Issue 109 March 2015

Published monthly since February 2006

The Writers’ Exchange is a group of people who enjoy writing. The purpose of this Anthology is to promote the art and spirit of writing as a pleasure, to share literary ideas and expressions, to stimulate and encourage writing, to consider publication opportunities and to contribute to the community arts. We invite writers of this area to contribute to this Anthology and to attend our meetings where we share our works, and encourage new ideas. The Writers’ Exchange meets on Thursday, usually twice a month, at the Pioneer Bank, 200 Miner Ave., Ladysmith, Wisconsin. Note that next month we will meet on April 2nd and April 23rd at 2-4 PM. For more information call Bill Fucik (715) 532-6606, wolfhill@chipvalley.com, or Ruth Ralston (715) 532-6815, slograndma123@gmail.com.

Writers’ Challenges St. Patrick’s Day Quik Thots The Last Rung of Life’s Ladder

A Limerick

Audrey J. Riphenburg

There once was a man from Limerick Who thought he was feeling a little sick.

He took a few pills To fix all of his ills,

And, it seemed to do the trick.

Betsy Blessing

Nancy Kuester

Dogs have been an intimate part of our family for the past forty years. During most of these years we have had two dogs at a time – so they wouldn’t get lonely while the other family members were working or at school. Over the years we have had a Beaga-poo, a Llasa-poo, a Spoodle and four Shih-Tzus. All of these dogs became members of our family as soon as they were old enough to be taken from their mothers with the exception of our last two Shih-Tzus. These two were “rescue dogs” received from shelter “foster homes” within the state.

The latest addition to our family is Betsy, she is six years old. Betsy had been living in a foster home since she left a shelter after being rescued from a puppy mill in the southern part of the country. We don’t know the specifics of Betsy’s life at the puppy mill but I will tell you of the generalities found in such places.

Puppy mill dogs live in wire cages that are not cleaned. The only cleaning that occurs is when the dogs’ excrement falls through the wire. They learn to live in this environment and as a consequence their fur becomes horribly matted. Often they cannot be groomed but must be shaved instead. Shaving often reveals open sores and mange. (When picking Betsy up we met a small dog who had had one eye removed due to damage from matting.) Untreated ear infections produce permanent hearing loss. Teeth become so rotten that they require removal and gums are very infected. The feet of these dogs become very sore, swollen and splayed from walking on nothing but the wire of their cages. These are some of the physical conditions that need to be dealt with when rescuing or adopting a puppy mill dog.

In addition to the physical problems addressed above, the psychological damage done to these dogs must also be overcome. This takes enormous amounts of patience and sometimes is never conquered. The dogs have never been socialized, their spirits have been broken, they show little to no aggression, and have not learned to trust, love or play. Many mills handle their pups by the scruff of the neck. This results in the dog always trying to face a person -- he anticipates the unexpected. Many of the dogs drop their bellies to the floor if they know they are going to be picked up. Mill dogs will also “freeze up”, or stiffen, when they realize they can’t escape being picked up. This is the time to speak softly to the dog and gently scratch his back or ears.

Betsy was adopted about three weeks ago and has made herself quite at home with us. She follows Carmie, the older Shih-Tzu, all around and does whatever Carmie does. She eats eagerly and has had no messes in the house. She has noticed the squirrels on the deck and prefers that they move out. She follows me all around, walking close behind me, then sitting so she can see me. She does the “freeze up” when I’m about to pick her up, holding all four legs straight out from her body. It is then that we call her the “Flying Squirrel”.

Betsy’s given shelter name was “Blessing”, and even though we preferred to name her “Betsy”, she has, indeed, been a blessing to us.

Betty Novesky A St. Patrick’s Day of boundless joy was when we had our baby boy. And yes! We named him Patrick.

Sandra Weiler St. Patrick’s Day has become one of my favorite holidays; on that day in 2012 our first grandchild was born; in 2013 our first grandson was born and named Rory in honor of his Irish descent.

Judy Heintz I was Irish by injection only! At least three times!

Bill Fucik My first son was born on St. Patrick's Day in Berkeley, CA while at the University. His mother was half Irish. When I told the school secretary of the birth and our naming him "Dirk"-- herself being Irish, she flipped. "Dirt?" That's a terrible name!" I said, "No, D-i-r-k." "You didn't name him Patrick!?" I promised when I get another boy, we'll name him Patrick. My third son's name is Patrick.

Michael Doran Green is the grass Beneath the snow Waiting to grow, Green as St. Patrick’s Day

He Was Only a Cat

Pat Bourne

A few years ago, as winter approached and the nights grew colder, we noticed a reddish-colored cat hanging around our house. We discovered he found warmth sleeping under our fireplace. He was a feral cat. However, a daily bowl of food quickly tamed him, turning him into our pet. Then, in spite of regular rations and warmth, when the first warm days of spring arrived--he was gone. The pull of the wild independent life was irresistible.

For birds, the urge to fly north in spring, despite late storms with rain and sleet and buffeting winds, makes them move. So it was with the urges of our red kitty.

Much to our surprise, with the first cold winds of fall he was back. He quickly moved into his old routine -- sleeping in his secret hideout under the fireplace and enjoying daily food.

He was a good-sized cat -- strong and agile from his time in the wild. He was like a tough lumberjack of the north, very at home in the woods. However, he had a soft side, shown by his actions that fall.

That year, in our small town, distemper found the animals that were unprotected by vaccines -- many died. A mother cat died of the disease, leaving three dependent kittens. Our winter resident, Big Red, decided the kittens were his responsibility. One by one he moved them to his lair under the fireplace -- but to no avail. They too succumbed to distemper. He was like the doctors we read of today, going into areas stricken with a deadly virus, putting themselves at great risk to help others.

Red was only a cat, but his big heart led him into grave danger. He, too, became sick with the virus. On his last night tracks in the snow showed he walked around and around in a circle, until he could move no more, and he laid down and died. But truly, he was a refuge and comfort in a harsh, cold time, trying to save those unfortunate kittens.

Garage Sale Rehab

Betty Novesky My name is Betty and I am an addict. I am going through withdrawal; oh, it's not what you think,

nothing so sensational, but I am standing on the brink. Garage sale season is slowly winding down. No more public sales to catch my wandering eye. In spite of my best intentions, I can't seem to stop. Each Friday morning out the door I go, map of Ladysmith in hand and the paper with garage sales all circled in pink day glo.

I plot a route from house to house, my personal Normandy invasion. My trusty Jeep can’t pass a sign. It turns in every driveway, pulls off on every shoulder. I meander nonchalantly up the driveway, but once inside I grow much bolder.

Is that a pile of books I see? A box of fabric that I am facing? YES!! I will take it all!! Buyer’s remorse can set in later, but for now my heart is racing.

Unfortunately, there are enablers who fail to intervene. She says, "This would look great in your house. Oh, look, more Christmas decorations and stuff for Halloween.”

I fear someday the house will be on a reality show called "Hoarders" -- if they can get through the door to condemn it. When is enough, enough?

Oh, I have tried to quit to no avail. Someday, maybe next year, I will have a sale.

Janet J. Krings Even though my family is of German ancestry we are known to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day

with the appropriate decorations and “green” food.

Marilyn Zielke On St. Patrick’s Day we sometimes celebrate

by having lutefisk to celebrate the Viking’s influence on England, Ireland, Scotland, etc.

Card Party

Ruth Ralston Once a month they gather together. “A party” they call it. Old ladies, all with more than their allotted life span. Greeted at door with greetings and hugs. In “Sunday best” - Dresses, hose, beads, ear rings. Hostess eager to use fragile “company” cabinet-kept china, Heavy “real” silver, Cut glass, catching gleams of light Passed on from a generation or two, Flowers on the table. The guests eat daintily, smile politely. “Market is having a sale on peaches.” “Jack’s wife is having another baby.” “Susan is out of town again. Does she ever stay home?” Napkins crumpled to show use. Approach to card table with expectations. Sigh over low cards, smile with high ones. Long bony ringed fingers Reach for dealt cards, hoping. Silence and frowns Moments of quick dismay over partner’s bid. As competition emerges, gentility loses. Final scores added, envious losers Politeness returns. “Thank you. Such a lovely party, “So delightful…” Hugs, final admonitions. Canes tapping on floor as they leave. Put dishes away - Until next time.

Losing Steps

Jim Kurz

I helped organize a skiing/snowshoeing, night-time, party at the partially lit high school trails. We decided to ski the Greenwood section of the trails - slightly spooky, unlit except for the full moon. I was skiing across the back of the ball fields, feeling good, in stride, moving fast. By listening to the sound of the sliding skis and the silence in between strides I noted that my body, at age 68, hadn’t lost a step. Wait! What’s that little extra background sound, getting louder? What’s that little dark blur out of the corner of my left eye, behind me? No, even with me. No, passing me!

It was a ten-year-old – on SNOWSHOES!!

Sweet Escape

Sandie Weiler

Your sweet little fingers wrapped tightly ‘round mine Your curling pink toes touching softest warm fleece Your innocent eyes filled with wonder and glee help me forget…for a moment…the madness out there

The Boss is Stirring!

Phyllis Stevenson

“Hey, gang, how’s it going?” asked Pip Squeak. “Why, you little pip squeak, mind your manners! You’re only a fingernail, you know!” snapped Tooth. “Now, who’s talking, silly Tooth! One of your sisters departed yesterday,” warned Finger, pointing at

the gaping hole in Mouth. “Ah, friend Finger, you speak wisely,” said Tongue, licking at the gaping hole. Silence filled the air. All on board the ship were thinking. Heavy were their thoughts! To abandon

ship was one thing but being thrown overboard? Not good! “Let’s ask Heart about this!” Again Pip Squeak was speaking. But Heart just kept on beating! He,

King of the Roost, was too dignified to speak to others, especially discard-able ones like fingernails! He, Lord Heart, ruled all.

Next a neuron in the brain sent a signal to a synapse, warning all on board to stop their silly chatter and hush! The boss was stirring! They did, all but Pip Squeak! Quickly Hand stuck Finger in Mouth to chew on Pip Squeak but to no avail who just kept on talking so Head took over. All those millions of neurons inside Head were beginning to stir like a busy beehive! Synapses began firing right and left, sending flashing signals. No more sleep for poor old Body. Even Heart aroused herself to faster beating, all because of Pip Squeak’s endless questions!

Stomach did a flip flop, regurgitating supper. Too late for peace and quiet, Boss was now really stirring! Picking up a nail clipper, he said goodbye to Pip Squeak. And that was the end of that!

The Last Rung of Life's Ladder

Audrey J. Riphenburg

As the Grim Reaper is sneaking up on me, and I look back at my lifetime, I, like Frank Sinatra, have a

few regrets, but too few to mention. Looking and leafing through the archives of my life, my experiences seem to be more interesting than at the time of the happenings. It seems odd to me that in my December season of life, eternity does not fill up many of my thoughts, but my so-called bucket list has shrunken exponentially, meaning that I am not thinking of what I want to do before my last days, but I just want to keep breathing. God seems not in a hurry to take me home, and He is the one who calls the shots in my lifetime. This gives me more time to cause as much damage as I can.

Thinking of my life, and how many souls will grieve my departure, the list will be a short. I have very few members in my immediate family; therefore, about a half dozen will feel my loss for a short time, and a few friends will mourn for a few days. To know how important and how necessary I am to society, use this example: put your finger in a glass of water and pull it out. Now answer me, "How big is the hole you made?" In a short time, I will be only a memory to a select few.

What did I contribute to society over these many years? Family has always been important to me. When people in my family succeeded in education and business, I always felt happy and told them of my feelings. I attended public schools and hope that in my dealings with fellow people I was kind and honest. Later, when I became a teacher, my wish is that I treated all students fairly and tried my best to instill love of learning in each one.

I married a dairy farmer and worked on the farm alongside my husband. I know I worked too hard physically, but with two of us in the harness, pulling in the same direction, we were successful farmers earning every cent we accrued. Just remember that success is not just a bank account.

We had one daughter who became our priority. She was exposed to many different experiences because of that priority. She was given piano and dance lessons, religious training, lessons in cooking and sewing; in fact, she sewed her first dress at age nine and she traveled with us until she was out of college. She’s held a passport since age eleven and visited many states, including Hawaii; and the countries of Canada, Mexico, England, Holland, Germany, Switzerland and France. Imagine, at age eleven she danced with her father at the Moulin Rouge in Paris. She was taught to stand up for what is right and what she believed. I do think that this was the best thing we did for her.

So, what did I contribute to society that I can crow about when I finally step off that last rung? I was nice to, and honest with, people; instilled the love of education to many children, produced clean nourishing milk for the masses and brought to the world a daughter who is an asset to society. I know I will rest in peace.

Children Playing in the Snow

Meggan Meisegeier

I watch my children play outside. The snow is deep and getting deeper still, falling in big huge flakes that drift from the sky, twirling and

spinning like tiny dancers. It is cold out, but the children don’t notice. They are gone, lost in a land of snow angels and snow unicorns and snow forts. Lost in a land of pure white, where the clinging snow makes houses out of trees and mazes out of gardens. Is that a dinosaur behind the bush? I am cooking snow-soup in the tree-house. My footprints look like train tracks! Come, follow them! Their laughter is warm, mightier than the snow. Greater than the cold. Maybe it’s enough to sustain them, fuel them through the winter. Maybe they’ll play out there until the sun tilts back in our favor and the earth warms and spring returns.

But the kids are getting wet; they are losing their mitten and their hats. Snot covers the whole lower half of their faces. Even the warmth of giggles and the heat of imagination can’t keep the winter out forever.

So at last I call to them. My voice carries on the chill of the air, drifting on the folds of it. And they come, noses red, hats askew, cherries on their cheeks. Eyes bright and flush with fresh air. The two older ones, running despite their three pairs of socks, two pairs of pants, snow pants, cumbersome boots and overstuffed coats, reach the porch first. The littlest one comes slower, moving like a fluffy teddy bear, unable to bend at the elbows or knees. I take pity on her halfway out and go to get her; she squeals “Mama!” in adulation and presses her snot-dripping, cold face against my cheek. I pretend I don’t mind.

Inside, the other two have thrown their winter gear off. It sits in a dripping, forlorn pile, exhausted from a job well done. The children struggle out of their extra layers, stepping in puddles of melting snow with dry socks. They breathe in the warmth of the house. Heave it in, let it fill their lungs. They sigh in the glow of the house, ready to unfreeze. Giddy from the sudden warmth, they gather at the table and together we sip hot chocolate and watch snow fill up the whole of our world. And today, unlike most other days, I don’t mind. Let it snow, I think, filled with a contentedness that only hot chocolate and happy children can bring.

Stormy Night

Pat Bourne

The snow began at three, Just a few flakes now and then. At four it blanketed everything; The worst since who knows when. By five the plows were out, Roads needed to be cleared. Six o’clock and a north wind blew Powerful, and much feared.

Seven, it was a blizzard With icy flakes that stung the cheek. The chickadees huddled in thick pines Clinging together to conserve heat. All night the howling wind blew. Windows rattled from its fury, While snow was pummeled and prodded Seeking everything to bury. Now it’s morning in the town. North winds have ceased to blow, White drifts blur every structure All highlighted in the sun’s early glow.

Is It Really Eatable?

Karen Wiltrout

All children look forward to the special dish that Moms prepare just for them. Many times it is a dessert; favorite cake, cookies loaded with chocolate chips or ice cream punch swimming with strawberries. Rarely would a vegetable dish fall into the category of mouth watering anticipation special Mom’s dish. As children get older their food likes and dislikes expand and change but the Mom’s special dish never changes. Children look forward to enjoying their special dish until Mom is no longer able to prepare it.

My Mom prepared many special dishes, unfortunately, these culinary preparations rarely appealed to her children. One of her favorite salads, correctly named “The Green Salad”, appeared regularly throughout the year. Whenever this salad would appear on my plate I knew my Mom had been possessed by the Wicked Witch of the East. Or maybe I had been really, really bad! Regardless of why it was made, this salad never crossed my lips and I suffered the consequences. Usually having to wash and dry dishes for a week. This made my sister very happy

When I was 9 years old, because of that salad, I almost missed a special evening shopping trip. I had waited all week for Thursday, the night the stores were open late, my sister was to take me downtown to buy a new pair of shoes. We were to go to Roth’s and Stacks Department Stores so I could try on shoes. After making my selection I was to return home and describe the two pair I liked the best. Of course I had to know the cost of each pair. Once Mom gave approval and the money, my sister and I would return to down town on Saturday and purchase my new shoes! I was getting so grown up.

I made sure all my homework was completed, my room picked up and my clothes changed. The only thing left to do was eat dinner and then we could be off on our Easter trip. I read in my room until I heard Mom call from the dining room, “Supper is ready”. Excitedly, I ran down the hall calling to my Dad and sister, “hurry up, hurry up”, plopping down on my chair I folded my hands to say grace and that is when I saw it! “The Green Salad” placed on a lettuce leaf with a plop of mayonnaise on top of it. This stuff was on a salad plate right next to my dinner plate. “Mom,” I cried, “why did you make that?” “It's good for you. It has vegetables. Now eat your supper so you can go downtown.” My sister, with evil gleaming in her eyes, said through mouthfuls of that salad, “I am leaving in just a few minutes.”I knew she and Mom were conspirators! My sister really did not want to take me downtown.

I picked up my fork, jamming it into the wiggly green square. I broke off a very small hunk and asked my Mom, “If I eat this piece can I save the rest? “No!” was her

response. “If you want to go downtown you will eat all your supper.” With determination I carefully raised the fork full of green stuff to my lips; slowly I opened my mouth

and pushed the stuff in. I immediately started to shiver but was able to gag it down. As I reached for a second forkful my sister took the opportunity to point out she was finished with supper and ready to go downtown. Looking at Mom and with a smirk in her voice asked, “The Green Salad” is so yummy; can we have it every week?”

“Mom, no,” I cried, tears forming in my eyes. Sniffing back the tears I again raised my fork with the dreaded green stuff on it to my mouth. Starting to gag, I slowly opened my mouth. To my rescue, my hero, my Dad, saved the night. “She has eaten enough of that stuff. Girls get your coats and go downtown.”

Grabbing my coat, grinning at my sister, I ran down the hall calling over my shoulder, “I will meet you outside”. That was the last time my Mom ever made the “Green Salad”.

I always wondered what my Dad said to my Mom after we girls had left.

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Bill Fucik

All of you are “artists.” Putting pen, pencil or computer to a blank sheet of paper is the same as putting a paint brush to a blank canvas.

You are creating “ART.”

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Published by: The Writers’ Exchange

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