Chrysalis: Spring 1974

I watched a butterfly Gliding in and out Of the wind today.

Once in a while he would Move his wings, But only enough To keep himself up.

Then he'd meet another, One that looked Just like him And they'd dance Together Without a floor.

They looked as if They were waltzing To the sounds Of birds; But I couldn't tell Because I was inside Listening to a light that hummed With my books, my paper, and my pen.

Chrysalis

Spring 1974

CONTRIBUTORS

Roy Anderson Wesley Astin Miss K. Bailey Sharyn Chadbourne Peter Crookenden Banks Davies Tony Diteo Jack Dove (Json) Dreama Dudley Anita Farries Jeff Fuller G.J. Judy Galbraith R.J. Hancock Cindy Ivins Cathy Jones

Stephen Keefe Gloria Lanning Tom Messina Mike Noel Jim Pinigis Carol Smith Ed Smith Mrs. J.D. Stogner Earl F. Stovall Vickie Strat Virginia L. Terry Allan Tischler Hal Weinstein Richard Wilkins Debbie Williams

SAFETY WAY The safety way is an important rule at home, at play, and in your school.

The campus cop is on guard each day he knows the rules, we students refuse to obey.

So walk on the sidewalks with each step you take and you won't be run over by a stoned Ferrum student on a wild date.

Learn all the rules of the game you play it will be properly played in the safety way.

Remember to run, not walk, in the halls 'cause keeping out of fights will save you from falls.

When your last class is over, put your playboy book away go out and have your fun in the safety way.

Anonymous G.J.

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TheArt

Well if you're feeling lonely And don't know what to do Just crack yourself a bottle Of good old mountain dew.

Then you'll start to dancing With the moon light in the sky And just about that time, my friend You know you're really high.

OfMoonshining

So don't just sit in your rocker A-wishing you was somewheres else Just tip that bottle one more time And be happy by yourself.

And as the night starts getting old And your friends start dropping by Have them sit and rest their bones And help you drink that bottle dry.

Stephen Keefe

R.W.

"Down the road here from me is an 'ale' hollow tree Where you lay down a dollar or two Go all around the bend and come back again to find a jug full of that good old mountain dew."

ED SMITH The above is a verse from a song entitled "Mountain Dew." This song, as well as others, illustrates the American love for their own "home brew." Illegal whiskey, known as "moonshine," "white lightning," "mountain dew," or just plain "corn," has survived Prohibition and temperance acts to become an American legend.

Moonshining was originated in the glens and hills of Ireland. It was brought to this country by the Scotch-Irish pioneers. Since its arrival, it has filled many pages of American folklore. Stories of moonshiners and federal revenue officers have fascinated old and young alike for countless hours.

Illegal whiskey began in America in the northern mountains of Pennsylvania and New York, but through the years has become prominent in the southern states of Virginia, Kentucky, West Virginia, Tennessee, Arkansas, and the Carolinas. Although once a way of life, moonshining in the United States has declined because of more jobs, jealousy between families, and more rigid law enforcement.

Almost everyone has heard of moonshining, either through books, newspapers, or news reports, but the best way to understand the operation is to actually sit and talk to a member of the clan. I was fortunate enough to have this opportunity. The following is a written account of this conversation:

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Q - How long did you make liquor?

A - Well, I ran my first still when I was fourteen. I made liquor for twenty years and I'd rather do it than anything I've ever done. I've farmed, worked in power plants, sawmills, and cottonmills. Of course I've been run and shot at, run in cars, and all of that. I've been in cars when them sirens was squalling and they were shooting at me. It looked like the car wouldn't run a lick, but it would be running way over a hundred. It looked like we were sitting still.

Q - About how much money did you make from moonshine?

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A - I've sold a lot of liquor for a dollar a gallon, but now grain sells for about twelve dollars a gallon and sugar liquor sells for six dollars. Now, I have made it out of 'lasses back in World War 11. We buy the 'lasses for a dollar a gallon. This would make a gallon of liquor that sold for ten dollars. It wasn't any trouble to make two or three hundred dollars a day.

Why, back there at home we j ust raised corn and cattle, and our liquor money was our spending money. You couldn't get a job. I've worked all day in the wheat fields for forty cents a day, whereas you could make a run of liquor and make fifty or seventy-five dollars. That's the reason all these youngsters don't know how it's done, because of all the available jobs.

Q - What was the biggest still that you ever ran?

A - I ran one back up in the hill that held eight hundred gallons. I have made over two hundred gallons of sugar liquor a day and have used a fifty gallon still and made grain liquor. It's hard to find anybody to make pure grain anymore because it takes too much time and the law will not allow that much time. You have to make it fast and git out quick.

Q - People don't make liquor like they used to?

A - No! Why, back home when I'd walk up there to my granddaddy's, I'd pass five or six stills. If they was making grain in one hollow, you could go over to the next hollow and they'd be making sugar liquor.

You had your choice.

Q - How did you hide your stills?

A - Well, most of the time I would load off a main road and lay a plank from the truck body to the bank, so when the law would pass the road, they couldn't see any tracks that would lead them to my still. I have used a pump to pump the water from the branch up on a ridge where I had my still. I've pumped it as far as eight hundred feet.

Q - How did you transport your liquor?

A - You can use a truck if you can get to it with a truck; otherwise you have to carry it or use a mule.

Q - I understand Franklin County is noted for its moonshining. Could you tell me how one would go about making a still and moonshine?

A - First you get some 2" lumber, 12" wide and about 8' long and put some tin around it to make your still. You should construct this to a submarine shape. At the bottom make a spout so you can let your water out.

After your still is completed, you make your mash boxes, three feet square. Then you get your meal, rye, malt, and yeast. Next you fill your still full of water. Boil this water, pour it in the boxes and mix about fifty pounds of meal into each box. Then put a little malt over the meal so that it will hold the heat in and thoroughly cook the meal. Do this to however many boxes you want to make. Let the first box set for about thirty minutes and take a forked stick and stir the malt down into the meal. Stir this until the

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meal cools to 156 degrees and then add fifty pounds of rye and twenty-five pounds malt, stir completely and let set for two hours. After the alloted time, dip the top of each box off, put it in a tub and add about two pounds of yeast to it. Go back to your boxes and stir the mash until it cools to 120 degrees. Fill the boxes to within about 4" of the top with good clean spring water and take the dippings that have been working in the tub and divide them evenly among the boxes. After this is completed, cover the boxes. If the weather is cold, you have to cover it enough to hold the heat in, but in warm weather just cover it enough to keep the rain out. In about two days it will be ready to still.

Dn the second day you go back and wash your still out real good. Dip this mash over into the still and build a fire under it. Stir it until it boils to keep the mash from sticking to the still. After it starts boiling, take your copper cap and put it on top of the still.

Make some paste out of rye and water and put it around the cap to hold in the steam. Next take a chain and run it over the ca p to hold it on. After the cap is one, you paste your still arm that connects the still to the thumper barrel onto the cap. Do the same with the worm, except you connect this between the thumper barrel and liquor barrel.

The mash in the still turns to steam. It runs through the still arm and thumper barrel and into the worm where it condenses into liquor. The liquor then drips into the liquor barrel. Here the mash has reached the stage that we know, moonshine.

The first running of the liquor is about 200 proof.

From the first running until the last, the liquor becomes weaker. You keep running the mash until the liquor in the barrel is about 100 proof. Then you bottle the li quor for market.

When you have finished running the grain liquor (the first still of mash), you can take the spent mash and add sugar and yeast to it and run this again through the still to make sugar liquor; that is if you have had luck enough to get along that far. A lot of people didn't get that far because they saw the man with the gun and the badge and had to run and leave it.

Q - Don't many people have the wrong impression of moonshiners today?

A - It's a lot of honest people that make liquor that you would think would be dishonest. They'll pay you and do anything they can for you. They're just as straight a person that there is. They'll pay you down to the last nickel they owe you. If the law comes and breaks up the still, they'll go back and start again to pay you for the ingredients they lost. You find some mighty good people that make liquor. Why, I wouldn't sell a man anything that I wouldn't take a drink of myself.

Well, that's about how it's done, and like I said, it's right interesting work if you don't get caught.

CRAFTS IN FRANKLIN COUNTY

"He who can hold in his own hands an object made by those hands, achieves an inner poise and balance brought by no other activity." 1 DREAMA DUDLEY Man was created to create; it is an inborn trait to develop that which lies raw in nature. Sometimes the end result is good. Often the object created is of great useful importance. The point to remember is that even if the end result is evil or useless, an idea was developed. It is with a sense of pride that men begin with nothing but a willing p air of hands and the raw materials of nature and ignite these things together to create what is to them an experience to be cherished above all others. This is the purpose of a craft; it brings out the inner individuality of all men and yields a personal pride, poise, and balance which is sought by all humanity.

If a person were to ask me where to look for craftsmen, I would probably say "look where the spirit of life is still alive." I am fortunate enough to live in such an area. In Franklin County I have not only found crafts and craftsmen, but I have also recognized that the creativity of what some would call "plain folks" is beyond limits.

This county is boundless in its natural history and the people are proud to be simple. Perhaps that is why the crafts they produce reflect the pride that went into them.

It will be my effort in this paper to elaborate on three particular individuals within Franklin County. Naturally, their work will be my chief topic. Yet, I hope to bring out the human characteristics of these three personalities.

It is this "human" side which drove them to create to begin with.

The three craftsmen, or should I say craftspeople, are as follows: Mrs. Josie Sink Route 1 Rocky Mount, Va. 24151

Mrs. Sink is a creator of domestic crafts. Her ability to sew and her desire to try new ideas 2dds to her creativity.

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her dish-washing liquid bottles become bottle dolls.

Bits of felt become pin cushions and friendly ornaments for the refrigerator. Her economical spirit is carried into her prices for the goods that she does sell. Beautiful stuffed animals and Raggedy-Ann dolls are all sold for much less than what a person would pay for them at a store. Jewelry, keychains, and toaster covers are other items that she has for sale.

When asked why she does not charge more for her creations, Josie simply answers that it is not a money-making project. It is merely an enjoyable expression of herself that allows her to delight others.

Josie's work is neat, clean, very attractice, and colorful. Her imaginative nature combined with her resourcefulness allows her to give a part of life with everything she creates. I believe the world could benefit by having more lady Santa Clauses.

Mr. James R. Eubank Box 67 Glade Hill, Va. 24092 Mr. Eubank is a wood craftsman. His spirit of life blossoms in all that he creates.

Mr. A. Lincoln Gusler Ferrum, Va. 24088 Mr. Gusler is a copper crattsman. His sense of humor combined with his longevity make him a unique character.

Each of these three persons has a different interest which makes him as unique as his craft. Through personal interview, I learned something from each.

What I learned and my personal impressions follow.

DOMESTIC CRAFTS Mrs. Josie Sink is what would be considered a newcomer to craft making. She has only been making her goods for about two years, probably because she worked earlier as a seamstress. It was this occupation, however, which gifted her with the talent for sewing and developing bits and pieces into a finished product.

Mrs. Sink makes many things which range from "children of the world" quilts to dolls, jewelry, trash cans, picture frames, and spool flower arrangements.

In fact, she creates such a variety of goods she has a hard time remembering exactly all the things she has made.

She claims that most of her ideas come from television or magazines, yet I was able to see one instance in which a practical solution was developed because of her crafts. On her refrigerator door is an overly•plump felt pig which has this inscription on its back:

*Some of Mrs. Sink's crafts are sold at the Ferrum Craft Center in Ferrum, Virginia.

WOO OEN CRAFTS

"To the forests in which they settled, our ancestors brought little more than a few tools and a great deal of ingenuity. They had to find ways to convert wood into most of what they needed for survival and the resulting reverence for and skill with wood was boundless and profound." 2

This quote is certainly true of Mr. James R. Eubank, the wood craftsman whom I had the privilege of meeting. Mr. Eubank's ancestors carried the heritage of wood working with a distinct pride.

Dating back to Mr. Eubank's grandfather are wooden relics that are heirlooms to be kept in the family. Mr. Eubank's father was a carpenter, an occupation which calls for constant working with wood. Today, James Eubank carries on this tradition by his ingenuity and skilled methods of turning one of our most plentiful natural resources into objects of useful value.

Mr. Eubank lives with his son and his family in a quaint farm house in the Glade Hill section of Franklin County. He moved there in 1960, after working many years as a machinist for the Civil Service. Even though there is a small sign on the main road proclaiming his "Small Craft Shop," Mr. Eubank tends to view his skill as that of a hobby. According to him, it is one way to stay out of trouble.

Woodworking is perhaps the oldest and the most versatile hobby to today. 3 Mr. Eubank expresses this versatility of wood in a variety of ways. Among this collection of wooden items are rolling pins, towel racks, magazine racks, picture frames, wooden trash cans, and weather vanes of all types and sizes. He also remodels and constructs chairs and tables. It should be noted also that he uses wooden pegs instead of screws to fasten his joints together. This is the old way of woodworking.

Along with his ability to work with wood, Mr.

"If you don't keep this door closed, you will look . me!" hke

This threat was meant for her husband, who Mrs. Sink feels is a little too heavy. It can be said then that crafts can communicate.

To listen to Mrs. Sink talk, you would think that she is a modern-day Santa Claus. She does not seem concerned with making money on her crafts. Rather, she explains her work as just a hobby that she enjoys doing. She is extremely generous with her goods, often giving away merchandise to friends or loved ones. Judging by the quality of her rag dolls, I can imagine that she has made many little girls happy on Christmas morning.

Aside from being an imaginative woman, she is also economical. Her talent at putting things to good use would put even the most avid conservationist to shame. She always saves little bits of everything because she feels it has a place - somewhere. For example, her egg crates become colorful trash cans,

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Eubank also possesses a distinct creative nature. After visiting with him for a short time, he revealed what he calls his "play room." Inside was a small construction of a logging town, complete with a factory made of wood, houses, and a barn surrounded by animals.

Each building was carefully made by hand. One such building was constructed of pencils with small pieces of bamboo for the roof. Inside the building was a light which was controlled along with his electric train that hauled small wooden logs around the "town." This creation of his was certainly an amazing thing to see. It portrays without words the talent that he possesses.

The next stop on my tour was Mr. Eubank's work shop. In the corner was a large lathe which he uses to smooth his wooden objects. He explained that it was also used to make the legs of beds and other furniture. His lathe was surrounded by wooden planks and boards of all shapes and sizes. Most of this is scrap wood discarded by construction factories which he buys and uses in the making of a majority of his goods.

Mr. Eubank has made on object which he considers the highlight of his career. He hand-constructed a wooden magazine rack and sent it to President Nixon at the White House in Washington. President Nixon wrote him a letter thanking him for the unique gift that took so much time and effort. Naturally, Mr. Eubank is proud of this letter and displays it on the wall enclosed in one of his picture frames.

Like Josie Sink, Mr. Eubank feels the main purpose of his hobby is for his own personal enjoyment and fulfillment. Thus, his prices too are very reasonable compared to the work that is involved.

Men like James Eubank seem separated a bit from the world and all its problems. Nevertheless, in a quiet hollow of Glade Hill lives a man that links our world with the past. He epitomizes the role of the hard-working man who is never too busy to talk. With his wooden crafts, he will never completely be separated from this world. Rather, men like him act as a link to our heritage of frontier America.

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do not reveal this. He lives alone on a average-sized farm west of Ferrum. His wife passed away several years ago and left Mr. Gusler by himself. Perhaps it was then that copper began playing a more important role in his life. Isolated as he is, I would imagine the days and nights are fairly lonely for him. Sometimes people need crafts to work with to occupy their time.

The art of copper crafts has definitely not suffered because of his need.

Copper is considered the most popular material for metalwork. It has a very beautiful color and texture, and is workable and versatile. For craft use, it is recommended to use cold-rolled copper since it is to ugher, smoother, and more elastic than hot-rolled copper. 4 Cold-rolled copper is the type of copper used by Mr. Gusler. He can "form" the copper (stretched in some areas and shrunk in others) by hammering. 5 Mr. Gusler explained to me that he used no heating of the copper that he uses.

It is amazing to see a finished bucket or pail made out of a plain sheet of copper. Yet, a copper craftsman uses a fairly simple procedure for handling cold copper which is as follows: 1. Draw the shape of the object desired on a sheet of copper.

2. Cut it out cleanly.

3. Touch up the rough edges with a file.

4. Begin hammering the shape desired. Blows should be light but plentiful, rather than strong and few.

COPPER CRAFTS Each area has its own unique personality who is or does something to bring credit and attention to that area. For the small community of Ferrum, that personality could probably be identified as A. Lincoln Gusler, copper craftsman. Not only has this man succeeded in a craft which requires time and skill, but he has also achieved a type of "stardom" in his field throughout Virginia. I look at Lincoln Gusler as a vital trademark of Franklin County. He is a prime example of what "mountain folk" can do with little or no formal education.

Mr. Gusler is the oldest of the three craftspeople involved in this paper. His age is around seventy-threP yet his sense of humor and open smile -7-

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MIDNIGHT REMORSE & RECOURSE One One One One

inspiration to those who feel life holds no meaning.

We will never really know why craftspeople work with their hands and construct something from nothing unless we try ourselves. Perhaps the following quote explains the feelings of Mrs. Sink, Mr. Eubank, and Mr. Gusler better than I could ever hope to:

5. When nearly completed, light hammering refines the surface and gives texture. 6 In some instances, depending upon the object to be made, soldering is necessary. This is true of many of Mr. Gusler's pieces, such as coffee pots, kettles, candle holders, and milk pails.

Another good quality of Mr. Gusler's copper cooking vessels is that they are much more economical as they can last for generations to come. 7 Aside from being durable and economical, there is also a quality of sentiment associated with "things formed intimately by human hands." 8 Mr. Gusler makes his own tools and says he looks through magazines and catalogs for "new" ideas.

(Most of which are dated in the 1950's.) His copper crafts give him a reason to continue to function as well as act as a source of livelihood. For example, a copper fiddle was sold for one hundred and twenty-five dollars at the Richmond Fair. Naturally, long hours of work went into that fiddle, but Mr. Gusler seems to have more of that than anything else.

Nevertheless, he has sold between two and three thousand dollars worth of goods in the past three years. It is interesting to note that the shortage of copper has had its effect on Mr. Gusler. He does not make as many things as in previous years because of its scarcity and high price.

A. Lincoln Gusler will always be a person worth remembering. His outward personality and his inner clinging to the past combine to educate many of us "young 'uns" in the ways of hard work and happiness. I am sure of one thing. If I ever meet Mr. Gusler on the road driving his 1930 Ford, I will remember his words of wisdom and his gleaming dark eyes that bid me to "come on in and talk."

day older, one more s'matter more condition more hurt in sunken tatter more tomorrow to catch some fishin'

The death in life is boarding in my body tonight The darkness in life is choking my faintest rays of light

One more day, fast gone by One more regret One more tear, moved so sly One more night to forget, and reset

The nightmares of life are clutching at my ragged dreams The abruptness of life is tearing my spirits at the seams

I'm just one more person, set on livin..

With one more prayer for one mare try At one true stab at truly livin' To know myself before I die.

The searching in my life is pissed at my selfwpitied sorrow And the hands on the clock say fuck it until tomorrow.

---Json

Json

"Crafts relax mind and body, absorb nervous energy, and give pride in achievement. Everywhere there appears a renewal of the American mania for things made by hand, for folk art, and traditional American crafts. Those who study such things explain it as a search for personal fulfillment. Crafts give people a chance to be at one with something, to identify with it; 'I made it myself!' is said with great pride." 9 NOTES

Richard Wilkins

1 Randolph Wardell Johnston, The Book of Country Crafts (New York: A.S. Barnes and Co., 1964) pp. 13-14.

2 Eliot Wigginton, ed. The Fo xfire Book (Garden City: Doubleday and Co., Inc., 1972) p. 38.

3 Robert Scharff, Handicraft Hobbies for Profit (New York: McGraw-Hill Book Co., Inc., 1952) p.

33.

4 Ibid., p. 54.

5 Johnston, pp. 14-15.

6 Ibid., pp. 146-52.

7 Ibid., p. 149.

Franklin County is alive - a vital part of our heritage and folklore tradition. These three different, yet similar, people offer an insight to life and creativity. Each possesses a unique talent, a divine

8 Ibid.

9 Anon., "Daft About Crafts," Now, 23 (Jan.-Feb., 1974), 4.

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Where does a beautiful child's mind grow Through a rose's eyes or in a peddler's show The paths are many and show no grace Only to be learned from experience's face.

A seagull so free, survival his life At just a glance we overlook strife He also stands alone and feels the pain For love is felt by all when we stand to gain.

Stephen Keefe

Mrs. J. D. Stogner

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TIME like grains of sand falling endlessly through our fingers, the seconds elude us. hours are innumerable diamond pendants clinging to mother grass only to disappear as the sun awakens. like days the stars fade away one by one as unstoppable morning approaches. the years are running wild, chasing us until, before long, we are overtaken like grains of sand being washed to sea.

Time is merely a device for keeping clocks in business.

Time is what the bustling housewife leaves on the table Beside her bed every night and Time is what she curses In the morning when she is late.

Time is the fusion of Yesterday and Tomorrow.

Today is a happ y medium wherein Time becomes a Golden Reality and is not just a bunch of numbers On the face of a clock.

92856 Hal

The woman named Infinity stands on the street Corner and sells Time At a fantastic price and Nobody can afford to buy.

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RJ. Hancock

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Miss K. Bailey

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WAKING NEAR DEATH I see a pink carnation in my window, reminding me that in the worst of times beauty is there somewhere to Know.

I see sun shining across the floor showing me that even in the cold of sickness there is still warmth and so much more.

Giving Was A Chance When days were long and days were bright Relations formed and people grew tight Nights were sweet and feelings were right The moon was romantic and hearts were in flight.

I see kind, vague faces smiling down peacefully at me. Always there whether or not they need be.

When school was boring and school was old Attractions were born and formed like gold Men grew restless and men grew bold Attractive women were made to hold.

I hear voices, distant, in the hall, telling me there are others worse than I after all.

Jim Pinigis

A window is shut there's no more air.

All around is dark and there's no one there.

Weep Little, Mourn Not Born of Spring living of Summer Farewell in Autumn And death in Winter.

It would all seem Useless, pointless, But Spring does come As the fallen leaves Are renewed As the drooping flowers Send forth descendants As the harsh Winter Makes way for the mellow Spring So we are put on the earth To fill the ranks and catch the torch Of those Departed.

I touch loved ones hear beside me, Finally seeing what I mean to them really.

When love was secure and love was strong Hearts were united and sang one song Giving was right and hiding was wrong It was sharing and trusting and getting along.

I am then thankful for the many blessings I have to count. And to think a while before I was almost left out.

When school was boring and school was old Attractions were born with the fever of gold But men grew frustrated and men weren't bold Attractive women were made to behold.

Anita Farries

When days were long and days weren't bright Relations faltered and barriers were tight Nights were danger and suspicion was right The man was eerie and hearts were in fright.

I know I'm here and the way is clear.

But I have to stay, for a while anyway.

When love was uncertain and had no song Hearts had to be alone in order to feel strong Giving was a chance and trusting was wrong It was pride and shields and make it alone.

When can I go back?

I liked it so.

There are people there.

So when can I go?

Json

And then I saw a hand reached out.It took my arm and led me out.

I'm back again like a long lost friend Who lost his way just yesterday.

Jeff Fuller

Mike Noel

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A Scenic T rip I ride the bus almost everyday I look at the pretty scenery, But people say it's the same I say it is dreamy, Sometimes I see a 100 miles of nothingness But there are a 100 animals thinking it's the best, Somedays all I see is trees But there the next day I see a squirrel in its nest, Once on my scenic trip I saw a piece of trash It made me sick.

It didn't matter how big or small But the fact that it was there, that is all.

Then I saw a cat, eating the trash It probably thought it was beef hash, But I knew it was only trash.

Alone "Wait for me/' you whispered And I waited.

Your promise was my only companion.

Together we fought loneliness.

Years changed, people and things The years changed your promise.

Now it is a lie.

And now I fight loneliness Alone.

RJ. Hancock

Richard E. Wilkins

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ENTER THE SIDEWALK CRAWLERS Enter the sidewalk crawlers, down On their knees, plucking Copper from the gravel, Cursing the choirs that scream Like bomb threats in their heads.

I've come for you now, Said the queen of last year's sorrow, And the voices stilled their movements For the secrets now unfurled.

Backed against a building Is your weeping friend of ages Chanting prayers, clutching shoulders, Shaking off the winter's cold.

Don't touch his face now drowned in pain, Don't kneel against his shadow Enter now the guilt of hunger For souls too weak to scheme against you.

Behind the half.drawn curtain

Charmers writhe with empty pleasures.

They know their beauty, they feel The hypnosis of those who have watched them; You wonder of their reasons, If they see themselves the Way you have somehow seen them: Birds in mating; shells of flesh But you will wonder madly As you find your place in line.

Enter the thieves on clouds of truth, Spitting mockery as they embrace, Worshipping temples, trampling spirits, Hating friends behind smiles painted On during prayers last night They invade your world like windstorms, You must learn to accept them You must lie down your treasures And yourself For protection when they are near.

Sharyn Chadbourne

Life has much to offer But speaks only To those who know its tongue.

Jeff Fuller

Peter Crookenden

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THIRD STAGE After making love late at night I stare her to sleep and then I write of the peace so deep .•. in her face.

Her fingers are strumming the side of the bed Her fingers are strumming Soothing her head with the touching ... of life.

A smile is slipping from her dancing dreams I feel her music It swells it seems and softly serenades me .•. to join.

Her soothing soul engulfs my timeless search and makes time sit so still I'm floating into her mind And she's dreaming that I will be contented with what I find ..• and I will.

Json

The key that unlocks my heart is not cold, dark, hard steel embossed with intricate design rather, it is composed o f radiant sunshine, laughing clouds, fragrant flowers and you.

Jeff Fuller

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CRY A CRYSTAL TEAR It was in a cold ice-coated region that the ill-seasoned love was born.

To a youth of untarnished passions, whose heart was still untorn,

Her once scarless heart now bore the mark that all young lovers fear The hand now shown was hers alone and she cried a crystal tear.

Her springs of love were yet untapped, its hand had not been played, and then she found him bound near lifeless, to an undrawn sleigh.

Now he had gone and come again, and asked where she would be, and the one to whom he now addressed told this story tenderly:

She nursed him ever so tenderly giving freely all she had to give, Her home, her food, her warmth, herself, and gave him the will to live.

She left one night in a blizzard Searching for her lover, the searchers found her two days la.ter curled beneath a snow�white cover.

When his health he had regained and his strength returned to stay, he drew her softly near to him and whispered, .ul must go away."

Stiff and lifeless there we found her since then has passed a year and frozen there upon her cheek was a crystal tear.

Earl F. Stovall

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A-Wondering As I walk, lost Through an ever-changing society I live day-by-day, Week-by-week And see pity In the establishments Of the ever-growing city.

Recession, Depression, What is our world coming to?

Shortages, Population,

And Pollution

Our skies no longer blue.

Is the question what Or is it who?

THE PURIFYING SUN

Matt Zacharias

Dedicated to Jack Brady, fraternity brother, and friend. May he always be what we knew him as. Amen.

ALLAN TISCHLER

Roy Anderson

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Ripples of heat made the shiny tops of the railroad tracks undulate in the distance. The sun seared the woods and tracks; nothing escaped the rays. The white ball always hung just right in the blank sky to reach Aaron's neck.

He looked once down the canal whose banks were hidden by clusters of new trees and heavy rich green over-hanging branches. A stumpy, black stick slowly drifted with the current, twirling inside of small whirlpools of dark green water. Beside a tar-aged tie rested a brand new clean pile of grey rocks. He tugged his white shirttail to his forehead and wiped off the huge beads of sweat that now and then clustered in his eyebrows, obstructing his view. Aaron tested the range by throwing a light stone at the stick, by now closer than before. It sank a few feet to the left, the clear drops of water quickly becoming part of the canal.

He snapped his wrist, sending a flat rock up into the branches of a huge oak across the way, narrowly missing a sleepy cardinal.

The upper muscle of Aaron's arm ached; his right hand tingled from throwing too hard and too long. He held both of his arms out in front of his body, to see if the right had somehow stretched and was longer than the left.

"Ha!" The laugh bubbled up his throat quickly, and when it came out it bounced and shattered against the mass of trees closest to the tracks.

Sun. It seemed Aaron couldn't do anything without that hot, scorching, August sun finding him, burning his neck, making sweat sting his eyes.

He patiently unbuttoned his dirt-smudged shirt and stuffed the two ends into his back pockets. A drop of perspiration sped across his skin and swiftly slithered into his naval.

Bushy, blonde eyebrows squinched his pale blue eyes to see the top of the chromed-top rail. A dwarfed olive-green grasshopper tensed its thin hind legs, then bounded next to a rusty spike beside an iron plate stamped 1913.

A pesty fly buzzed fast by his ear. It circled Aaron's dirty blonde hair, lazily waiting for an open place to bite.

Goose bumps coldly trickled across his shoulders; his nerves were ultra-sensitive to the touch of the insect.

Holey tennis shoes, discolored by sticky red mud, started packing over loose rocks. His arms automatically came up close to his sides, grit-covered fists balled up. Bleached grass a blur, knees raising and lowering, lungs pumping hard; his breath coming in short gasps. A sharp pain stabbed below his expanding and contracting rib cage.

Dry twigs snapped and crackled; the audible escape of a frightened doe. Her tawny body gracefully arched over a wire fence, then bounded effortlessly through a huge field of tall, summer grass.

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Aaron had stopped running when he saw the doe bolt and followed as she neared the protection of a group of lean saplings. But his eyes saw a more noticeable figure, that of a man aiming the coal-black barrel of a shotgun at the fleeing doe.

The sinews and cords of muscles tried to turn her away from what she sensed was death. Her large eyes indicated where her bulk was going to move.

A deep, resounding blast smashed her sideways to the ground, feet flying in the air, a spray of rose-colored blood mingling with the scattered bits of dirt. Her right foreleg twitched once, then she was still. A wisp of smoke vanished in the tops of the saplings.

It was unbelievable, yet it was there in all its realism. Hands were flexed slightly at his sides, sweat seeped through his blond eyebrows in the young eyes.

The sting reinforced his awareness. He swallowed hard, breath slowing down somewhat. Here he had come. This was a haven, a place of calm solitude where Aaron could dispel. the boredom. Some insect lit on a spot behind his right ear. That was very annoying to him. Quickly there was a hazy, unusual blur, a sound, followed by a fathomless and hopeless sensation deep inside which flashed up his tanned back, sides, across taut shoulders, and tingled up his blond-haired neck to his head. It was as though someone had spun him around endlessly in an undefined circle, at last stopping the futile action abruptly for no logical explanation. The big thing was that the logic of the man's actions went against everything Aaron had lived in his still young life up to that devastating moment. Those fresh, wispy years crammed with hundreds of crazy, boyish episodes.

Like the time the neighborhood guys piled brazenly into a crumpled, ripped-up baby carriage nice Ms. Phillips had "donated" to them. One of their number nonchalantly pushed the group of them up the hill leading to the circle of their dead-end street. On the way up, Aaron giggled endlBssly as did Tony and Paul. Their expectations were flashy; among them was a "do or be damned" feeling, a comradeship that couldn't be finalized until all or part of their number had arrived at the climactic point. And that apex of thrill would be the ride down the paved hill that led in a flowing manner out the dead end. One fugitive glance at the clouds showed that most were bunched up over the house nearest them. Scattered gravel extended in a semi-circular pattern around the dead-end. He felt the crammed baby carriage slightly sway to the side as Benny got in. A tenni-pump hit Paul in the elbow, and his friends guffawed at him.

The boys gradually picked up speed down towards Aaron's house in the rickety 1953 baby carriage. The journey remained a blur - vague colors brown, the sewer set in the pavement, and one final unguided lung for the street's lone telephone pole. With a-ďż˝ gentle bump, they spilled out of their fabric vehicle.

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That silly incident remained in the boy's mind for a long time. Periodically it would superimpose itself over stationary thoughts in school, and maybe at his father's gasoline filling station.

There had been a continuous warmth invested in the boy's being. Picnics in the city park, a night at a family drive-in, a few outings on the lake some miles in the country, plus many more goodish things that added so much depth to having the gift of living.

The singing birds off to the left awoke Aaron to the realistic point of time he was in. The hunter strolled over to the carcass, around which was trampled grass in all directions. Steel touched skin as he gently pushed her head over. His right arm reached out, transforming into a repeated swinging arc. Bright rays struck forcefully out between the upper-most foliage of the skance of saplings the flat field ran up to. Unwillingly Aaron climbed over the squeaky buckling wire fence and walked sluggishly through the long stalks of white bleached field grass. The hunter spoke first, "Nice kill. Need someone to help me carry it back to my pickup bammed over there."

Aaron swallowed the sickness that felt its way rapidly up from his stomach as he looked at the protruding eyeballs of the animal. Against its flabby gum jutted a stubby, yellowish tooth. A slight, noticeable odor permeated the air.

"I gotta get home ...dinner time." The words mumbled their way out; he wasn't entirely sure the man actually understood him. He kept gazing at the blood-stained hide. A pair of flys tumbled on the crease in the skin by the foreleg. Ants moved routinely in the crushed grass by its bloated belly.

Then letting out a short sigh, he pulled the stuffed ends out of his bulging back pockets, wrapped it around his waist a few times, and walked back to the tracks that rested on an elevated grade. The old wire fence was nearly coming apart from the posts it had been nailed to. A grasshopper bunched his hind legs on o big rock as he watched the human cross the barrier. The dried-up weeds that grew in the narrow area between the field and the railroad property crunched noisily under Aaron's light jump. A swift motion indicated the insect's excited flight. A series of equally frantic jumps took the summer hero across the dual rails. Placing his foot on a stout, tar splattered tie, the sad boy gently turned his face back to the death-scented spot. The hunter, who had cradled his gun, was staring at him. Normally Aaron would have been overwhelmed by an enculturated fear that an adult was angry at him for his rudeness.

Yet there was not that specific something in the boy's awareness now. At the man's feet lay the dead deer, a gory area of crumpled vegetation interposed with the dark chunks of earth the doe had gouged out in the second's attempt to avert man. A trail of crunched grass leading from it to the squeaky wire fence enacted briefly the sounds Aaron picked up on the

initial movements of the doe. Fingers with dirty fingernails scratched the browned stomach of the boy on the tracks. His raggly shorts had come unstuck from the perspiration; it hadn't stopped seeping out of his pores. A buzzard had arrived quite a high distance above the wooded place on the fringe of which was the prone deer. The airborne bird surveyed the lifeless animal and the livB one standing over it. It swooped in widening circles, and off in the blaring sunlighted sky could be seen black specks, the other buzzards bent on cleaning up what the human would leave.

A breeze stirred the glistening leaves of the massive oaks clustered solemnly on the far bank of the canal.

A good amount of shade was on the water, and now and then an errant leaf would glide on past in a casual swirl. As Aaron scanned the twenty-foot-wide waterway, he saw hardly a spot on the surface where the dominating sun had gained control of the prevalant cooling shade the colossal oaks provided ..

His eyes hurt; too much squinching the hardness out on the hot day, Melted on the edges on the ranked railroad ties was the dark tar. Exhaust of the countless train passings had silted on the rocks composing the grade. They contrasted sharply with the spotless grey rocks Aaron had enjoyed flicking into the water when he originally came onto the path beside the canal. Some of the blackened burned spots

in the weeds were attempts of the crews to keep the tracks safe for the trains. Always the seemingly listless weeds, their washed green stems holding withered leaves, came back in force. The boy observed the paths on either side of the tracks; only fifteen or so feet existed between the bank and the tracks. He had seen on school afternoons three or four bikers zoom up and back, up and back along the canal pathway. Growing out of the clear water closest to the bank were first year spring trees. Sheets of orange rocks jutted out of the canal sides. Sparsely scattered weeds and plants frequently cropped in the rocked places all along the bank as far as Aaron could see. The quiet was overbearing; it was as if someone had turned off the "volume." Slipping on the ties caused him to switch onto the path near the canal.

The beauty of the woods on the other side amazed him; it always did. Here man had left nature alone.

The silence impressed Aaron as a quality he valued, held aloft, a focal point of thought. He grew vastly lonely. Alone.

A scrap of rope was tied around the pole the telephone box was supported by. Layers of silver paint had almost completely obliterated the cast lettering on the front of the telepho.ne box. Aaron walked over to the metal above the crispy ground.

Flakes of the paint peeled off under his probing fingers. The sides felt Fusty, and dirt rubbed off the Banks Davies

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top. He touched a place where a bullet made an impression in the dense metal door. A .22. Sparkles shined on the pole's length. A bird hopped from a glass bulb on the top cross-bar of the nearest telephone pole to the next lowest bar. Tennis shoes _ moved out over the pathed way, arms swinging loosely at his sides. Rocks slipped under his walking.

He pulled at his nose with his first finger and thumb.

The accumulated sweat ran from the tip of his thumb speedily to his elbow. The journey was aided by his wet arm. Drone of a may fly came across the fence on the other side of the rails. Loud. An alertness prompted the slowly moving boy to accelerate his speed to avoid the inevitable confrontation with the may fly. Aaron kept his steady pace, although his arms had pulled somewhat closer to his sides. The moisture generated by the awful clamping heat was coming repeatedly in dribbles from his browned shoulders into his spinal line. The shirt absorbed 1t.

A hundred or so feet further was the one-laned bridge Aaron crossed over earlier. In the distance way beyond the bridge was -an impressive concrete/steel highway bridge, its columns holding the e�ten_ded horizontal span that passed over the rail Imes underneath it. Cars passed by occasionally.

The trees had thinned out in the bridge area. An unused wooden gate, its whitewash faded, rested on the ground among tall grass much greener than what he had seen further up the tracks. The telephone wires overhead buzzed with pitched vibrations; it caused Aaron to think of a painting he had seen in a book which showed an Indian wrapped up in a blanket leaning against a pole, his ear pressed on the wood. Aaron glanced hastily up at the top of the pole. Arrayed on the bars were thick green .and white glass bulbs. A man his father knew collected those things for a hobby. The base of the pole was bare of them.

Aaron felt stranger this day than any other day that he could remember in a long time. Strolling across the one-laned bridge brought to mind the very first time he had come down there. It was a Sunday morning - a good time to enjoy being by yourself because everyone else is either sleeping or at church.

March, the winter was still on. Snow blanketed all of the trees, fields, yards, roads, and the sky in a way, too. There were a pair of cardinals out up in the naked branches. The male was the bright red one and the female the more camouflaged bird. Squirrel nests in the bigger trees were quiet. He recalled many details of that winter. The family had suffered the loss of their favorite great-uncle, a man who ran a general store in a town Aaron thought was Springersville. The women cried a lot, unnecessarily in his opinion. Most of the boys of the family, of which number there were twelve, played lackadaisically beside the fire hydrant that marked the boundary of the Nurnrnert property with the

Erring land. The days were sad. This day wa� sad, a _ feeling he knew briefly before, a sinking feeling one gets from backing down out of a fight or cheating a brother or telling a friend only white people are good.

By now Aaron headed towards home. He had exp erienced his most visible,. personally and objectively, distasteful confrontation with another human being. Perhaps the situation might have been different if Aaron wasn't as lonely as he was walking beside the canal and tracks. But each time the boy ventured toward the bridge that led to the tracks and canal, he grew inside ol himself because it was one of the few moments he held as a high thing - to talk to and listen to - himself. There never was a blank _spot in his thoughts. His curiosity propounded countless questions to whatever apparatus he,_ as a human, had acquired. Bewilderment strayed in and out his conscious movements, physical and mental.

In a yard some blocks away children played cops and robbers. Aaron heard their mother call them in for dinner. Up in the sky the sun had been sp_elled by the breezy evening lightness_ Clouds, their edges rounded like the colors in finger-painting, moved effortlessly through the air. Activity in _a tree: the squirrels chased around the tree trunk in a barber pole pattern. Aaron stooped down on the paved road.

The shoe string was frayed at the ends where the plastic protector had worn off. He rubbed the tiny strings between his fingers; it w�s s!lky, soft, and loose. The bow was lopsided, he tied 1t slowly a�ain.

Up the street someone had turned on the porch light.

The orange glow reached out for a small distance_ Further on up walked a man and woman, their hands joined and a smile on their faces. He said something to her, they chuckled. Aaron sighed again. Killing the deer had shocked him in the realm of what he had held nature to be. The man had treated the whole thing like it was like eating an apple - no sa_ d emotion. He brushed his blond hair from his forehead. Goosebumps ran erratically over his chest.

The soft hairs on his arms were golden from being in the sun and the skin on his neck was a deep tan.

This 'day means something, he thought, yet what it really is I cannot know yet. Swallowing was sticky, so he puckered his mouth to moisten his throat. The flow of saliva felt very relaxing to the dryness that bothered him.

HE WAS CONTENT AGAIN, BACK IN THE LIFE UNTROUBLED BY THE THINGS OF THE SORT HE HAD BEEN SUCKED INTO IN THE FIELD. A LONE FIGURE, HEAD BOWED AND SHIRTLESS, TRUDGED BESIDE THE ROAD TD HIS HOME, CONTINUOUS SOUNDS OF ROCKS HITTING ASPHALT MARKING HIS JOURNEY. ANOTHER DAY OVER, ANOTHER DAY YET.

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WAITING There have been many waits before this one. You can remember waiting in this same airport many years ago, waiting for your wife, only the sun was shining and she was still your fiancee. It seems like only yesterday you were sitting in the too-plush chair of the hospital waiting room, trying hard not to listen to the Muzak that was intended to relieve the suffering of brand new fathers. You were always so proud of your son. You could never do enough for him, and you went with him when he registered for the draft; and when he applied for exemption as a conscientious objecter, you supported him. When he didn't get it you were as upset and disappointed as he. Even though you can remember the struggles with his conscience and principles; he was forced to compromise. And now you're standing in the rain waiting for your reluctant soldier to come home. The tears on your face become indistinguishable from the rain.

MAN IS A SEARCHING

Richard Wilkins

Torn Messina The root of all of man's problems is that he spends his whole life comparing himself to his fellow man.

There is some kind of deepening drive that seems to hatch its egg of constant questioning and frustration upon his simple but gullible mind. Man wants to keep up with the past. He wants to get caught up in a world of mixed up ideas and meanings. And he will, unless he opens his eyes and can see that such bubbling hopes must be broken, and that life will retain a useful meaning if he doesn't get caught up outside of himself. Man must reach within, to find his goal, his own life, his love for what is his and no one else. We often try to solve others' problems without realizing that it is really their own problems, because of the plastic and unrealistic lives we lead. We have to communicate not only through frustration but also through the roots of our lives, our loves, and the death of unseen falsehoods, so that we can no longer be afraid of just existing, but be able to stand up and be men.

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HALLOWEEN

What do you think of a man Who holds the words of his mind underneath the silence he keeps Not revealing feelings from inside As his thoughts scratch at the prison walls Which he has built from his insecurity Only to let them out for no one to hear And locks them up when asked the question WHY? Stephen Keefe

Banks Davies

Have you ever stopped to think just how awful Halloween was? Maybe it wasn't awful for everyone, but it was for me.

I was especially miserable the first few years. It hadn't been suggested yet that I make my own costume. That meant wearing plastic masks that smothered us little kids, not to mention blinding us, and making us extra miserable if our noses were running.

Yes, getting off to a good start, I couldn't help having the rest of the night go perfectly. I was fat, and I had an enthusiastic sister who liked to dart from house to house. It was written that I should collect my fall candy harvest with her. ff course, she wouldn't imagine going with just me, so she got a gang up. They all ran. One would think the houses were going to explode if they didn't get there in time. I never liked to run to get somewhere. I always thought running was synonymous with chasing or racing.

On top of all this bliss, there was a foolproof added attraction to Halloween. I don't care how little water I drank, or how long it had been since I'd gone, as soon as I left the house, it happened. The wear and tear on my bladder wasn't permanent, I hope.

Of course, the best was yet to come. I just know I would've gone home by myself fifteen minutes after I'd left if I could have found my way. You know how some bags are stronger than others? And you know how big sisters tend to get strong bags'!Well, I suppose you've guessed my last bit of ecstacy. Home is in sight; I can almost see the rest room. Then it happens. Rip! Candy all over the ground. Everyone else is running for home. At first I couldn't believe it.

"No! No! Anything but this!"

Then I tried to get help. It comes in the form of "Wait! Wait!"

"Ohhhh, HURRY UP!!" says Help.

The rest of the kids are gone, and big sister "Help" stands there looking at me as though I were the plague only controllable plague. I certainly didn't scare her.

I liked it when people invited us in. That way I could catch up, rest a bit, and get something under control a little better. I even had time to sniff.

Once someone asked us to take off our masks.The rest got insulted, but I was glad for a chance to take off my sweaty mask, and wipe my nose on my sleeve. The gang was definitely angry, though, and we found it hard to believe the reward we got.

Cookies. Cookies! We HATED cookies! Those dumb, cheap, little, crumbly things that never came out of your bag in one piece.

They do remind me of the rewards of all my suffering, though, The homecoming always went like this: upstairs to the you-know-what. Half of the problem licked, off with the mask. I'd then blow my nose and get a new bag.

Next, we all dumped our candy on the rug, in our separate piles. Then we put suckers in one bag, candy corn in another, chewing gum in another, and so on. Don't think we left Mom out. We gave her our cookies.

After we ate and looked for an hour, we'd brush our teeth and go to bed. When our bedroom door was shut, the conversation went like this: "Don't you all eat anymore tonight, OK?" "Sure, Mom." (Simultaneously, sweetly.)

Rustle ... rustle. Rustle. Crunch.

"What flavor did you get?

"I don't know. I think it's orange. How many lemon ones did you get?"

"Three. We shouldn't be doing this." Crunch.

"Yeah. That's all, all right?"

"Yeah."

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

Breathing. Silence.

Rustle. Rustle. Crunch.

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-"..:,e:<0. ,�.-�,,._r -35-

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Epilogue Endurance shattered, pity clung To dust-swept faces, brittle tongues· · "All vanity was mad despair," Sang beauty queens with golden hair, Whose harps embraced the coarsened groans And echoed in ironic tones.

A dancer, drunk with murdered hope Entertained the broken popes, Their faded jewels clung loose on threads·· "Where is your god?" the dancer said.

Western winds pushed smells of death Into each haggard gasp for breath; And these, the hopeless, still alive, Staring as their death arrived, P rayed to gods unknown before, · Surrendered to the rage of wars Too endless to be ending.

STAFF Editor ...............................................................Allan Tischler Managing Editor .......................................................... Ed Smith Art Editor ..........................................................Charles Lerpertz Poetry Editor ....................................................Sharyn Chadbourne Folklore Editor .........................................................Nancy Store Photography Editor .................................................. Richard Wilkins Sponsor .............................................................Dr. Peter Crow

With a special thanks to Mrs.Ginny Stephenson, Mr. Ben Rose, and the other people at The Franklin County Times.

Sharyn Chadbourne

Cover poem by Gloria Lanning. Cover sketch by Ginny Stephenson.

BEVERAGE Life is too short to waste.

Life needs to be lived; not drowned.

Virginia L. Terry

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