspiring the creation of ARV in 2012. Ethnosphere is a passion project of his, stemming from his desire to share incredible stories, inside and outside the ARV community, in a classy, exciting way.

Jim O’Callaghan lives in Rathmines, Ireland, and describes himself as “probably the oldest street photographer taking photos daily on the city centre streets.” He was a stay-at-home father in the 1970s, while his wife, Pauline worked as a teacher. He went to college in his 50s. He believes it’s never too late to pursue your dream job, no matter how old you may be. He posts one photo every day on his Instagram: @jimocallaghan24

An Akron Ohio Native, Emilia Resanovic has been living in Rennes, France for over six years. She has a Bachelor’s in French Language and Civilization, a Master’s in Foreign Language Education and Linguistic Research with a focus on the relation between adult bilingualism and emotional self-perception. She has since founded and educates at Bilingual Door, a private institute for foreign language learning and other linguistic services. Her personal interests include dance, art, film, classic literature, music and any form of creative and sincere expression.

Instagram: @bilingualdoor

Submissions

Who can submit? Anyone! If you have access to our magazine, we’d love to hear from you.

What should I submit? Anything creative and relevant that can be shared in digital form! Photography, illustrations, poetry, short stories, personal stories, art, etc.

Why do you accept submissions? This magazine is a space for people to share their stories and passions in hopes it will connect us with others in a positive, uplifting way. “The ethnosphere is humanity’s great legacy. It is the product of our dreams, the embodiment of our hopes, the symbol of all that we are and all that we have created as a wildly inquisitive and astonishingly adaptive species.” - Wade

Davis

When can I submit? In each issue, we will reveal the theme for the coming issue. If you’d like your proposal to be considered for the coming issue, submit as soon as you can to give us time to review it with our team, communicate with you, edit, and fit it into the greater picture of the magazine. Otherwise, submit anything at any time. It may fit in a future issue or even inspire the theme for one!

How do I submit? Go to the submissions page of ethnospheremagazine.com and fill out the form. If possible, attach any images, PDFs or other files to be reviewed, and the editor will be in touch with you. If you have a story that you think would make for a great article, but you don’t have the narrative prowess to write it, don’t worry! There is an opportunity for a conversation with the editor so that she, or someone on the editorial staff, could write the story with you.

If your submission is not accepted, don’t get discouraged. There is always a chance in the future. In the meantime, we hope you enjoy all that the magazine has to offer. Even if you are not featured within it, your experiences, dreams, and creations are equally part of the Ethnosphere.

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Finnish (n) : bouncy cushion satisfaction, finding joy in small things