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Ethnosphere Connect, Express, Inspire

Tir na nÓg

Irish (n) : a paradise and supernatural realm of everlasting youth, beauty, health, abundance, and joy.

Collection 3 - March 2023

Table of Contents

Masthead

The Puca and the Changeling

In this short story based on Irish folklore, a bored puca schemes to switch a human baby with a changeling, not knowing it is his life that is about to change.

The One, Last, Great Hurrah 9

Shortly after his 90th birthday, Bill and his wife, Jackie, fly to Ohio from Dallas to get their third ARV and start a new adventure.

The Poem She Started 13 A short story that explores the ache of letting go of someone who was not meant to stay with you.

Jekyll Island through the Generations 19

Marcia returns to Hollybourne Cottage, on Jekyll Island, where her grandmother worked as a servant for a wealthy family during her youth.

At the Foot of the Sequoias 25 Three road trips, three separate years, three men connected by the awesomeness of the Sequoia trees of California.

Irish Pride and Blisters 27

A look at the Cleveland Cultural Gardens through the eyes of Maureen, who leads a group of teenage volunteers as they weed, plant, and sing.

About the Authors 31 Beyond the Magazine 33 April Issue Reveal 35 Submissions

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

Madeline C. Lanshe, Sheila Crawford, Harry and Mary Lorton, Amy Moskin, Mike Neundorfer

Writers

Juliana Amir, Mitchell Dunbar, Maureen Gregory, Madeline Lanshe, Marcia Neundorfer

Other Contributors

Chris Agnew, Elizabeth Keller, Bill and Jackie Paine, John Plymak

2023 Advanced RV. All materials contained in this publication (including text, content, and photography) are protected by United States copyright law and may not be reproduced, distributed, transmitted, displayed, broadcast, published, or modified in any way without the prior written consent of Advanced RV. Contributors retain all rights to their stories, photography, art, etc. while giving Ethnosphere Magazine/Advanced RV the right to share their work in the digital magazine, print, and any other way they see fit for creative or promotional reasons.

We created Ethnosphere as a place to connect people who are alike and unalike, express pieces of the human experience, inspire, and be inspired.

The Puca and the Changeling A short story by Madeline C. Lanshe

nce upon a time, a puca was bored, and that is never a safe beginning to any tale. Rafferty seldom struggled to find ways to occupy his time. If he wasn’t bringing mischief, or blessings, (whichever the whims of the moment compelled him towards), to the people in the villages within his territory, he was riding the wind as a raven, hopping across lush, green glens as a hare, or terrorizing real hares as a hound. But one afternoon, so peaceful even the flies silenced their noisy wings and slept in the sun, Rafferty was struck with a boredom so strong he had the compulsion to rip all the black fur off his body. Luckily (for him), a sound pierced the numbing peacefulness: a baby’s wail so sweet and melodious he had to put his hands over his long, droopy ears. 5

It had been a while since he’d conspired with a changeling, the creature responsible for the unearthly cries. Shifting into a slick, black fox he thought, This might not turn out to be such a dreadfully dull day after all. In order to fully satisfy the itch for trickery in his heart, Rafferty decided to take the changeling babe, who joined him with equal excitement and even more villainy, to a village well outside his territory. The mortals within his territory had become too accustomed to his games, and now put their children’s cribs close to their fireplaces, with iron scissors just nearby, for protection. At the first sign that something was off with their son or daughter, they would immediately suspect the puca. And there was no fun in that. Rafferty was a deft shapeshifter, and his horse form was ideal for galloping through the forest, keeping to the trees so as not to raise suspicion

from farmers working in the fields. The changeling rode on his back, holding onto his long, wild mane. It was Rafferty’s favorite time of day when they arrived at a distant village: night. Rafferty shifted into his bipedal form. He’d need his three-fingered hands and opposable thumbs to let himself inside one of the homes. The changeling looped its tiny arms around his neck, draping off his back like a cape, as he crept through the sleeping village. He peered in each window with his all-gold eyes. As suspected, none of the babes were protected. “We have our pick of the litter,” he said to the changeling, who gurgled a low laugh. When they’d just settled on a tempting abode, Rafferty saw something moving out of the corner of his eye. It seemed he was not the only one drifting through the shadows with something resembling a baby; a stealthy woman was gently cradling the creature in her arms. Curiosity ignited, Rafferty followed her. She stopped on the steps of the largest house in the village, just far enough from the other homes to set it apart. To Rafferty’s eyes, the tears she shed as she placed the babe at the foot of the door were glowing white: tears of pure love. She bent over, kissed the sleeping child on its forehead, and lifted the heavy knocker on the door, slamming it twice. Without waiting, she darted away. The babe woke from the noise and, finding itself alone, began to wail. Rafferty left the changeling in a nearby bush and crept up the steps to peer down on the infant. It was indeed human, and the mother’s tears still stained its forehead. A noise from inside startled him and he quickly leapt onto the roof. “What a horrible sound,” a man said, as the

door to the house opened. “It looks like someone has left their baby,” said a woman. “How inconvenient.” “You’ve always said you wanted a child,” the man said to her. “I want a beautiful baby girl,” the woman replied. “Not this dirty, screeching, frail thing.” “Well then, I suppose we should leave her here,” the man said, not too concerned. “If we pick her up, even to move her, she will become our responsibility. Best to pretend we never saw her.” “We’re not going to get any sleep tonight,” the woman complained as they closed the door. Rafferty hopped off the roof and again looked at the babe. It was true that its cries were frightful. But then again, so was he sometimes. “Come,” he whispered to the changeling, who crawled up the steps on its baby limbs. “This is no fun,” it said. “No one cares about this welp. There is no excitement in replacing that which is not irreplaceable.” “Ah, but you will make yourself irreplaceable,” said Rafferty. “And after some time, when the man and woman think they have been blessed, you will show them all the wickedness inside you, and they will wish, though they will not know you are not one and the same, that they’d taken the first babe.” The changeling danced around gleefully on legs that would’ve been too weak to hold up a human baby. “Get to work,” Rafferty said, “Before the wailing wakes the neighbors.” The changeling stared at the baby, observing the lines and angles of its face. Concentrating, its bulging black eyes shrunk until they were little and blue, wrinkles smoothed and cheekbones rounded. The greenish hew of its skin turned ivory. In every detail, the changeling copied the human infant’s appearance, but enhanced it just enough so that it was the loveliest mortal child imaginable.

When Rafferty saw that it was done, he unwrapped the babe from the blanket and held it to his furry chest. He would not be able to run back to his territory as a horse this time. It would be a long, trying journey on two feet. The challenge excited him. The changeling swaddled itself and lay faceup below the door. “Wait until I’ve gone,” the puca said, and wobbled down the steps, the babe he was carrying now peculiarly silent. He was hidden in the trees across from the house when he heard the same beautiful crying from his forest back home. He watched as the door again opened. The woman’s hand flew to her chest. “What a radiant child!” she exclaimed to the man. “How is it that we did not notice her beauty before?” “This is rather odd,” he said. “We must be properly exhausted.” “No, I think our wish has been granted,” said the woman. “This is a reward for us being such generous citizens and for you leading the town so wisely.” The woman bent over and lifted the changeling into her arms. It cooed innocently. But Rafferty could see the impish delight in its eyes and knew the mortals would never regret any decision more for the rest of their pathetically short lives. a Keevy loved riding on Rafferty’s back through the rivers and streams, the sparkling water splashing her dangling legs and laughing face, her hair whipping around her like the twist of a tornado. Out of all his forms, Rafferty knew the stallion was now her favorite. Her preferences were ever-changing, just as he was. When she was a babe, she preferred, though she could not yet express it, his hound form, curling up between his massive paws while she slept. That was what his nights had become. So

occupied was he with the ever-growing human child during the day that, by night, he was too exhausted to scheme and meddle, preferring and enjoying, though he would not readily admit it, the cuddle time with the child, the child he never abandoned or gave up for the fae to turn into their servant as he’d planned. As for the wealthy couple, though Rafferty would never see it, the changeling, who they’d named Aislin, aged them quicker than even the husband’s position in politics. Six years she’d spent beguiling them, the perfect, brilliant daughter and pride of the town. When she turned incorrigible, they could do nothing but endure her tempests of trickery and tantrums, hoping that it was only a phase she would outgrow. She wouldn’t, of course, because though her body grew and changed, her nature never would. “Again, again!” cried Keevy, when Rafferty stopped to catch his breath, his large horse lungs working hard. Though he had never aged, and never would, something in the human girl’s giggles, dimples, and boundless energy kept him young.. “How about instead,” he said between breaths, “we create a little mischief, you and I?” Keevy clapped with glee. “What shall we do today, Rafferty?” she asked. As Rafferty recounted his not-so-diabolical plan to cover the rooftops of the village houses with flowers and turn all the pools and ponds gold, he thought about how he’d sat upon a much fancier roof one night and watched as the man and woman beneath him turned away the most precious treasure to be found, blind in a way only foolish mortals could be. But that was their loss. Rafferty didn’t need his puca eyes, which could see through darkness and into tears, to glimpse the worth that lay beneath the dirt and rags. And so, Keevy grew up untameable and joyous, with a softness in her heart for all things wild and unwanted – Rafferty most of all.

“May last a week, may last a year. Could last ten years.”

“We are the real Paines,” Jackie Paine

The One, Last, Great Hurrah By Madeline C. Lanshe

declared. “We spell it with an ‘i’.” Just like Painesville, Ohio, right around the corner from Advanced RV, where Jackie and her husband, Bill, flew to from Dallas, where they live in an independent senior living village. What brought them to the Midwest was the purchase of their third ARV, Detour. A year ago, Jackie and Bill sold back their van, Kiss, to ARV, because they thought their traveling days were over. They were having trouble getting around, and decided it was time to finally stop being on the move. “I’ve been spending years traveling around visiting everybody,” Bill said. “I was going to stay in Dallas. If they wanted to see me, they were going to have to come to see me in Texas, because I wasn’t going to leave the Dallas city limits.”

But that attitude changed during a conversation over coffee. Bill and Jackie agreed it would be great to have an ARV and be back on the road. But they were too old for that, or so they’d said. Bill just had his birthday in November, turning 90. “Then we decided, why not? Let’s just do it. We may enjoy a day of it, we may enjoy a year of it,” Bill said. About a week later, they were on a plane headed for Ohio. They described their senior village and how wonderful it was to live independently, with nursing or memory care if needed. They’ve made lots of friends. They love the view from their apartment, where they can see a pond with ducks and other waterfowl. There is a wide variety of classes, from pottery to woodworking to sewing to theater, but none of that appealed to them. According to Bill and Jackie, they didn’t want to just sit around and wait to die.

In no time, the children were on board, probably not so surprised by their parents’ itch for traveling. Growing up, Bill and Jackie took the family on trips often and consistently. They thought it would hold the kids together, visiting places and making good memories, whether it was just a Saturday afternoon trip to a park or campground, or several weeks going out into the Rockies.

It seems their plan to bond the children through travel and adventure was a rather good one. Over 50 years ago, before the couple was married, they took the six children to Vicksburg, Mississippi. It was the first trip together with all eight of them. They stopped at a park with a river and an overlook. Bill and Jackie were looking at the river and talking, and when they looked over at the kids, they were running around, playing, and getting along. It was the first time they felt like, maybe this’ll work. Bill and Jackie have seven children. They each Neither of them said anything to each other had three before they were married, then at that moment, but years later, after they were one together. They even have a few greatmarried, it was brought up, and they discovered grandchildren now, who also live in Dallas, while they both had the same feeling that day, that several of their children still live in Mississippi, maybe there might be a possibility here. where the family’s from originally. How did their children react when they heard Besides traveling for the sake of their children their parents, just a decade shy of a century, and making, even to this day, a yearly vacation to were buying another RV and traveling the the beach with the entire family, Bill and Jackie country again? have reasons of their own for loving to hit “I’m sure you heard the explosion up here,” the road. It’s the scenery, the view on the road Bill laughed. “All of them got to talking, telling wherever they go, meeting new people, seeing us, y’all are crazy.” old friends, and constantly learning. But Bill and Jackie reassured their children “I’ve always liked to go and get out,” Bill that it’s not going to be like past travels, where said. “Get out and go to different places.” they had a destination and a time frame. No more driving at 95 mph for Bill. They aren’t One year, when the children ranged in age from going to have a schedule. If they get tired, they’ll 11-15, they went to Mount Mitchell, North just pull over and rest or spend the night. Carolina. It was closing time when they started “That’s the advantage of one of these,” Bill to make their way back to the van. There were said, referring to the RVs. different paths leading to the parking lot. Two “And the restroom,” Jackie agreed enthusiastically. of their girls and one of their boys took a

different path. Unbeknownst to any of them, it wound them far from the parking lot, and into the valley. Park rangers came by and Bill and Jackie said three of their kids were missing. Seemingly not too concerned, the rangers said, “They’ll come back.” Bill went to find them, and he blew on a horn that they’d taken with them, but the forest just soaked up the sound. The rangers were right, however, because just as it got dark, the three children arrived at the van. They drove up from there to the Blue Ridge Mountains. After putting the kids to sleep, Bill recalled that Jackie started making, for her first time, a cheesecake, in the little kitchen of their van. When they parked, it was around 2 o’clock in the morning. They peeked outside, and there were stars everywhere. It was like looking up at the heavens. They woke their children, not wanting them to miss the awesome sight, and as one family, they gazed up at the magnificent sky. Now, Bill and Jackie have the opportunity to leave their peaceful village in Dallas and again witness what magic the world has to offer. “This is the One, Last, Great Hurrah,” Bill said. “May last a week, may last a year. Could last ten years.” “We really have totally been blessed all 50 years,” Jackie said. “This is not the trip I signed up for,” Bill added, referring to more than just the start of their newest adventure. “But it’s been much better than I would’ve expected.”

“I’m sure you heard the explosion up here.”

The Poem She Started A short story by Juliana Amir

he beach sprawled for kilometers in both directions. A trail of ghostly footprints padded in the sand, coming closer, creating a path from the sea. The footprints stopped beside me. I trusted it was my imagination, though I couldn’t be sure, having seen what I had. Awake too many hours, sleep should have sung to me, but it didn’t. It couldn’t, not until I finally processed the events from months ago. I had always loved open waters, forest hikes, and making my living selling fish to the marketplaces, but something in me was slowing. My eagerness? My heart? For the first time, I thought of nothing. Only felt the sadness in the salty breeze and the collapsing waves, and felt the color of the deepest blue reflected in me. Still, I smiled when the first hint of sunlight split the sea from the sky. Instantly, her voice was in my ear, whispering: “contagious seems an awful word until you think of a smile. You smile, see it mirrored, and it fills you because you gave a moment to someone, however fleeting, just by

moving your lips. Is that not magic?” And in that faint whisper, I knew she was with me. Her story swelled in my throat each time I gazed at the sea. I stopped feeling and started remembering her. She danced before my imagination. Perhaps the shyest girl on earth. Crowds crippled her with fear. She’d tuck herself behind me. I shielded her through each crowd, her hand in mine, as I carved us a path. She looked faint when people noticed her. She was to me the fairy that was never meant to be seen by human eyes, and yet, she let me see her and all of her vivid emotions. She definitely cried more than any person on earth. But it was as often a happy tear as it was sad. One Saturday, I brought her a blueberry muffin because, why not? Walking down the cobbled path to her tiny brick house, I thought nothing of it. I handed her the plain paper bag, and when she opened it, she smiled...like a fallen star hid within. She invited me in, put on the kettle, and brewed heather tea. When it was poured and

steaming in two cups, she cut the muffin in half and insisted that it was better shared. We sank into the deflated cushions of her sofa. About a minute after we sat, tears were being absorbed into her muffin. “What now?” I asked. Because I always said that when I saw her in tears. “It’s just so beautiful.” “It’s a muffin! It’s literally flour. And sugar. And whatever else is in muffins.” “The blueberries are so bright and encompassed in these rings of purple, and it must be the most beautiful breakfast, and I am just so happy that I get to have this moment.” She stared at the muffin. “Okay,” I said, wondering if she thought me emotionally dense. I studied the bluish spots. I studied them just as I had studied the winter trees dressed in lights, the blinding pink sunrise, the red butterfly that landed on her wrist, and the many, many other things that were also apparently so special. But now, on the beach, with the wind cutting through my shirt, I saw that these moments were fragments of a time that could not be replicated, despite my younger, sillier notions. The muffin soaked in one last tear before she stopped crying and continued eating, slowly. She was thinner somehow, even more fragile in appearance than the last time I had seen her, and I had the same thought before. In my dreams, even back then, she was often in her bed, frail, and vanishing before my eyes, becoming transparent. It would reach the point that I could stand it no longer and forced myself to wake rather than be forced to try to find her in the dream world when she was not there. “It’s balmy,” I said, to distract myself from the memory of the nightmare. On a whim, I added, “let’s take out the boat.” A stack of strangers’ clothes to be mended sat on the other side of her. She glanced at it,

and I wasn’t proud of it, but I knew if I said please, she would. “Please.” “Looks like a storm will roll in, don’t you think?” “Have you never seen a storm from sea before?” I asked. I never had to say please twice, but that day, I did. She sighed. “Let’s take out the boat.” She grabbed her shoes, and it was odd to me that at twenty, she was already moving slower. I didn’t focus on it, for fear of my nightmare returning to me. I wondered sometimes what we were to each other. Best friends? Family? But we seemed like a category other than that, one I had no language for. Adventure partners for twilit wood walks and moonlit sea swims. We followed the road to the long, stone steps that led down to the little seaside shack that I shared with my papa. She had looped her arm through mine. The longer we walked, the heavier she breathed, and the more I was towing her along.

breathing in something that nourishes.” “Your mam made the best stew.” I don’t know how long exactly our moment stretched, but I noticed the sea towing us out. I rotated the oars and tried to haul us in toward shore. As I rowed and rowed, all the muscles in my torso tightened, but the more I rowed, the further our boat slipped in the wrong direction. For a moment, I believed I was caught in a nightmare again. I didn’t want her to see my worry, but I did check to make sure she wasn’t turning transparent. She was solid, and whatever she saw in my eyes, it prompted her to tell me it was okay. It was not. My view of the land was now swallowed by the sea. A flash of light zipped through the darkening clouds. The rolling crack sounded like our boat snapping in half, though the dinghy was still whole and bobbing on the surface. If I was by She waited outside the shack as I retrieved myself, I may have been loving all of this, but the boat and carried it to the water’s edge. She not with her, not with precious cargo in my boat. followed me across the shore. “It is okay, my dear,” she said. I asked myself now, if I had that day to do I wasn’t sure if she had ever called me that over again, would I help her mend holes and before, but thousands of drops started falling at once. sew on buttons instead of saying please twice? “I can’t see.” I helped her into the boat, pushed the dinghy Through the veil of rain, she was there, and deeper into the water, and jumped in with her. I focused on her for a moment before I realized My legs were mostly soaked, and some silt was our boat was twisting around, spinning. She still between my toes. The clouds were charcoal came and sat beside me, and though it was hard and violet and vast, looming over the saltwater. to tell, I was almost certain she was not crying, The sight sent a chill of excitement through me. which figured, because it was the first time in a With the two oars, I paddled out, not too far, decade I feared that I might. and let my mind wander about what we could The world, a strange mixture of violet and do next. What could we do tomorrow, and the silver, was whipping around me, until I closed day after? I could see the shore from our boat. my eyes. She placed her head on my shoulder. We were surrounded by waters almost indigo in color. Her hand was in mine. I wasn’t sure when that “I have never seen water this exact shade.” happened, only that it was the only good thing I “Don’t cry,” I told her. knew at that moment. “I can’t. I am too stunned by it all. The What could’ve been minutes or hours later, I summer wind feels so warm, so comforting, out felt her nudging my shoulder. I opened my eyes here. It makes me think of the tendrils of steam and saw land, but it was the wrong color. Our curling off of Mama’s stew. The joy of just shores were cream, and the isle ahead was emerald.

“How is this for our adventure?” she asked. I felt ill. Thankfully, the water did most of the work, pushing us toward a mossy green dock jutting into the sea. The waters were suddenly so clear that I could see red fish drifting below the surface. I glanced to see if she had noticed the giant, jewel-toned fish, and it seemed she looked to me for the same reason. I took the rope from the dinghy and used it to tie the boat to the dock. She stepped out onto the boardwalk with no help. Her shoes dangled from her fingertips. The breeze tousled her curls. I grabbed my shoes and followed her onto the mossy dock. It was slippery, but also soft underfoot. The overcast sky was a bright silver now, and I knew I should be worried, but all I sensed walking along the dock, with her in front of me in her lavender dress, was serenity. She tossed a glance back to me, and I was shocked. Her sallow skin was glowing, and her often-tired eyes were bright with a spark I hadn’t seen in years. She said, “Catch me,” and I thought, Always.

She took off running down the boardwalk and through a meadow of purple wildflowers. I was always quick, but suddenly, so was she. When I caught up to her, I picked her up by the waist and spun her around—my fear of her being fragile, forgotten, all of my fears, forgotten. I knew I should’ve been worried about getting home, but when I set her on her feet, she took off again, turning back to make sure I was following her through the grass, closer to the wall of trees. I saw her shoes discarded and threw mine too. I followed her through this island that seemed long forgotten. And yet, I had an eerie sensation growing stronger with each moment that we were being watched. “Look who is falling behind today?” she called, twirling. Her voice, usually soft, was full and bright. I quickened. The earth was still covered in grass, flowers, and moss, even as we moved through towering trees with dark bark and blue and green leaves arching overhead. The world

that I thought I knew every shade of looked new. I couldn’t help but try to drink in each moment as it came to me. We crossed a river. She took my hand and we made it to the other side. We found ourselves by a crystal blue pool of water with a waterfall pouring down from high above, and I wondered how I could get up there. The water misted our skin where we stood and rainbows of color filtered through the mist in maybe the most staggering visual of my life. In one of the trees was a bird with a feathered tail that cascaded from its perch. When it saw me observing, it flapped its wings and soared away into this mystical land. “Do you see the glimmers of light in the trees? It reminds me of something my mother said about fairy wings.” “Your mam always told us the best stories,” I said. “The very best,” she added. “This place reminds me of one.” “Tir na nÓg,” said a voice behind us. I would’ve thought it my imagination if she had not turned around with me in the direction from which it came.

“Odd. Sounded like that came from a branch,” I said. “Or maybe even a fairy, or a star not yet visible.” Something about the disembodied voice raised the hair on my neck. The eerie, queasy feeling was worse now. “Maybe, it is time to make our way to the boat.” The fear, familiar to me, was returning. “I can’t.” “Why?” I asked. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing, but that is just it. I feel good. Nothing hurts. I have energy. The energy I haven’t had since I was a child. I want to stay here. I feel…it’s right.” “We haven’t seen one other person.” A colossal green leaf came swirling down. “There is nothing here.” Though we’d seen little of the island, I wanted to believe it. “I don’t believe that is true,” she said. “And here, I can just exist.” She gazed up past the waterfall, so high, that it seemed to pour from the clouds. I rubbed the back of my neck. I was always the one convincing her, and now that it was the other way, I didn’t know what to say. We knew the stories of Tir na nÓg. Mortals could

not stay forever. They could only last a number of days. No one knew how many, but it was a number divided by three, which meant in less than a month, or a week, she would be gone. It was her own mam who warned us of that. As if reading my thoughts she chimed in, “I would rather have one week to be well than a year of feeling myself disappear.” She placed her hands on my neck. Her hands had been shockingly cold for so long, and this time, I was shocked because they weren’t. She kissed my cheek. “You should go.” “Not without you.” “You have so much more to experience and to enjoy.” “So do you.” The look in her eyes made those three words feel like fiction, but the thought of separating shattered my heart just as it did each night I spent trapped in the nightmare. She nodded and glanced in the direction we came. I found myself following her. With every step back to the boat, I left another shard on the island with her. The same bird I saw earlier flew in a pair now, and disappeared into the pink foliage. I grabbed my shoes from their resting place in the grass. Maybe she would collect the pieces. Maybe she would make my heart whole again, the same way she mended holes or quelled my spirit when it felt like it was going everywhere at once. Back on the mossy dock, I eagerly took her hand, this time with no crowd to use as an excuse. Maybe we weren’t simply adventure partners, but two parts of a shared spirit. I had the feeling that she already knew this, maybe months ago, or even years.

I didn’t know how I would find my way back alone, but she believed this place was meant for her, and we knew the opposite was true for myself. Her eyes still reassured me it would all be okay. She didn’t seem to have any words to say, and I had too many, so I released her hand and stepped into the dinghy. Just as soon as I untied it, the water began pulling me out as it had once pulled me in. I locked my eyes on her, her dress and hair dancing in the wind, her bare feet hidden in the moss, melancholy and relief in her soft eyes. It was sudden, too sudden, but soon I was in a haze of mist. I took the oars and rowed back. I rowed back for so long, my arms and torso burned and I didn’t dare stop and I didn’t understand anything. I understood even less when I saw the familiar, empty cream shore. Standing there now, I told her, “I would do it all again to see that spark,” as if she were beside me, and I believed she was. She left lines of poetry inside of me that weren’t there before I met her. Remembering that abnormal twist on an ordinary day, I called to mind my last image of her as the waves carried me away—she was well, she was radiant, and she was without tears. That was the gift of Tir na nÓg. Now, it was I who cried at the sight of a blueberry muffin as often as I smiled.

Jekyll Island through the Generations By Marcia Neundorfer

In January, as my husband, Mike, and I were driving back to Cleveland from Florida, we decided to detour to Jekyll Island, Georgia’s southernmost barrier island. We arrived at the Jekyll Island Museum at 10:45 am and saw the sign indicating the next trolley tour, 11 am: Hollybourne. That name held a special place in my mind and family history. Hollybourne was the “cottage” built in 1890 by Charles Stewart Maurice, one of the founding members of the Jekyll Island Club. This exclusive club was established in the late 1880s as a hunting club for 53 wealthy businessmen who wanted to escape the cold winters of the northeast. The founders included names like Rockefeller, Vanderbuilt, Morgan and Pulitzer. My grandmother, Agnes Loan, was a servant with the Maurice family, and came to Hollybourne with the family for the winter “season” from 1893 to 1907. In 2007, Mike and I visited Jekyll Island with my extended family and we were given a special tour of parts of Hollybourne. It was in bad shape, with rotting floors, fallen ceilings and structural decay. A few volunteers were working on the floors to make them safe. Five years ago, Mike and I stopped at Jekyll Island again. Hollybourne was still closed to visitors, but we were told that seasonal volunteers were slowly working on its restoration. We peeked through the windows, but were not able to see much progress. We were not expecting much on this stop either. With just one other visitor, off we went on the trolley. The tour guide was excited to learn that my grandmother had lived at Hollybourne. He said that it was his favorite cottage because of its unique design. Charles Stewart Maurice was an engineer and a founding member of Union Bridge Company, which built steel roads and

railway bridges throughout the United States. He designed Hollybourne with a support system of trusses that allowed for large open rooms, without beams or pillars. It was built to accommodate Maurice, his wife, Charlotte, and their eight children. It is the only cottage on the island built of tabby, a cement-like mix of oyster shell, lime and water, that was often used in southern coastal construction. In 1947, Jekyll Island was established as a Georgia State Park and, sadly, the Maurice family had to relinquish Hollybourne to the state. The house was empty and neglected for many years. Restoration, which was challenging due to moisture damage and weather rot, was started in 1998, but has progressed far enough over the past two decades to now allow tours of the property. On this trip, we were able to tour all three floors and the basement. On the third floor, the tour guide pointed to a drawing and writing on one of the lower walls. He explained that the youngest daughter had probably used a candle to backlight her profile and then traced it on the wall. Next to her profile, she wrote a short poem in French. She signed it “Emily Maurice, February 16, 1902.” She was fourteen years old. To me, the guide said, “Your grandmother was probably looking all over for her.” This wrapped me in the magic of this place. I could imagine my grandmother’s life in this house.

Memories of Jekyll Island, 1893 - 1907 By Agnes Loan Andrew (as imagined by her granddaughter, Marcia McCarthy Neundorfer)

and any legal documents they had received, and write their responses for them.

At the Maurice home, I knew some of the other servants because, like me, they were Irish girls and boys who came When I was 14 years old, I moved from my family’s from the nearby farms. In early December, the other farm in Ridgebury Township, Pennsylvania to the town servants and I started packing to take the family on the of Athens, about a one hour carriage ride down the hill. train to Jekyll Island for the winter. I had heard that the I was going to work for Charles Stewart Maurice and first time the whole family and all the help went to Jekyll his wife, Charlotte, who had eight children: four boys and Island, they stayed at what they called “The Clubhouse.” four girls. My job was to look after their three youngest It was crowded and uncomfortable, so Mr. Maurice children, Margaret (Peg, age 10), Albert (age 8) and decided to build his own cottage on the grounds nearby. Emily (age 6). I heard from the other servants that the Now, Hollybourne was ready to welcome the family. Maurice family had built a mansion on an island in Georgia and that we would be going there on the train Two weeks before Christmas, we boarded a train for before Christmas. Philadelphia, which would connect to another train to take us to Georgia. I had packed the children’s I missed my family and our farm. My father, Michael clothes and everything they would need at Hollybourne Loan, was a farmer, and he and my mother, Margaret from Christmas until we would return in the spring. O’Brien Loan, had ten children. I was the oldest. My I added their things and mine to the piles of trunks, grandfather, John Loan, and grandmother, Bridget rugs, furniture, dishes and silverware that would go to Brennan, lived near us. They both came from County the new house. Cork, Ireland during the famine of 1845. My grandfather was a scrivener (scribe/writer) for our Irish At Brunswick, Georgia, we got off the train. settlement. On Sundays, after church at Our Lady of Everything was loaded onto barges, pulled by boats, Perpetual Help, people would come to the stall where he to get to Jekyll Island. The Maurice family boarded had his horse and buggy and he would read the letters one of the boats, but the other servants and I had to make the crossing on the barges. I hated the barge. I had never been on water and its rocking motion made me sick. Finally, we got to a dock lined with many sail ships, called yachts, where everything was unloaded onto horse-drawn carts and carriages. Along the waterway that we had crossed, we drove past the huge, breathtaking Clubhouse. A little way down the road, I got my first look at the biggest, most beautiful house I had ever seen: Hollybourne. Around it were palm trees and live oaks draped with Spanish moss, and just a half mile away was the ocean, which I had never seen before. It felt like a magical place.

We servants lived on the third floor and the back part of the second floor. The downstairs had large, open rooms. The furnishings were nothing like the Maurice home in Athens. This was a “hunting lodge,” I was told, where the family comes to relax and get away from the stuffiness of city living. There were bearskin rugs and all types of Oriental and rag carpets on the wood floors. There was a lot of wicker furniture, which could be moved around to get comfortable by the fireplace or to sit by a sunny window. On one end of the house was a large, covered porch. There was a small room with a fireplace and a stuffed chair where Mr. Maurice relaxed after hunting. I began to love this place. With the children, I took walks to the beach and hunted for seashells. Although I could not swim, I enjoyed walking in the shallow waves when the ocean was calm. It was always cold. Charlie Hill, the coachman and caretaker, sometimes would take me and the children on carriage rides. Hollybourne was beautiful for Christmas, and the Maurices hosted many parties, including one for the local children, where they gave each child a gift. I remember once they hosted the Rockefellers, but it was not like the fancy dinners they had at home. I came each winter to Hollybourne with the Maurices for 14 years and they were always kind to me. Eventually, my younger sister, Mayme, was working for them too, and she came to Hollybourne, along with our friend Julia from home. We worked hard but we had fun together. Mrs. Maurice was committed to organizing religious services on Jekyll Island. An Episcopalian herself, she arranged for Catholic missionaries to come say Mass for us Catholics. At first, religious services were at the small Union Chapel, but Mrs. Maurice worked to get the

Agnes Loan Andrew (left) with friend, Julia (right)

larger Faith Chapel built, with its signed Tiffany glass window. The Maurices also built a home for Charlie Hill and his family. In 1907, at one of the dances for the staff, I met Joseph Andrew, the harbor master on Jekyll Island. We soon got married and moved to New York City, where he works as a chauffeur. We have one child on the way. Recently, I was sad to learn that Mrs. Maurice had died of typhoid fever. I never returned to Jekyll Island, but it remains a magical memory to me. Agnes Loan Andrew, 1909 22

Our Lady of Perpetual Help

My grandmother’s memoir ends here, because after her time on Jekyll Island, I could not imagine what her life was like, but I will describe what I heard from my mother and aunts. Gramma herself was a quiet person who never talked about her past. She was almost 30 when she got married. She and Papa had nine children, including two sets of twins, within nine years. One set of twins died right after birth. The family moved from New York City to Stamford, Connecticut, and Papa commuted to New York City, where he continued as a chauffeur for a wealthy family there.

wanted to take some of the children, but Gramma insisted on keeping them together. She converted their Stamford home to a boarding house. My mother remembered her older sister pulling a wagon full of pies that Gramma had made and selling them to the kitchen staff of wealthy families nearby. Eventually, Gramma married one of the boarders. Together, they bought a farm in rural Delaware, near Middletown. According to my mother, it was not a happy marriage. Her husband would deliver vegetables to the Philadelphia Market and not return for weeks. Gramma and the children worked hard to keep the farm going, In 1918, my grandfather died from the Spanish selling eggs and vegetables. At some point, her flu, as did one of their twin babies. Gramma was husband did not return. Gramma sold the farm left alone with six children under the age of ten. and her brother came from Elmira, New York, My mother told me that the family Papa worked in his Model A to pick them up and take them for paid his full salary for a year. She also told to his home. They shipped what few possessions me that a few of Gramma’s family members they had by train.

Gramma lived to age 92, fairly healthy, walking with a cane. She shared a home with two of my aunts. When I was young, my mother took my younger sister and me to visit every Sunday afternoon. Often, my great aunt Mayme was there, and she and Gramma would be quietly laughing together. My mother explained that they were telling stories from Jekyll Island.

Gramma worked for wealthy families in Elmira. She often cared for the sick at home and, over time, this became her specialty. The local doctors gave her an informal nursing certificate because of her expertise. She kept in touch with two of the Maurice daughters. According to my mother, one of these daughters loaned Gramma the money for one of my uncles to finish his degree at Cornell. My brother maintains that Gramma pushed him to become an engineer because of her admiration for Charles Stewart Maurice.

Mike and I feel a special connection to Jekyll Island. We were thrilled on this most recent trip to at last get a complete tour of Hollybourne. On the way home to Cleveland, I kept imagining my grandmother’s life there, feeling that it must have been a magical place for her. And now, it is a magical place for us, too.

At the Foot of the Sequoias

By Mitchell Dunbar

alk through the ARV workshop and you’re bound to hear Rick’s classic rock music serenading the floor. He’ll play the music at his own work station or throw the speaker on the back of his bicycle and bring it to you. For the past eight years, Rick has brought his calm and focused problem-solving to custom plumbing.

he remembers the sights and sounds of that bus rolling down the road, without air conditioning or FM radio, as his mother read the six of them a story about a wild west bronco. Rick is 68 now, and the memory remains.

For Rick in particular, it is still easy to transport himself back to his 11 year old self and feel it all over again. At that age, Rick was already an experienced camper, but he was unprepared for the scale and beauty of what he saw. He remembers how the Grand Canyon looked impossibly more grand than any photo he’d ever seen of it; he remembers his father driving the Volkswagen through the titanic roots of the redwood trees, trees you can’t find in New Jersey;

Like Rick in 1964, we, too, had never seen a mighty redwood tree. Griffin and I had heard stories of the California Sequoia, but nothing could have prepared us for seeing one for the first time. It was spiritual, proof that miracles were real. Standing in the ageless forest, witnessing this great tree, I could’ve been Rick; I could’ve been my father; I could’ve been anyone who has ever felt childlike awe for nature’s impossible architecture.

When I heard of the Irish realm of Tir na nÓg, I was struck by its transcendence. While we may Proudly displayed at his desk - a picture of a classic never travel the golden path to this mythical land of eternal youth and joy, I believe there are green Volkswagen Bus with a popup tent on top. moments in all our lives where we enter a similar It’s the bus Rick’s father brought to their New Jersey family home in 1964, when Rick was 11 years space, experiencing the journeys, emotions, and old. That summer, six of them packed into that bus beauties that connect humanity across time. and set off for a journey across America. I took a couple cross-country road trips around 2020, 54 years after Rick’s. These adventures The Volkswagen saw practically every state, passing through the Grand Canyon and mesas of connect me not just with Rick, but my father, who traveled the country in an 80’s Mustang., and we the southwest, the mighty Redwoods of the west are connected to anyone who has ever felt the coast, and the big skies of Yellowstone and the Dakotas. They’d stay in campgrounds, parks, and, same wonder and awe from such travels. Instead of a Volkswagen bus and a family of six, or a in 1960’s fashion, pull off the interstate to sleep Mustang and hometown buddies, it was a Sprinter right on the highway. His father recorded the entire adventure on film for them to look back on. van and my friend, Griffin.

Mitchell Dunbar

I quickly realized that I needed to keep a close eye on the weeders since their enthusiasm seemed to clash with their lack of gardening knowledge. It became obvious that some of the workers were mildly confused about what was a weed and what was not. More than a few perennial plants were sacrificed that day.

wiped the sweat from my brow as I surveyed the work in progress. As a volunteer with the Cleveland Cultural Gardens and, in particular, the Irish Garden, I had agreed to be at the Gardens on a day that felt as hot and humid as July, but was actually mid-September. I was supervising a group of teen girls who were here to fulfill a requirement for their high school’s All-School Service Day. Their duties included pulling weeds, raking leaves, collecting litter and other general clean-up chores.

As the work progressed, I suddenly heard the voice of one student sing out the opening line to a popular song. The others joined in, with the gushing fountain providing background rhythm for their impromptu chorus. After the final verse of the song, there were high-fives and high spirits all around.

For anyone not familiar, the Irish Garden is part of a unique collection of gardens known as the Cleveland Cultural Gardens. The Gardens are located on Cleveland’s east side, and span a two-mile stretch of land on Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd. and East Blvd. Originating in 1916 as part of Rockefeller Park (over 275 acres of The teens were a joyous bunch, happy to be green space owned by the City of Cleveland), released from academics for the day. The the Gardens are a tribute to the ethnic groups garden was soon filled with their chatter who contributed to the heritage and history of and laughter. We divided them into smaller Cleveland. There are currently 42 established groups, assigning tasks to each, and handing out tools. They tackled their duties with gusto. and “in process” gardens, each with a sign and a

flag of the nation or culture it represents. They are artfully landscaped with trees, shrubs and flowers that are native to that particular country. Oversight of the Cultural Gardens is handled by the Cleveland Cultural Gardens Federation, a non-profit umbrella group that preserves and promotes the gardens. Most people who live in the Cleveland area have driven past the Cleveland Cultural Gardens at one time or another, probably on their way to University Circle museums or to places like Cleveland Clinic or University Hospital. From the car window, it is easy to spot some of the statues, fountains and monuments that are featured. But the best way to enjoy the gardens is to stroll through them on foot, to see the cultural elements that make each garden a valued treasure. Whether walking or driving, be sure to take note of the four iconic, arched bridges that reside at intervals along the boulevard. Quite massive and made of stone and concrete, they were designed by Charles Schweinfurth, Cleveland’s premier architect in the early 20th century.

Although all the gardens are special, the Irish Garden is, of course, my favorite. My Irish heritage is well-represented in the design and features of this garden. It was designed in 1936 by noted landscape architect, Donald Gray, and dedicated on October 29, 1939. The dedication stone from that year, engraved in Gaelic, proclaims: “For the greater glory of God and Ireland.” The main feature of the garden at that time was a sandstone walkway in the shape of a large Celtic cross. The original plantings included Irish blackthorn, the wood of which is prized for making shillelaghs. If you are not familiar with the term, a shillelagh is a walking stick with a large knob on top, made from blackthorn, and can be seen in the familiar logo of the Boston Celtics – a leprechaun leaning on his shillelagh. As with all things outdoors, Father Time and Mother Nature conspired against the Irish Garden, and deterioration took place over many decades. Unfortunately, neglect and vandalism also played a part in the sad decline of all the gardens. But thanks to the efforts of a group of 14 enthusiastic founders, the Irish Garden Club was created in 2007 to provide capital funding for the restoration of

the garden. Led by Cleveland businessman Edward Crawford, who later became the U.S. Ambassador to the Republic of Ireland (2019-2021), the group held meetings, raised funds, retained landscape architects and master gardeners and used their connections to get the project “off the ground.” On October 3, 2009, a re-dedication event was held for the refurbished Irish Garden. A symbolic ribboncutting ceremony heralded the rebirth of this beautiful four-acre space. The large crowd onhand was able to get their first view of the new plantings, which included maples, hawthorns, magnolias, lilacs, roses, boxwood and colorful perennials. A Writers Recognition Court was also added, with black granite pillars honoring James Joyce, George Bernard Shaw, William Butler Yeats and other renowned Irish authors.

In 2010, the grand finale of the restoration plan was orchestrated. At the north end of the garden, a fountain plaza was created and an exact replica of the iconic fountain at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Dublin, Ireland was installed. Our fountain is dedicated to the memory of Fred Lennon (1905-1998), another prominent Cleveland businessman and philanthropist. The Lennon Fountain was the final piece for the rejuvenation of the garden. Under the leadership of Mr. Crawford, our beloved Irish Garden had been returned to its former glory, but with additional features that enhanced the space in a new, wonderful way. The ongoing maintenance of the Irish Garden is now up to the members of the Irish community in the Cleveland area. Thankfully, the heavy

work of mowing, tree trimming, lighting and security is assumed by the City of Cleveland. But the basic care and routine chores are handled by willing volunteers. We meet on Saturday mornings, when summoned by our captain, and hustle to get the weeding, raking and planting done by noon. We are a small but mighty work crew. We are volunteers who are motivated by the Garden’s beauty and our appreciation of all things Irish, with a nod to the generations of Irish who came to Cleveland before us. I love being a part of something that is admired and treasured by so many people. There is not another place in the world like the Cleveland Cultural Gardens. It is no wonder that they have earned a listing on the “National Register of Historic Places.” The motto of the Cleveland Cultural Garden Federation is “peace through mutual understanding.” What better way to fulfill that mission than by starting with our youth, the future leaders of tomorrow? After about two hours, I checked my watch and announced that it was time for the teens to move on to the next mission on their Service Day agenda. Bags of weeds and leaves were collected and tools were surrendered. Blisters were compared and dirty, scraped knees were scrutinized. The essential group selfie was taken. Their work here was done. Thanks to the magic of these young fairies, the Irish Garden was better for it. Teaching teens the value of volunteering, the reward of hard work and appreciation of the cultures of other countries is a first step. I can only hope that at the end of the day, the students I supervised in the Irish Garden took pride in their blisters and scraped knees. As the saying goes, “no pain, no gain.” In this case, a little pain brought some beauty and order to one of my favorite places: the Irish Garden. And that, my friends, is a big gain.

About the Authors

To the Faithful Departed, 1996 31

Elizabeth Keller

Madeline Lanshe is a writer from Green, Ohio, with a passion for traveling, rock climbing, 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-inchief of Ethnosphere. 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.

Juliana Amir is a graduate of the NEOMFA. She enjoys the stars and imagining all the stories unfurling beneath them. She teaches classes on writing, fairy tales, and myth. Her work has been published in places such as The Fairy Tale Magazine, Grimoire, and Fantasia Divinity. Her favorite breakfast is ice cream.

With a PhD in Nursing, Marcia Neundorfer taught at Case Western Reserve University and worked as a nurse researcher at the University Hospital’s Alzheimer’s Center, and later at Menorah Park Center for Senior Living. She’s been married to Mike Neundorfer, president of Advanced RV for 52 years, and a supporter of all things associated with ARV. She and Mike raised three boys, who now have families of their own. Marcia loves traveling in Advanced RVs with Mike all over the country. Mitchell Dunbar grew up in Cincinnati, Ohio and London, England, before moving back to Ohio, where he now produces and oversees media for Advanced RV. He loves to create across a variety of platforms. He is interested in photography, videography, graphic design, producing music, and writing. His favorite thing in the world is to go on a hike with someone.

A resident of Willoughby, Ohio since 1955, Maureen Gregory worked in the legal field for almost 40 years. She spends her free time volunteering for a variety of local non-profit groups. Travel time includes visiting her son in Manhattan and her daughter near the Mojave desert. Her oldest son lives in Willoughby, so she enjoys having her two granddaughters nearby. Being retired is all Maureen hoped it would be. She highly recommends it. 32

Beyond the Magazinee John Plymak John grew up in Cleveland’s Collinwood neighborhood, and first became interested in art and graphics by collecting comic books and drawing superhero characters. He graduated with a BFA in art/graphic design from Ohio Northern University, and works as a package design art director. John is also a freelance illustrator and designer, and teaches classes at Bay Arts and Valley Art Center. He has illustrated 3 picture books, and his drawings are for sale at Stella’s Art Gallery in Willoughby.

Elizabeth Keller

Elizabeth is an artist from Alabama. She focuses on ink illustrations, using Prisma and Copic markers and pens. She has a master’s degree in industrial design. She loves to teach art classes and create custom illustrations. If you would like to see more of her work, you can visit her Instagram, @keller.design or her Etsy store, KellerDesignStore.

Mudpuddle Photography Life is made up of a plethora of moments, images, and feelings. We could never capture them all, but that’s what makes those we do, special, and perhaps worth sharing. You can find more of Madeline’s photography on her Instagram, @mudpuddlephotography51

Madeline has been Irish dancing since she was 5 years old, competing until the age of 21. Below is a video she filmed in a park while in Dublin, Ireland last April.

Click Here for Irish Dance Video

Amy Moskin

Issue 4 Coming in April

Meraki

Greek (adj) to do something with soul, passion, or love. To put some of yourself into something

Amy Moskin

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Madeline C. Lanshe

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Madeline C. Lanshe