The Quad – Fall 2017

the Quad Fall 2017

Grove City College

Dear Readers, SENIOR EDITOR:

Kathleen McAlister

JUNIOR EDITOR:

Anne St. Jean

SECTION EDITORS

Poetry:

Annie Dupee Casey O’Brien Delaney Martin

Short Stories: Holly Ahrens Caitlin Salomon

Essays:

Drew Santa Noah Gould

As of this past September, I am an aunt of a teenager. My niece, Lydia, is just eight and a half years younger than me. She turned thirteen at the beginning of the month, much to her siblings’ horror, her parents’ astonishment, and my confusion. When did she get so old? When did I get so old?

My goal as the aunt of nine kids has always been to be their favorite. I think, so far, I’ve accomplished that. Who else plays endless games of Dutch Blitz, shares fake tea with a teddy bear, tells them customized Batman stories, or snipes Papa (my dad) with water guns? I’ll tell you who: no one. You see, the key to winning a child’s heart is to live in the ordinary day-to-day.

Now, I’m no expert. I didn’t have this skill way back when I was a Freshman. But now, as a Senior thinking about life after college, it’s the ordinary, the little in-betweens, that keep me sane. It’s Intervis jokes, late night Eat ’n Park runs, the changing leaves on The Quad, and the new Iron & Wine album that bring me great joy.

LAYOUT & DESIGN EDITOR:

In this issue of The Quad there are many beautiful, heartfelt, and heartbreaking odes to our everyday life. Dr. Franklin’s address to the Trustee Scholars orientates us to a life of learning. Anna Potter’s poem, “Litany,” is a poem in the vein of Vermeer’s painting, capturing the ordinary in the rich colors of understated emotion. Returning to us, last year’s Senior Editor Grant Wishard will make you laugh out loud, but maybe at yourself, in his short story “Snakes.” And, because the simple truth is that the dead never truly leave us, Paul Brinkman’s “Letter to the Dead” will make you pause and think on the everydayness of life and death.

CHIEF COPYEDITOR:

Katie Shilling

And so, as we begin a new year, I encourage you all to live in the ordinary because the days go fast here. As Dr. Gordon would say, they’re something to be savored, like a butterscotch.

COPYEDITORS:

Happy Reading,

Creative Nonfiction: Abby Opst Hannah Spatz

Book Reviews: Eric Gardner Josiah Aden

Nicole Mingle

Katheryn Frazier Emmaline Ireland Lauren Tebben Sarah Ramsey Katheryn Wong Hannah Spatz Emily Way

ILLUSTRATOR & COVER ART:

Kathleen McAlister Senior Editor

Anne St. Jean Junior Editor

Christie Goodwin

ADVISORS:

Dr. Joshua Mayo Dr. H. Collin Messer

EDITORIAL ADVISORY BOARD:

Dr. Joseph D. Augspurger Dr. Daniel S. Brown Dr. Joshua F. Drake Dr. Michael F. Falcetta Dr. Charles E. Kriley Dr. Julie C. Moeller

Volume 10, Issue 1 Fall 2017 The Quad is published quarterly by students of Grove City College and funded by the college. The works in this magazine, however, do not necessarily represent the views of Grove City College, the editors, the advisor, or the editorial advisory board. The editors are responsible for the selection of articles; responsibility for opinions and accuracy of facts in articles published rests solely with the individual authors. The Quad grants permission for any original article to be photocopied for local use, provided that no more than 1,000 copies are made, are distributed at no cost, and The Quad is properly cited as the source.

Anyone may submit to The Quad. Pieces are selected by a blind submission process. Submissions must be sent to quad.submissions@gmail.com. Include what department you are submitting to, year, but leave off your name on your submission. Times New Roman, 12 pt, single spaced in Word Document form is preferred; when citations are necessary, use Chicago style. Any rejected submissions which are not returned will be destroyed. Accepted submissions may be withdrawn at any time. Anyone interested in writing a review should contact the editors.

the Quad Fall 2017 volume 10 issue 1

CONTENTS 2

A Proper Orientation (Lecture)

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Litany (Poem)

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The Potato Eaters (Poem)

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Per Aspera (Short Story)

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Solivagant (Poem)

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L’Arc-en-ciel (Poem)

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Flowers (Short Story)

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Roving (Poem)

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City Slant (Poem)

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Cost of Craving (Short Story)

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Grieving Gardens (Poem)

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As I Lean Over (Poem)

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Snakes (Short Story)

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A Letter to the Dead (Creative Non-Fiction)

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Stone Walls (Poem)

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Nocturne (Poem)

Dr. Franklin

Bryce Lowe

Kathleen McAlister

Annie Dupee

Noah Gould

Amanda Mittelman

Grant Wishard

Graham Allen

Anna Potter

Kathleen McAlister

Caitlin Salomon

Noah Gould

Sally Gustafson

Sarah Obst

Paul Brinkman

Kathleen McAlister

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A Proper Orientation Dr. Christopher Franklin

Dr. Messer asked me to share some remarks upon the beginning of the school year, with the hope of welcoming our new cohort into, and as a reminder to those cohorts returning for another academic year of, our vision for their time at Grove City College.

So, as Plato and Aristotle have taught us, I begin with the end. That might seem paradoxical: “Don’t we have to begin with the beginning?” you might say. Well yes, in a sense. But we can only begin, at least intelligibly, if we know what the end is. Of course, by “‘end”’ I mean “‘goal”’ or “‘purpose’.”

So, what is your end? What is that for whose sake you do everything else? Or, as Aquinas put it: what is the “master of your affections” (Summa Theologiae I-II.2.5)? What do you pursue or avoid, long for or fear; what gives you joy and what grieves your heart?

What do you love and what do you hate?

The start of a new school year is always an appropriate time to raise this question, for it easily occasions another question: what is College for? But, of course, we cannot answer that question very well unless we know what life, in general, is for. For surely we determine the end of College by fitting it into life more generally. We cannot confidently specify the end of College until we have grasped the end of life.

So, we now see that our question, “What is College for?” ineluctably leads to the question, “What is life for?” And thus we see that the Greeks were, as so often is the case, right: we must begin at the end.

Now, most philosophers have thought that, in a sense, everyone strives for the same thing: namely, happiness or human flourishing. Indeed, it has often been thought that we want happiness whether or not we want

to want it. That is, humans are simply born with a desire for happiness.

However, while we are born longing for happiness, we are not born with knowledge of happiness. This is rather paradoxical: we are born wanting we know not what. Plato described this feature of the human predicament as follows. Referring to happiness, he writes: “This every soul seeketh and for the sake of this doth all her actions, having an inkling that it is; but what it is she cannot sufficiently discern, and she knoweth not her way, and concerning this she hath no constant assurance.”

(Republic 505d11-506a2). Nearly 800 years later, the Christian philosopher Boethius tried to capture our predicament this way: “Whose souls, albeit in a cloudy memory, yet seek back their good, but, like drunk men, know not the real home.” (The Consolation of Philosophy III.ii 13) While all seek happiness, we don’t all agree about the nature of happiness, about what happiness is. Some think it is wealth, others fame or glory, and yet others power or pleasure. Thus, while in one sense we all seek the same thing—namely, happiness—in another sense we all seek different things— namely, whatever we, rightly or wrongly, believe happiness to be.

Here then, I submit, is the most foundational of all questions: what is happiness? If this question sounds too anthropocentric, too focused on humankind, let me just remind you that that is only an appearance.

Aquinas (rightly, to my mind ) contended that God implanted in each of our souls a longing for happiness precisely so that we might be led to Him (Summa Theologiae I.2.1). I will return to this in a few minutes.

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Despite the fundamentality of this question, we seem only too willing to ignore it. After all, we are so busy. We have books to read, papers to write, exams to prepare for, food to scarf down, Frisbees to throw, Games of Thrones episodes to watch, and sleep to catch up on. But once we recognize this feature of our lives—we are too busy to think carefully about what the purposes of our busyness is— we recognize how unwise we are.

Tolstoy astutely describes this folly in his Confession where he notes that being too busy to determine our end is like “a person who is in a boat being carried along by wind and waves and who when asked the most important and vital question, ‘Where should I steer?’ avoids answering by saying, ‘We are being carried somewhere.’” (Ch. 3) At this point, it is worth pointing out that a central aim of a liberal arts education is to awaken us from this fitful folly. But, of course, waking up is only important if there is something to wake up to. So, what then is the good life? Let me offer two answers.

First, we might say, following Aristotle, that the good life is excellent orientation to excellence (Nicomachean Ethics I.7). Second, we might say, following Aquinas, that the good life is union with God (Summa Theologiae I-II.2.8). I contend, as Aquinas did, that these answers are actually extensionally equivalent—that is, they come to the same thing. But I find it helpful to keep both descriptions in mind. Let me give you a taste of just how intertwined these definitions are.

Begin with excellent orientation to excellence. I use the rather vague “orientation” because there are so many ways to be related to excellence. Consider an excellent painting. You might love it, contemplate it, hate it, advocate for it to be publicly displayed, fund research on

it, regularly discuss it, or light it on fire. Our orientation to the painting takes the form of thoughts, desires, emotions, and actions.

The good life is not merely orientation to excellence: it is excellent orientation to excellence. I know what you’re thinking: excellent orientation to excellence? Isn’t there something redundant here? Philosophers are prone to many vices—redundancy is not one of them.

Consider a parent who decides that the best way to be orientated to his child is by working 80 hours a week to provide the child with all the best stuff. I am not talking about a parent in dire straits who needs to work long hours to put food on the table. I am taking about a parent who works long hours to buy his child a Porsche. Here I would contend that while the parent is orientated to excellence—after all, the child, simply in virtue of being human, is excellent, and providing for the child is a way of being oriented to the child—the parent is not excellently orientated to the child. Not all orientations are excellent orientations. The parent’s life, I contend, would be improved by taking up a better orientation toward the child, such as cutting back at work and spending substantial time coming to know his child.

Earlier, I said that the definition of the good life as excellent orientation to excellence ultimately comes to the same thing as union with God. Suppose the parent came to recognize his mistake and dramatically cut back his hours at work so that he might come to know his child better, to be involved in his child’s life and activities in more robust ways. This would not only be a better way of being orientated to the child, but it would also, I contend, be a deepening of his union with God. One way to be united to God is to pursue those things that God would have us pursue. Thus, in loving his child better, he is loving God better.

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But, of course, there is an even more direct connection between these definitions of the good life. God is incomparably more excellent than anything else and being united to him is the most excellent way of being orientated toward him. Consequently, if the good life is excellent orientation to excellence, then union with God is the best life, for being united to God is precisely to be most excellently orientated to the most excellent thing.

Our discussion up to this point has been rather abstract. But that is exactly as it should be. When Dr. Messer asked me to speak to you this evening, I asked for 45 minutes. He said I could have 12 ½.

However, even if he had given me a week to talk with you, I could not have told you everything or even most of what there is to know about the good life. This has less to do with my limitations—though I am extremely limited—and more to do with the fact that there are so many ways of being excellently orientated to excellence. First, excellence comes in many forms. There are excellent musical performances, excellent papers, excellent friends, excellent families, excellent food, excellent sunsets, excellent businesses, excellent buildings, excellent students, excellent professors, and excellent souls. Second, there are many excellent ways of being orientated to excellence: we can love it, contemplate it, advocate for it, create it, defend it, share it, search for it, know it, live for it, and die for it. While the good life is the same for all—excellent orientation to excellence—there are many different ways to realize this form of life.

My hope in painting this abstract picture is to give you a form in which you, looking to God for wisdom, can begin to

fill-in its finer points. There is much for all of us to think on here. I admonish you to never let these definitions be far from your minds.

Organize your life here at GCC and beyond around these ideas. Cut away those activities that are obstacles to achieving these ends and reorder those activities that need to be reordered to better pursue these ends.

In concluding, I want make a few remarks specific to life in College, for this is indeed a unique time. First, remember that we just discovered what College is ultimately for. It is not ultimately for finding a job, building a social network, enhancing your future earnings, getting good grades, or landing that internship you always wanted.

It is about enhancing your union with God. Now, of course, a job, good grades, a better social network, etc. can be means to enhancing your union with God. But the operative word is “can,” not “must.” After all, it is possible to pursue these things in ways that are aimed atdeep enmity toward God. Thus, we must continually go to God for discernment in helping us recalibrate our lives. For despite our best intentions, we will wander from the path that leads to our home. Sometimes this recalibration requires us to repudiate our pursuits; other times it requires us to modify how we engage in our pursuits. But we must learn the discipline of recalibration, for our sinful hearts are prone to misalignment.

Second, more important than any of the externals I just mentioned, is cultivation of your soul, by which I mean your will and mind. Central to the faculty’s task here at GCC is helping you learn to love and know excellence, God being the excellence of which none greater can be conceived.

You have unique opportunities here to gain friendships, develop ideas, and cultivate

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virtue. Our hope, among other things, is to introduce you to sages of life much wiser than ourselves: Aeschylus, Plato, Augustine, Dante, Newton. But, of course, these folks are only faint copies of the true Sage, our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.

Our hope is that in College you will forge lasting friendships with these thinkers, begin to cultivate excellent habits of mind and will, and walk more confidently and wisely in your discipleship to the Master.

This is very important. College is not the time for endings but for beginnings.

Indeed, a central Christian doctrine is that humans having no endings. As the Christian

philosopher Dallas Willard reminds us, humans “are never ceasing spiritual beings with a unique eternal calling to count for good in God’s great universe” (The Divine Conspiracy. New York: HarperCollins, 21). Do you know what the final activity of your College career is called, the very last event at GCC that you will, as students, officially participate in? It is called commencement. At the end of your fourth year, you’ll hear your name called, you’ll walk across the stage to receive your diploma, shake Mr. McNulty’s hand, receive a hug from Mrs. McNulty and then, once you have arrived at the end, we will tell you: begin.

Dr. Franklin is an Associate Professor of Philosophy at Grove City College. He is convinced that evil is the absence of the Oxford comma.

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The Potato Eaters Bryce Lowe

Heavy, leather cheeks. Calloused gnarls, knobbed knuckles An earth-man, dirt-man, son of tilled, turned mud; Father of a thousand tasteless dirt-eggs; Stone-roots watered by his draining sweat, That he may live another day, another night beneath my light.

Her song is tallow, ash and suds, washboards Hard face rouged by steam and clinging sweat.

She turns her raspy, dried hands to the bucket and knives To wash and cut and boil her jewelry And serve them in depth of my candlelight.

Old dewlaps, old bristle-jowls; Ancient ham-hands and wooden-face; Back broken from the cart and plow and load And weight of farming, trudging So blank to my light and burdened by shadow.

She’s the kettle-cleaner, planter of tulip bulbs, A rack of silver spoons, a chest of tradition.

The wrinkled hands that cut those sprouted eyes, Planting them in neat rows with singing lips, Baking, pouring, lighting me to life, knotting the fraying tips.

And she— She stands Haloed in steam, unweathered hope.

Unbroken, unfettered, unbent.

Bryce Lowe loves those overcast Fall days, especially in the rain.

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Solivagant Kathleen McAlister

I was born too soon, rushing to catch up.

Rows of brick row houses lined my childhood.

The hot concrete aching under our feet, Just thin plastic to save our soles, we ran Through spraying hydrants, under Gingko trees That stretched high into a sliver of sky Until we reached the end of our small world.

Thousands of miles and years down the road, I stretch out under an endless blue sky Where the high prairie rolls in grassy waves, And dream of those days, think fondly of you My first friend: my Philadelphia days.

Fighting and fleeing still runs in my blood Though my days have slowed—a cold molasses Drip.

My feet may have stopped running, racing, But I find my thoughts riding upon the wind, Down hills, away from here, longing to see, Now itching to take off my small-town skin.

We carry our homes within us, I’m told—like an inverted turtle—east and west, Wandering twenty years and twenty lines, until we finally find our rest.

Kathleen McAlister (’18) feels really awkward about having so much of her work published in this issue of The Quad.

The feeling will pass.

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Flowers Annie Dupee

My sister thinks cats are a post-Fall creation.

As much as I love cats, I’m sometimes inclined to agree; see, my cat only shows affection when it’s very inconvenient for me.

For example, today I’m laying facedown under a hydrangea bush in my backyard when he approaches and starts meowing.

“Shhh, Harold,” I whisper, scooping him up and pulling him to my side, “we can’t make any noise if we’re going to catch the thief.”

Mrowr, Harold says as I pet his ears.

“Someone has been taking flowers out of our garden every Sunday for the past month,” I remind him. “A different type of flower every time. Last week they took daisies, also known as my favorite flower, and that was the last straw. Today, we’re going to catch them in the act.”

Harold purrs under my arm, and I squint through the hydrangea leaves. I have a view of my whole meticulously cared-for garden here. No one can get past me today, especially not the kind of person who breaks into someone else’s garden to steal flowers.

A few more minutes pass. I’m starting to doubt the genius of my plan when the fence on the far side of my yard shakes violently. A figure climbs over the top and jumps down next to the holly bush. I strain my eyes to make out more details - it seems to be a man wearing jeans and a sweatshirt with the hood pulled over his head. He crouches down by the bush, looking around.

Harold mews loudly, darting out from under my arm, and I hold my breath. The man tenses up, but relaxes at the sight of Harold.

He scratches my cat’s ears, and Harold mews happily.

“Traitor,” I whisper under my breath.

Now that the thief has earned Harold’s trust, he moves through the garden with confidence, heading for my roses. Anger flares up inside me, and I jump out of the hydrangea bush. “Aha!” I yell.

The thief lets out a strangled yelp as he trips and falls to the ground. “So you’re the one who has been stealing my flowers,” I say triumphantly. His hood has fallen back, revealing a confused face.

“Did you just jump out of that bush?” he asks.

I pause, and my anger deflates a little.

“Um, yes. Yes I did.” I look down at myself and realized I’m covered in a thin layer of dirt.

“Why were you hiding in a bush?” He gets to his feet, and I don’t back down, even though he’s a few inches taller than me.

“Why are you stealing flowers from my garden?”

He looks away and scratches his head.

“I, uh - well, it’s kind of a long story, see um…”

I put my hands on my hips. “So who is she?”

He stares at me. “What?”

“Who is she?” I repeat. “The girl you’re taking my flowers to? She’d better be a literal angel straight from Heaven to deserve my roses.”

His eyes squint. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, you think just because I live alone with Harold and spend all my time gardening that the forces of romance are foreign to me?”

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“Who’s Harold?”

I sigh. “My cat. Harold is my cat. Who are you?”

“I’m James.” James shifts uncomfortably.

“Nice to meet you James. I’m Hazel.” I hold out my hand, and he reluctantly shakes it. “Now take me to her.”

He shakes his head. “No, no, there is no girl. I just steal stuff because…” he pauses.

“I’m a delinquent,” he finishes awkwardly.

“Nice try,” I say, and I walk over to the fence. “Where’s your car? Behind here?”

“I walked - stop it, Hazel, I’m not taking you anywhere. I’m sorry I’ve been stealing your flowers, okay?”

“A dozen tulips, a dozen lilies, a dozen daisies,” I tick them off on my fingers. “You owe me.”

He sighs in defeat. “You’re just going to follow me anyways, aren’t you?”

I smile. “Now you’re catching on, James.

Let’s go.”

He leads me around the fence and across the road. “So,” I say, drawing the word out, “Are you going to tell me about this girl?”

“You’ll see soon enough,” James says stiffly.

“Right. Sorry.” I clasp my hands. “I’ve been living with a cat for so long I think I’ve completely forgotten human social cues.”

James snorts. “How long have you been living with Harold?”

“Ever since college. I have my own calligraphy business, so that keeps me busy.”

“Do you...do you have human friends?” James makes a face, like he instantly regrets the question.

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I laugh. “Yes, I have human friends, but they all have nine-to-five jobs. My schedule is more flexible.” We turn onto a different street.

“What about you? What kind of job gives you time off to ransack people’s gardens?”

James grins. “I’m actually in grad school right now. I’m working on becoming an Actuary.”

“A what?”

“An accountant,” he explains.

“Ah,” I say, “math. So what do you do for fun?”

“Math is fun,” he says defensively.

I snort. “No, reading is fun. Knitting is fun. It is an objective truth that math cannot be fun.”

James makes a face. “Knitting is fun? I always thought it was some medieval form of torture.”

“It’s relaxing,” I say exasperatedly, “and you still haven’t answered my question.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “I like to write,” he offers.

“Yeah? What do you write about?”

James doesn’t answer. I look up at him, and he’s staring straight ahead. “James?” I follow his gaze. “Oh.” We cross the street in silence. James unlatches the gate and pulls it open, and together we walk into the cemetery.

I follow him through rows of headstones, and eventually we stop at one crowned with tulips, lilies, and daisies.

“My grandmother,” James says quietly.

“She died about a month ago.”

“Were you close?” I ask.

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He nods. “She basically raised me.”

“I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say, and he nods, because he knows.

We stand in silence for several minutes, and finally James turns away from the headstone. “Come on, Hazel. I’ll walk you home.”

Neither of us speaks on the way back.

When we reach the sidewalk behind my house, I say, “Wait here,” and run up to my garden. I return with a dozen roses.

James’ eyes widen. “No, I can’t take those. I’ve stolen enough from you already.”

“You’re not stealing these, I’m giving them to you. Your grandmother would love them.” He smiles, but hesitates. “It’s not

Annie Dupee (‘18) is fueled by puns.

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like I can plant them back in the ground now anyways, you may as well just take them.”

“Thank you, Hazel.” James takes the roses.

“I promise, you won’t see me in your garden anymore. My thieving days are behind me.”

I laugh. “Actually, you should come back.”

He raises his eyebrows. “I’ll just plant a few extra flowers, it’s no big deal.”

He smiles. “All right then. I’ll see you next Sunday.”

“See you then,” I say, waving goodbye. I walk back into the garden and look around at all the meticulously arranged flowers. Harold runs over and rubs against my leg, meowing loudly.

“Come on, Harold,” I say, picking him up. “We have some flowers to plant.”

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City Slant Noah Gould

Sleek-haired youth and Karlie Klosses Selling soap and peppermint flosses Up upon the shifting screen Eyebrows stare and elbows gleam -Who knew it took so much to sell a shirt.

Hustle, hawk, and coax the masses Twins of speech, their bright with flashes The flips and tricks a clever hoax You’re really paying for their jokes -Scratch a colorful living from the dirt They tell a tale: a Yankees tat, A faux pince-nez, a handbag cat Which bob and weave, a clever dance, To mask their human occupants -Pageantry churns and senses avert

Noah Gould (’20) helped write a musical in 24-hours because, why not?

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Grieving Gardens Amanda Mittelman

To plant a seed Is to pierce a soul Break bread Break ground And let the wine flow Watered with tears But nourished with love This grief in his heart Planted deep Planted firm Forced through his veins And down to his heart This loss This pain Beginning to grow Seeds of grief Having often taken root Intertwined Yet alive Fill the gap left by love Grieving gardens Now fill up his soul Tended grief Nurtured pain Now bloom in full

Amanda Mittelman (’20) is a biology/psychology double major who prefers chai lattes over water and has read Little Women over 20 times.

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Snakes Grant Wishard

According to Charles Murray, I’m living in a bubble. I recently took his online quiz which measures your isolation from true mainstream American culture, the phenomenon he famously described in Coming Apart. On a scale of 0 to 99, I scored a 40, which correctly indicates that I am “a first generation upper-middle-class person who has made a point of getting out a lot.”

Meaning, I’ve been fortunate enough to attend college and NASCAR races, a pastime Northern Virginia regards with disdain. So, like many urbanites, I’m living in a bubble, but it’s relatively thin. And considering I was born and bred in the suburbs of Washington DC, 40 is a score to be proud of.

So how did I become the strong thread in the tearing American Fabric, the strong beam in the House Divided? How does one “make a point of getting out a lot?” My first thought is to a recent bike trip, from St. Louis to Baton Rouge. A best friend from college, Gabe, and I were committed to meeting the locals, saying “damn” correctly (DAY-um) when necessary, and staying hydrated with the Constitution’s favorite beer, Budweiser.

After pedaling for an hour alongside the Pearl River, a beautiful tributary to the Mississippi, we decided to take a break and pulled off the winding two-lane highway into thick grass. With plenty of time on our hands and impressed by the view, a group photo seemed in order. This involved the hassle of setting up the camera on a tripod and getting the focus right so that we could stand in the shot together, while Gabe clicked the shutter with a remote control. Knowing nothing about cameras, my job was to stand on the riverbank.

That’s when I spotted the snake. He was big. So much bigger than the copperheads I’d seen pureed with the lawnmower back home. He was basking in the sun, coiled up like a…really big snake.

“Gabe,” I said, “there’s a snake over here.”

“Oh yah?” said Gabe, like Adam, the first man, more concerned with his Canon EOS Rebel t3i than his wife, Eve. “So what? He’s not bothering you.”

This was technically true; though, to my knowledge, snakes don’t push you around and insult your mamma before popping your leg full of poison. Like any good, self-respecting coward, I began lobbing sticks in his direction and he eventually slithered into the current.

Finally done rediscovering aperture, Gabe and I posed for photos and prepared to get back on the road. When we turned to go, I saw the second snake. He was larger than his former neighbor. Much larger. A grotesquely swollen black-tan muscle piled onto and over itself, almost perfectly hidden in the dead reeds.

“Gabe,” I said, “there’s another snake over there.”

“Wow,” said Gabe, reorganizing his saddlebags for the umpteenth time.

There were two fisherman further down the bank. They had each backed their pickup trucks up to the edge of the water and propped half a dozen poles at different points in the cargo beds, the lines bobbing lazily down river. I asked the man with a greying mullet and muttonchops what kind of snakes they had around here. I had just seen the two biggest non-zoo snakes I had ever seen in my entire life, and I wanted to tell the story correctly, complete with Latin names.

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“You saw a snake?” he asked. “Show me where.” When I did, he visibly jumped, grabbed my arm, and breathily said, “That is the biggest sonofabitch cottonmouth I have ever seen in my life.”

We were both having record days, but Hank was a man of action, and surprisingly executive for someone that fishes from the comfort of his truck.

He hollered to his friend, “Roy, you got your pistol?”

This alarmed Gabe and me; we were standing on the side of a public highway, and technically in a state park. The American cottonmouth (Agkistrodon piscivorus) is mean, Hank explained, and packs quite the punch. “He bites you–you got fifteen minutes. Out here, you ain’t making it to the hospital. And we see kids playing up and down here all the time.”

This was frontier justice then, and Gabe and I stood to witness. Roy, the snake’s judge-jury-executioner, arrived, sporting a wide brush mustache and an impressive leather belt that said “U.S. Marine.” He apologized for not having the right gun, unwrapping a palm-sized Ruger–the kind of weapon NRA grandmothers give as stocking stuffers, but it would have to do. Moving closer, Roy took small caliber aim at the large caliber beast. He set his stance, held his breath, and everything was quiet except the wide river. I was briefly reminded of St. George, and Roy had a mustache to boot. The cottonmouth languished in the hot sun.

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But then Roy lowered his grip. “Sorry, Hank, I can’t do it. My hands is shakin’ too bad,” he said, sighing in frustration. Hank was understanding, but didn’t think he could do a better job. And that’s when I–the “first generation upper-middle-class person” from Northern Virginia, the one wearing thigh-hugging bike shorts–volunteered.

Roy handed me, a total stranger, his weapon with no more instruction than “look out for cops.” It’s true what they say about combat–I don’t remember much besides pulling the trigger twice, fast, and the snake exploding in my sights, and thrashing into the water.

“Nice shot,” said Roy. “You got him for sure.”

“She was definitely pregnant,” said Hank.

Gabe said something I can’t remember, but it was probably to the effect of, “Wow, Grant, you are simply amazing.”

Hank and Roy took an interest in our trip, and recommended that we try gator when we reached Baton Rouge. This is all to say, I’m a believer in “making a point of getting out a lot.” If Charles Murray is right, and America is coming apart, ours is a golden age of stateside travel. The America I’m familiar with never has time for fishing, and has Animal Control on speed dial in case of serpents. There are two Americas, unfortunately, but that means going to new places and meeting new people is as easy as pulling off the highway.

Grant Wishard (’17) works at the Weekly Standard in D.C., but was an English and Political Science Major while at Grove City, when he remembered.

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Fall 2017

15

Stone Walls Graham Allen

Please read aloud Day exhales towards the West, and dusk trails the sigh Stretching across a wide expanse of goldening ground, Wind rustles wheat like we brothers tussled each other’s hair.

It kicks up green smells, full and forgotten, dwelling in days climbing in barns and spent in fields where we were not allowed but our wonder carried us.

Fields high before harvest—our wild space— charted by our bootless feet tromping until the green gave way, stone walls long and squat between lands or virgin grass, crudely pressed down by morning tires, shimmering in full-noon, slowly resurrected by cicada-song, boundaries, wide-eyed we paused – and pressed on.

Yet the land seems bare and shallow now, the reaping has burnt miles to brown and stretched stone walls skeletal where once wonder would grow in the gap between lands.

And I step stone walls less reverently than prior, a border now a mindless minding of footing with no pause for becoming.

I glance upon Ginger Gold ripening on a far August bough but trudge on—crunching stubble—I no longer halt.

How hastily the farmers gather the hay and awe of crossed boundaries passes away, my leaping, then loving now distracted frame can nod with hay’s briskly baled fate and farmer—we have chosen to move on bundling what is behind, But have we baled the green and brightening light, believing in stars on veiled-sky nights?

Can I yet strain for Ginger Gold in its August bloom, Harvest laying field to rest, tree glowing full-wombed?

Oh! that this be a pressed-down freshness that there is reaping to rise, not a fallow regress.

Today crossing stone walls, now traversing forever We will live, let us live ‘til green and gold come together.

Graham Allen (’18) is a senior MECE who hoped to be from Maine and wanted to grow up on a farm. He will be attempting this by moving to NH next year (and hopes a farm will be in the future).

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16

Litany Anna Potter

there was a pipe between the two windows on the building across from ours that let out steam in the cold, early mornings when everyone else was asleep or at work and I was awake and in the entryway, a living, breathing mass of shoes that piled up and dispersed mysteriously outside of my bedroom window when it was a sunny day, this old, crippled crow would squawk and I would watch its pathetic shuffle and the dried up rainwater in the gutter and every once in a while, if it hadn’t rained that day and the sky was clear enough for once I could sit in the windowsill at the end of the hallway and watch the sky turn red as if it had something to hide – or more like withhold – from us there was a big, long table in the kitchen which was worn and warped and if you sat there long enough on a Friday night you could practically conduct the rhythmic movements of the house the fried eggs and burnt cheese and the fragments of conversation and worship music and people you have known so briefly and yet loved so deeply asking you things like “how are you?”

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there were two washing machines and depending on the week, one-two dryers, and you knew when you needed constancy you could just sit and watch the clothes spin, whirling, washing you knew you could bring order into some chaos, however small from just about any window on a Saturday morning you could hear the obnoxious street organ with its forced cheeriness and long-faded beauty but if you waited until evening, just evening enough for the sky to be navy blue and not black, if you walked up past Haarlemerdijk and under the tunnel which sometimes smelled like fish and past the old, tall houses with giant, bright windows and over the bridge and past the boats and the barges you could sit and breathe and be you could sing “great is Thy faithfulness” or shout “hallowed be Thy name” or cry “why have You forsaken me” or you could just lay your open palm on the pier beside you, legs swinging over dark water, and all at once wonder and know.

Anna Potter (’21) love a good cup of coffee, exploring a new city, and jazz...except that last one... she actually hates jazz.

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18

Per Aspera Kathleen McAlister

Kansas has sometimes been described as being flat as a pancake. From his office in the Kansas City Star building, Sam could look out over the city sprawling over the state border, straddling the Missouri River, and chuckle. That wasn’t what Kansas was like at all. It was suburban and hot—the part that mattered—and the rest was nothing extraordinarily different from what he had seen driving through Illinois, Indiana, or Iowa.

One Friday morning in mid-June, Sam was sitting on his sofa, sipping a cup of coffee, that great Kenyan roast that Jeanette at the office had brought in. It was going to be a scorcher probably reaching the upper 90s, possibly even 100, with storms throughout the state later that weekend, and Sam was happy he had already got his run in for the day. After the Kansas City Marathon had finished, Sam had slipped out of his rigorous training routine, but summer was not the time to re-implement it. It was just too darn hot.

His phone rang. It was Sue Harringer, the managing editor. What did she want? It was Sam’s day off.

“Hello?” he answered, hoping that Sue may have accidentally called the wrong person.

“Sam? Hi,” she said, her voice as harried as ever. “Sorry to call you this early on your day off, but I need you to do me a really big favor.”

“Um, what is it?” Sam asked cautiously, knowing full well that the last person to agree to help out Sue Harringer ended up driving around the wasteland of western Kansas to write a feature piece on small-town festivals.

They had to stay in those awful motels where you drive right up to your door. The piece wasn’t even published until a week later in the very depths of the paper.

“Well, I just had a phone call from an editor at the Lewisville Gazette, I know, you’ve never heard of it, but anyway, about 30 miles down the road from Lewisville there’s a big protest going on. Something about tearing down a state landmark. The environmental people are out there too. I don’t know if it’s really anything, the editor wasn’t exactly explicit, but I know that you’re always looking for these big politically charged stories and I thought it might be a good chance to flex your feature writing muscles and get to know the state while you’re at it,” Sue said.

“We gotta get the New York out of you.”

Getting to know the state was at the bottom of Sam’s list of things to do this weekend, but he would admit that he was at least a tiny bit interested in the protest. All he had been writing for the past few months had been political analyses, which had grown tedious, especially in a state as decidedly Republican as Kansas. It was the home state of Eisenhower and Dole, after all. He did need a little variety in his life. But he wasn’t sure this was the kind he needed.

“I don’t know, Sue. I have a pretty busy weekend,” he said. That was a lie. His only plan had been to finally find the perfect barbecue and try to ignore the fact that it was not even remotely kosher. He wouldn’t eat pork still, but he had laxed in his other dietary observances since moving to the Midwest. It was too hard to find a good Jewish grocery store out here. Every time he talked to his mother, she reminded him that he could have gotten that job at the New York Times if he would have just waited a few more weeks. Then he could still be in Brooklyn, eating latkes every Friday evening.

“Look, I know it might not exactly be your cup of tea, Sam, but you’re a good writer

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Fall 2017

and I think you could really make this into a good, robust story, if it does end up being anything at all, that may even garner national attention. A good portion of our readership has rural ties, and it’s just the break everyone needs from all the really depressing news about bombings and political scandals. You know, a little local color for our black and white business. Besides, you don’t have to leave today if you really are busy. They might not still be there, but hey, your call. You’re the one driving all the way out there.”

Sue’s monologue had swayed Sam. It might be nice to get out of the city for a couple of days. “Wait, what do you mean all the way out there? How far is this place?

What is this place?” Sam had just caught the last bit.

“It’s called Compromise. It’s only a couple hours west of here. Just down I-70 through Topeka then north. I’ll send you directions. Thanks for doing this, Sam. I have to go now. Take lots of bug spray. Bye,” Sue said breezily, hanging up and leaving Sam stranded in his visions of flat, dusty fields full of foot-long mosquitoes and teethless men in overalls.

What had he gotten himself into? ttt It was late in the afternoon when Judd Davenport filled up his last available room.

The young fella had protested a bit at the cost, but Judd just pulled out another toothpick and assured him that this was the only motel for thirty miles. Besides, he had said unhurriedly, the room’s real nice, there’s cable TV and hot water, and the only restaurant and bar in town was right in the lobby. The boy had just stared, confused, before picking up the room key off the desk and taking his duffle bag up the stairs.

The Compromise Inn was an imposing structure in the middle of the tiny little town, with its three balconied floors, wide and sprawling like an Antebellum plantation house. It was in need of a little paint these days, the once-gleaming white pillars peeling, paint occasionally fluttering in small white chips onto the quiet street, looking like unseasonable snow.

But Judd Davenport was a good man; the hotel was just getting to be a little much.

His family had owned the hotel for generations, coming up from Louisiana in the late nineteenth century. It was always just assumed that Judd would one day take over the running of the hotel, when his parents wanted to retire. Judd had always known it too. After fighting in Vietnam and studying history at some big university out east, Judd had come back and moved his parents up to a little cottage on the south side of town. He hadn’t left since.

The young guy returned down the stairs.

He had changed into running shorts and neon orange shoes, trailing a cloud of bug repellent, a smear of sunscreen not quite rubbed into his nose.

“Excuse me,” the man said, “do you have any idea about the best route to run in this town?”

“Well now,” Judd said, scratching his thick grey beard, “how d’ya feel about dirt roads?”

“For running on? I don’t know, I’ve never run on one. I suppose it’s like a trail, which is fine,” the man said.

“Well then, just head out west down this street right here. Run on that till you can’t go no further, then make you a right hand turn. That’ll take you out to Cattle

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Creek Ranch, where you can take a turn right and run back on that road. North 50th Road, I think. It’ll connect to Birch Street coming into town which will connect to this street here.” Judd noticed the man looking a little panicked. “Why don’t I just draw you a little map?”

“That’d be great,” the man said, relief flooding his brown eyes.

“Where are you from?” Judd asked, rifling through a drawer under the counter for a scrap of paper to draw on.

“I’m from Kansas City,” the man said, “Although I’ve only been there for a few months. I grew up in Brooklyn.”

“New York?” Judd whistled, “That’s a ways. I don’t get a lot of guests from places like New York. Mainly from Kansas, some from Nebraska or Missouri, occasionally from Oklahoma.”

“What on earth do people usually come out here for?” the man asked.

“Well, we get a lot of hunters, specially during pheasant season and deer season. And then there’s the Ag Conference in Lewisville once a year. That used to be held here, back in the day, but all the county commissioner fellas are from Lewisville nowadays and thought it’d make more sense up there,” Judd said with a sound of distaste. “Closed a lot of businesses when that happened. We’d just get crowds of people through here then. It lasts a week, you know. John Deere and Case IH and them folks would bring new equipment to show, seed dealers would set up tents, and there’d always be a big livestock show. But that’s been years ago, like I said.”

The man glanced impatiently at the half-drawn map.

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“What’re you here for?” Judd asked.

“I’m here for work,” the man said vaguely.

“Oh? Whatya do?”

“I write for the Kansas City Star.”

“Do you really? Wow. What’s a news reporter from Kansas City doing out here.

Wait, don’t tell me, it’s the elevator!” Judd was suddenly animated. This is just what he had been hoping for. “I can tell you all about the elevator, if you’d like.”

“What? Oh, well thank you very much Mr. Davenport. I would love to talk with you more, but I just drove a long ways and I would just really love to go for a quick run. But I’ll be sure to check back in later,” the man said, map in hand, backing toward the door.

“Wait, what’s your name again, so I can read some of your stuff while you’re out?”

The man paused. “Samuel Bellow,” he said, before pushing open one of the big wooden doors, creaking on its hinges, and was lost in the glare of summer sun. ttt This was Sam’s second run of the day, but the first run had been pretty short and this day had seemed weeks long. He’d sat cooped up in his little car for hours, staring at field after field, cow after cow, and he had to stretch his legs and breathe in some fresh air.

The air was fresh, but it was scalding. A storm was predicted for some time over the weekend, so the humidity was up. Combined with the 98 degree temperature, it made for just perfect weather for a relaxing run, Sam thought miserably as he plodded down a deserted street, the thick air laying heavily on his chest.

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Little well-kept houses lined the street, the yards a little weedy and brown. A house at the end of block, a long ranch-style house, had a perfectly green lawn, not one single weed marring it. Sam marveled. Just then a series of black spouts popped up from the ground and began spraying the yard. The sprinklers were powerful, some of the cool water hitting Sam’s legs as he jogged by. It really wasn’t too bad here. Just looked like some good old Midwesterners with their friendly manners, cookie-cutter houses, and obsession with the American flag. A dog barked from one of the yards. Sam jumped, looked quickly around, and pulled out his map.

Judd had drawn a faint outline of the town, a thick dark line marking his route, with street names printed neatly beside them. It looked kind of long, but Sam wasn’t really willing to make up his own route. The longer run would give him time to think, to ponder this whole elevator thing. What elevator? Were they installing an elevator in that hulking mansion of a hotel? That would be a relief.

Sam’s pace was steady, his feet pounding out a soothing beat. He didn’t even notice that he’d reached the edge of town until the surface under his feet changed.

The road wasn’t exactly dirt, like he’d been expecting. A layer of fine gravel, pale in the bright sunlight, crunched under Sam’s feet, small rocks getting stuck in his tread.

The rows of houses fell behind him, cut off from the fields of ripening wheat by a row of short, scrubby trees and a small creek.

The little shade that Sam had enjoyed in town was completely gone. It was nothing but wheat rising up to touch the sky, the dusty road a gash through the countryside, disrupting the scene’s continuity.

It was still hot, but Sam could feel a breeze stirring through the fields around him. He relaxed back into his run. Running in New York hadn’t been like this. He had to be alert in the city, making sure he wasn’t mugged or run over by a crazed driver. Everything was faster in the city. This was nice.

He turned from the dusty white road, onto a rich, dark dirt road lined with tall swaying grasses. The wind was behind him now and not nearly as cooling as it had been and the road began to climb slowly upward into a hill. Then down again. The wheat had changed into fields of tall prairie grass, fenced-in pastures full of big black cows swishing their tails at the swarms of flies buzzing around the herd, and turning their lazy heads to watch Sam pass. Suddenly, a muddy blue pick-up lumbered around the curve up ahead. It slowed down, pulling to one side of the road. As Sam passed, the door swung open.

“Hey,” a high voice called, “you want a ride?”

“What?” Sam was confused. He stopped and turned to the truck and the open door.

Leaning across the bench seat, a young woman in a grubby Royals baseball cap smiled at him. “Well, but, I’m on a run, and accepting a ride from you, however agreeable that might be, would kind of defeat the purpose of the whole running thing,” Sam called through his gasping breaths.

“Maybe, but you look like you’ve been running a ways and need a break. Besides, you might be lost. Where are you going?” she asked.

Sam pulled the map out of his pocket, now limp and grimy. The woman laughed a happy, tinkling laugh. “Why this is nearly 11 miles long, this route! Who drew this for you?”

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Bending over, Sam groaned, “Judd Davenport.”

“I should’ve known,” the woman shook her head, her blonde ponytail twitching like the cows’ tails, “He’s famous for sending guests on wild goose chases of sorts. He was in the Marines years ago and prides himself on his athletic prowess. He used to coach cross country at the school. He was my coach in fact. I can’t tell you how many early Saturday mornings I spent running this route.”

one down from Lewisville. They probably are just too lazy to write their own story and will end up reprinting yours.”

“What does everyone have against Lewisville?” Sam said, turning his head to look at Sarah. She had a very sweetly sloped nose, dotted with freckles. Her arms were freckled too, though less noticeably with her golden tan.

Sam was in pain now, his body groaning and lungs begging for some dryer, thinner air.

“I guess everyone in Compromise has never really liked the superiority complex that Lewisville has. People really started to hate them, though, when they stole the Ag Conference,” she said, as they rumbled into town.

“You’d better get in. You don’t look like you can make it the next seven miles.”

“Well, would you happen to know who I should talk to about this whole elevator thing?”

Sam hoisted himself up into the truck and collapsed back against the seat. The soft grey fibers poked into his sweaty skin. The woman reached across him and pulled the door shut.

“Probably Judd and Alice Nelson.

They’re the two opposing sides of this whole deal. You could talk to the owners, Mike and Stacy Lukens, but they won’t have much to say. They aren’t changing their minds. They need the money too much,” Sarah said.

As the truck rattled down the road Sam had just come, the woman turned her head to look at him.

“I just realized that I don’t actually know who you are and that you probably don’t know who I am. I’m Sarah McMahon. I work up at Cattle Creek Ranch.”

Without opening his eyes or turning his head, Sam replied, “Sam Bellow. Kansas City Star.”

“Nice to meet you Sam. What brings the Kansas City Star out to our humble little Compromise?”

“A story about some protesting going on in town about some historical thing.”

“Oh, the elevator.” Sarah scoffed, turning back to the road. “I should’ve known. I’m surprised it’s you, though, and not just some-

They were both quiet for the next couple blocks. As they pulled up in front of the hotel, a thought flashed across Sarah’s face and she smiled.

“Are you related to Saul Bellow?” she asked him, her green eyes dancing.

“What? No. Unless you count my uncle Saul Bellow who owns a kosher deli in Yonkers. How do you know Saul Bellow?” Sam was surprised. “Not that I think this is an uncultured, unintelligent place,” he backtracked.

“This town just doesn’t strike me as the right kind of audience for Saul Bellow.”

“Maybe not,” Sarah grinned at his babbling. “I read him in college. I took a class on Jewish literature in American culture. We read Potok and Malamud and Bellow and some others. It was great. One of my favorite classes.”

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“Where did you go to school?” he asked incredulously.

“Cornell,” she said simply. “That door’s a little hard to get open, you have to yank in and then push it out.”

Sam clambered out of the truck, his knees protesting. He turned to close the door. “It was nice to meet you, Sarah. Thanks for the ride.”

“You too, Sam.” She shifted into reverse.

“Wait!” Sam felt the blood rush to his face. Maybe he could pass it off as a sunburn.

“Would you be interested in dinner tonight, here in the restaurant? To help me with the article.”

“Seven okay? I need to go home and shower.” Sarah beamed at him.

“That would be great. I need to shower too. And thank Judd.”

“What for?” “For the route.” ttt Sarah arrived at the Compromise Inn Restaurant and Bar a few minutes before seven.

When she was in high school, people had jokingly called this the Un-Compromised Hotel, because of Judd Davenport’s watchful eye and strict moral code. If kids wanted to run around like that, they had to find somewhere else to do, Judd always said.

Sarah hadn’t been on a date in years.

Not since right after college, anyway, when Aunt Rhonda had tried to set her up with the ranch hand from Dodge City. She was convinced they’d make a great pair, raising horses and babies. But Sarah couldn’t date an employee, especially not one barely out of high school.

Her thick blonde hair was still a little wet underneath, but Sarah had wanted to make sure she’d be there on time. She climbed out of her truck, making sure not to rub against it and get dirt on her dress. The sky was still clear, but storms could pop up fast out here, especially with all this heat. As soon as she stepped through the doors, Sarah saw Sam, hands in his pockets, his dark hair ruffled.

They greeted each other with a smile and grabbed a booth in the corner. They sat surveying the menu in relative silence. Barb, the regular waitress, came over, giving Sarah a rather smug look. She took their orders of the chicken fried steak special with two iced teas, and left them, defenseless without their menus.

Sam had just cleared his throat to say something when Barb reappeared with their tea.

“So what do you want to know?” Sarah asked, breaking the silence.

“Oh, um, well maybe some background on who you are, you know in case I need to quote you in the article or something,” Sam said, fumbling with a notepad and pencil he pulled out of his pocket.

“Smooth,” Sarah giggled. “Is that how you get to know people, ask them for some background info? Well, I was born in the hospital in Lewisville. I grew up in Compromise with my older sister and seven cousins. I’m a third generation alumna of Compromise High. My dad and uncle co-own the Cattle Creek Ranch and I’m looking to buy my dad’s share sometime in the next two or three years. And you already know I went to Cornell. I studied English there. And I ran cross country in high school, and played volleyball, basketball, ran track. I actually set a state record for the 1A girl’s mile.

I enjoy fresh strawberries, stargazing, and Willa Cather. Anything else you need to know–social security number, blood type?”

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Sam looked flustered. Sarah enjoyed it.

She felt more relaxed already.

“So, should I just call you a business owner in the article?” he asked tentatively.

“I’d prefer you not call me anything, if I’m being honest. I haven’t picked sides in this and I don’t intend to. I’m willing to explain from an objective standpoint what this whole thing is about, but I don’t want to be quoted.” Sarah had turned serious. She wouldn’t bring Cattle Creek into this ridiculous disagreement.

“Alright, I’ll be honest, I have no idea what you mean when you say elevator,” Sam admitted, avoiding eye contact. “My editor didn’t even know what this protest was about, so I came out here kind of blind.”

“Oh boy. Well, first of all, I’d hardly call the whole thing a protest. Just a lot of trading insults and posting signs at City Hall.

Second, a grain elevator is where farmers take their harvest, mainly wheat, for storage until they’re ready to sell. The one out south of town is being torn down. Supposed to start on Monday. The Lukens bought the property a few years ago with the intention of refurbishing it and reopening it. See, it closed years ago, ’93 I think it was. But they can’t afford the property taxes anymore on these enormous, dilapidated structures and no one will insure them.”

“What’s so special about these, elevators?” Sam gestured helplessly, still apparently unsure of what he was dealing with.

“Compromise’s elevators were the first grain elevators built in the state of Kansas.

At one time the state agriculture department would consult the owners and operators of the elevators, using Compromise’s grain intake as a gauge for the rest of the state. That’s

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why the Ag Conference always met here.”

“Who are the two opposing sides here? Farmers and the owners?”

“Oh gosh no. Everyone is pretty much in agreement that they need to come down.

It’s sad and all, but one day some kid’s going to be hanging around one, smoking pot like they do now, and get seriously hurt. It’s the Society for the Preservation of Kansas History and the Environmental Restoration Association that are the problems.” Sarah chewed on a piece of ice.

“The what? I didn’t even know such things existed.”

“Neither did I, but here they are. That’s why the hotel’s so full. Judd is part of the SPKH. They obviously want to preserve the elevators, maybe fix it up as some sort of a museum to the state’s agricultural history. The ERA, led by Compromise’s very own Alice Nelson, wants to buy the land after the elevators are torn down to set up a honeybee habitat. None of the farmers are too keen on the ERA, and especially not this honeybee scheme. It means cutting out the use of pesticides on surrounding fields and using untreated seeds, thereby forfeiting a certain percentage of their crop to other, more malevolent insects.”

“I see. Who’s Alice Nelson?”

“She’s the English teacher in Lewisville, but she lives here in Compromise. Spinster lady. Lots of cats. Probably what people will say about me one day,” Sarah said, as Barb arrived with their steaks.

“Why does she live here, if she works in Lewisville?”

“I don’t know for sure. She’s just always been here, arguing with Judd. I have my suspicions, however, stemming from one blurry

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Compromise High yearbook photo,” Sarah said, spreading her napkin on her lap. “Remind me to show it to you later.”

“One more real question, before we start,” Sam said. “Why is this town called Compromise?”

Sarah’s eyes sparkled. “Well, there are lots of stories about Indians and Pioneers or rival gunslingers, but no one is really sure. But, well, you’ll find out for yourself.” ttt Alice Nelson had just finished her second cup of coffee for the morning when the doorbell rang. She folded the newspaper, lifted a fat grey cat off her lap, and strode over to the door, stepping over another cat in front of the sofa.

Opening the door, she saw a young man, early thirties, in khakis and a blue golf shirt, his thick dark hair already sticking to his tan forehead.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“Hello, I’m Samuel Bellow with the Kansas City Star,” he said extending his hand, “I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions regarding the Environmental Restoration Association and the demolition of the Compromise elevators?”

“I suppose you’ve already talked with Judd Davenport? Yes, well, it would be almost unavoidable, that sprawling ruin the only place to stay in this town. Come in, come in. Quickly! The fewer the mosquitoes that get in, the better.”

She let the screen door slam and directed the young man to the arm chair covered in the least amount of cat hair, saved only by the stack of books usually piled there that she had fortuitously moved that morning.

“Would you like some coffee?” she asked, hovering at the door from the living room to the kitchen.

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“No, thank you. I was just wondering if you could tell me a little about the ERA, you know members involved, history, things like that?”

Alice perched on her chair, mainly because a huge yellow cat was taking up the rest of it. She gave him her spiel on the modest nature of the group, the growing number of members, the dedication to turning portions of the land back into its natural prairie habitat. In reality, the organization was a crazy old beekeeper, a librarian from Lewisville, a few retirees especially interested in birds, and her.

They hadn’t ever really done anything, except their monthly meetings where Elmer talked for an hour straight on honey importation and Sylvia made a cake. But the Kansas City Star didn’t have to know that.

“So you’re in favor of demolishing the elevators?” the young man asked, avoiding addressing the vagueness of the answers he’d just received from her.

“Oh heavens yes! I should mention, the bee habitat is just a thought, we haven’t really procured either the funds or the necessary information to commit to it, but somehow it’s gone around town that it’s a done deal.”

Alice knew perfectly well how that rumor had started. “The only idiot in this town who doesn’t think tearing down the elevators is a good idea is Judd Davenport.”

Samuel Bellow looked at her suspiciously. “I hope you don’t find this question impertinent, Miss Nelson, but did you grow up in Compromise?” Alice nodded. “Would you have by any chance gone to high school with Judd Davenport?”

“Yes, I unfortunately did. Why?” “Oh, no reason in particular.” ttt

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Monday morning back in Kansas City, Sam sat at his desk, flipping through a beat up copy of The Chosen, thinking for once not of New York, but of a blonde Lutheran farm girl. His mother would hate her. Sam smiled.

Sue was making her way through the rows of desks, a mug of coffee precariously perched on a pile of papers, her glasses equally precariously perched on her head.

With a huff, she plopped the papers on Sam’s desk, somehow managing to save the coffee. “Tell me everything,” she said, leaning against a neighboring desk and taking a sip. So he did, Sue’s eyes widening with each word, a smile playing at her lips.

“So no story there, I take it?”

“Well, in the middle of Saturday night, a huge storm blew into Compromise and with the combined 60 miles per hour winds and some very powerful lightning strikes, the elevators collapsed. I thought the hotel was

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going to collapse too. Judd was heartbroken.

And it turns out the ERA had absolutely no money available to purchase the land. Alice Nelson just didn’t want Judd to go unchallenged. They’ve had a rivalry ever since he broke her heart way back in high school.

So the McMahons bought the land and I assume will start farming it next summer,” Sam said. “So, unless you want some sort of modern-day Odyssey to publish, there’s no story.”

“I don’t think anyone would believe the ending. It’s a little too neat,” Sue said apologetically.

“You know, I think you should meet Judd Davenport.”

“Why?” “You both send people on wild-goose chases that end very well,” Sam said, leaning back in his chair. “Or maybe that’s just the Master of the Universe’s wry sense of humor.”

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L’Arc-en-ciel Caitlin Salomon

Petals slip soundlessly: White whispers drowsily floating On the blanket of rainy breeze My fingers clasp my chin As I watch them sail unsteadily Am I like them?

Does the wind shape my every moment, Shift my bones under my cream colored skin?

The pop of a parasol behind me; My sister, ever-practical and precise She is a set of parallel lines, never led astray But I am infected with inquisition, Driven mad by new musings: Parasites that plague and perish Within a span of seconds For instance, now I have swerved to see the great arch: A spectrum of vibrancy that bends its great back To touch again the rain-pungent earth To return from whence it came And so do my thoughts again meander to white, Dampened blossoms caught in an invisible current Vagabond flecks, unbridled

Caitlin Salomon (’20) is a sophomore English major who enjoys listening to mediocre records, correcting people’s grammar, and watching Seinfeld.

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Roving Noah Gould

Scalpel cutting flesh, youth, beautya decreation, as humans fix what God has made pre-perfected.

A misplaced hope, so to me it seems unnecessarycrying out, “They are killing each other!” and themselves.

Words no answer to pain, nor good thoughts or wishes, for to wish is to wish it was notthis wreckage.

To beat, bludgeon, bruise, to force flesh into the idea of man’s self-imagetrue emptiness.

With same salt shines cheek of sufferer and spectator.

Hollowing self does not bring peace, or personhood.

Flashing lights, new optimism promise greener pastures; Resting follows promise, hope, of restoration.

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Fall 2017

Cost of Craving Sally Gustafson

The nervous timbre of his voice sounded flat and unnatural against the booming background of crying children, PA announcements, and overlapping chatter which echoed through the Canadian airport. As the frowning ticket agent cupped his ear, Spencer Fuller cleared his throat again and awkwardly leaned forward. In this stooped position, his already prominent double chin became even more pronounced, as he repeated, “Yes, I would like to purchase a ticket to JFK Airport in New York.” He tried to maintain a nonchalant expression while casually wiping the accumulating droplets of sweat from his caterpillar eyebrows.

If he hadn’t already looked guilty before, surely his abnormally loud breathing patterns were drawing all notice to him now. It felt like all eyes were on him, like he carried a neon sign saying, “LOCK ME UP. I AM GOING TO BREAK THE LAW.” Under the weight of perceived attention, his knees nearly buckled.

The ticket agent took notice of Spencer’s obvious discomfort and hesitated for just long enough to make Spencer nervous, before handing him the ticket. At this instant, Spencer felt a wave of mortal dread descend on him. Oh, no.

Not even bought my ticket yet, and already I’ve been found out. I should have known I would never be able to pull this off. Stupid!

“Mr. Fuller, will you be checking any bags today?”

Luckily, the ticket agent chalked up the sweating man’s anxiety to a fear of flying; he’d seen it many times before. “Have a nice flight, Mr. Fuller,” said the agent with a sympathetic nod, which Spencer interpreted as suspicion. He stiffly trudged away.

Spencer shuffled towards the check-in desks while desperately trying to slow his galloping heart rate, using the breathing techniques he’d learned in law school. It was the only way he ever made it through the rounds of tortuous exams without a heart attack. In, one, two, three.

Relax, and out again. Spencer felt little relief.

How he made it to the check-in desk, he would never remember. Time and space seemed to follow different rules in this parallel universe of criminality. The oppressive fog on his senses was disrupted by the shrill voice of the woman behind the desk.

Spencer squinted at the young woman. Her voice was a police siren and her large, white teeth were headlights blinding him.

The woman bared a pseudo-friendly smile as she waited impatiently for Spencer to respond.

“No, thank you,” he croaked. He made a show of reaching for his water bottle and taking a large drink, as if to prove his ailments were attributed to benign causes.

His cargo was much too precious to check.

The only way he could be confident in its safety was to keep it with him for every minute of the perilous journey home. And so it sat, meticulously wrapped, surrounded by baggy pants, sweater vests, and a superfluity of suspenders, inside his rolling suitcase: a diamond in the rough.

As he rolled his suitcase away from the check-in desk, the sound of the wheels hitting the

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gaps in the tiles mimicked his own heartbeat. Buhbump, buh-bump, buh-bump; he and his cargo quietly cried out in fear of discovery. The greatest trial was just around the corner.

Spencer Fuller came face to face with his possible doom: Airport Security. His boarding pass, clenched in his chubby fist, grew damp from the sudden sweat of his palms. The metal detector appeared to him as Scylla, rising into the air, ready to pounce, and the bag scanner like Charybdis, able at any moment to suck his precious cargo away.

The reality of the risk he was about to take hit Spencer like a suitcase being chucked onto the baggage claim belt. His extremities felt cold and numb; he wouldn’t have been surprised to see his breath in the air. His insides turned to liquid mercury: dense and metal, but slipping and sliding and moving inside him. His throat swelled with the threat of stress-induced tears.

Yet his feet continued to move him forward, through the snaking line, towards the point where he would have to part with his freight, maybe for a moment, maybe forever. Only fate would decide if the CATSA agent manning the x-ray machine would notice the strange oval shapes in his suitcase, or if he would simply glance at the image on the screen and let the troubled, sweating, shaking man on his way.

As if in a dream, Spencer Fuller placed his suitcase on the belt in one fluid motion, consciously ignoring every instinct in him that screamed, “RUN. IT’S NOT WORTH IT!” He didn’t exactly know the price he might pay for

his illegal cargo, but he knew that it was strictly prohibited in the land he called home, and it could be taken from him at any moment.

For an instant, the thought flickered through Spencer’s muddled mind, I should turn around and leave right now, but it was too late; his bag was already being pulled through the x-ray. Whatever happened next was destiny.

As Spencer plodded through the metal detector, his thoughts spilled from his mind, and out, into his muscles and his veins, carried through his blood in the form of adrenaline, zipping past every nerve and sending a shock to the very end of his fingertips.

When, quaking with anxiety, he walked out, the dreaded words hit his ears several seconds before they triggered his brain.

“Excuse me, sir, we’re going to have to open up your bag. Could you just wait here a moment?” The CATSA agent called out in a monotone voice, bored by the onslaught of luggage and oblivious to the terror he would strike into the heart of the man before him.

Time stopped. The ground beneath Spencer froze to the rubber soles of his shoes. His nostrils flared and his lips parted just enough to inhale a sharp, cold breath. Then, with uncharacteristic agility, he leapt towards the brown rolling bag on the conveyor belt. His meaty hand met the water-damaged handle and he bounded away from the security station, back past the line, bag in hand. The bag had hit the floor upside-down and bounced, instead of rolled, across the airport floor.

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The corners of the CATSA agent’s mustache turned up in shock, and he stood still for a moment, before calling for backup and jumping over the conveyor belt.

With a few seconds head start and adrenaline on his side, Spencer ran far without being caught. Back past Scylla and Charybdis, past the ever-smiling woman at the check-in desk, and almost to the ticket agent, who would later tell the other airport employees that, all along, he had known “There was something off about that guy.”

Before Spencer reached the door of the airport, he was tackled by three guards and hit the ground with an oomph as the wind was knocked out of his lungs. He was pinned to the ground by one of the guards as more airport employees rushed to the scene. Regret and defeat washed over him like a backscatter scanner and he panicked for his precious cargo, which was now

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cast aside several feet away and being guarded by another intimidating man.

When the bomb squad arrived, Spencer laid his head down on the dirty floor in shame. The cool tile felt strangely soothing against his cheek.

After evaluating that there was no immediate threat, the security force opened Spencer Fuller’s ugly, brown suitcase. With a whimper, Spencer watched them pull out a large square package wrapped in brown paper. With a sickening riiiip, the paper was snatched off.

The box storing Spencer’s cargo was opened to reveal dozens of colorfully wrapped egg-shaped objects. Under the colored foil, chocolate. The security team exchanged glances of disbelief.

Spencer Fuller watched his bulk purchase of Kinder Surprise Eggs be taken off by the puzzled CATSA agents, and he curled into the fetal position.

Sally Gustafson (‘21) is a freshman English major who, until this story, had not written fiction since elementary school, and was pleasantly surprised to discover that she still quite enjoyed it.

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As I Lean Over Sarah Obst

That gaping wound long festering Is so deep. An abyss that Reaches your soul, Shrunken from years of exhaustion.

For it has heaved and bled Till little remains.

It vibrates like an animal Wheezing for breath As your voice forces Small knives into my soul.

The voice of an EKG Always spiking; a treetop voice, Then fuzzy like bristly leaves Shaken by the wind as it dies out In a frenzied panic of tears.

I don’t think that little shrunken Star of a soul can support Such a voice much longer.

Why does the wound plunge so far— Who has done it?

Though I know who you will say.

But take a bandage then, for Anything, anything would help.

I don’t think she can take The exposure much longer, Your little soul; I think she’s dying.

I see her as a feeble bird, Her heart beating like a fist To a punching bag—her weak chest So paper-thin: what should be The lifeblood only tantalizing her With pounces of unchanneled energy.

Her throat is unable to sound Even a sad song.

I lean over to look Into the hole, And I am afraid I’ll see too far— See my own reflection At the bottom of the bleeding well.

And it will be ugly, my reflection, In your water.

Sarah Opst (’20) is a sophomore English major who loves yoga, Elizabeth Gilbert, and making brownies out of beans.

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A Letter to the Dead Paul Brinkman

But as for me, my feet had almost stumbled; my steps had nearly slipped…

If I had said, “I will speak thus,” behold, I would have been untrue to the generation of Your children. When I thought how to understand this, it was too painful for me— A letter to the dead.

If we might tender but one letter for the dead, what might that letter be? Alpha, to imply Omega, to feed our theism? Bravo, to acknowledge that all life is a comedy played out upon a stage? Delta, for after all, the only constant is change? Foxtrot, remembering the joy and play of mortal life, its resemblance to dance? Juliet— A letter to the dead.

I rejoice in resurrection. There. A solid, weighty sentence.

Unambiguous subject, active indicative verb, germane direct object. Let us do away with the flighty passive voice, subjunctive sophistry, dangling participles, implied objects, etc. Let us speak and reason with concrete rhetoric–with the solidity and rapidity of incarnated immortals–and let us rejoice therein. Let us rejoice in our identities, for we are not so unalike.

The sleep in which you bathe shall not persist. It cannot. You shall wake, and your eyelids shall flicker, as the morning dew clings to your skin, the birds welcome the blazing sun, and all Earth is suffused with presence.

Presence or presents? They sound the same. Maybe I mean both? I think both work. Roll those words, those twin fruits, over your tongue, and taste the simple syllables. When spoken aloud, those words are indistinguishable. That only makes sense if they are the same word. I think they are. Without the written word of language to prove otherwise, aren’t they?

A letter to the dead.

The core of grief is regret. The blister of absence eventually meets the callus of perseverance; but regret can never be assuaged, can never be evaded, can never be satisfied. Regret leverages man’s mightiest, divinest power against him: imagination. That same limitless force which divorces man from his animal neighbors remains just as limitless and forceful when channeled into the violence of regret. For regret is a sort of violence: it is a violence against the conscience. It crucifies the strained, finite decisions of the past upon a cross of perfect knowledge, and knowledge only finds perfection in the perfect tense–never in the present tense.

A letter to the dead.

You are missed. Your absence urges towards a disinclination to exist anywhere but the future tense. Yet all the fastidious grammar in the world is powerless to soften the crackling electricity of loss. Some say that loss numbs, but it numbs by overstimulation. The nerves fail.

Paul Brinkman (’15) takes no thought of the harvest, but only of proper sowing.

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Nocturne Kathleen McAlister

Stars flicker brightly on the still dark sea, The glass panes of our drafty window reflecting Shafts of distilled heavenly light.

Clouds shadow the moon, slow and plodding, As silence echoes behind your voice— Clear on the rising breath.

Meaning nothing, saying all, breath turns to air And with a dying rattle, you drift back to sleep, Taking the quiet with you.

In the golden morning light, your words will glow Like a handful of roses still drenched in dew, And I will forget the night.

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Recommended Readings The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt (Back Bay Books, 2015) The story of Theo Decker, a miraculous survivor of a bombing of the Metropolitan Art Museum which kills his mother, The Goldfinch traces the growth of Theo, the mystery of a small Dutch painting in his possession, and the people that flow into his ever-changing, New York life. Beautifully crafted and smart, The Goldfinch mesmerizes in its intricate simplicity as an old-fashioned story of loss, identity, survival, and fate. /Julianna Joseph, Senior Editor of The Echo

The Underground Railroad by Colson Whitehead (Doubleday, 2016) Did you ever think the Underground Railroad was a real railroad underground? Well, what if it was? A #1 New York Times Bestseller, Whitehead’s novel chronicles the desperate bid for freedom by slave, Cora, in the Antebellum South. At once harrowingly realistic and delightfully fantastical, Cora’s story traverses through states and cities, but also time, bringing us face-to-face with the unfilled promises of America and the power of history. /Dr. Eric Potter, Professor of English 12 Ways Your Phone is Changing You by Tony Reinke (Crossway, 2017) In his analysis of the smartphone, Reinke purposefully focuses his attention on the question on how this technology is affecting our pursuit of Christ. Well-researched and broad in its sources, 12 Ways is also refreshing in its unique Christian perspective and practical application without it being a new set of commandments. /Dr. T. David Gordon, Professor of Religion Check out Dr. Gordon’s full review of this book in our next issue of The Quad.

Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Martyr, Prophet, Spy

by Eric Metaxas (Thomas Nelson, 2011) A New York Times Bestseller, Metaxas’s biography of German pastor and author Dietrich Bonhoeffer explores both aspects—theologian and spy—of the man of God dedicated to fighting the Nazis. A story of great courage and great pain, Bonhoeffer draws from previously unavailable documents and Metaxas’s theological and writerly chops to impact readers profoundly. /Dr. Julie Moeller, Professor of Religion

Check out these books and more at Hearts & Minds Bookstore Dallastown, PA heartsandmindsbooks.com

the Quad Fall 2017 volume 10 issue 1

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