Carolina Woman’s annual Writing Contest highlights the tremendous talent in our state. The grand prize through honorable mention champs were printed last month. Congrats to those who penned the staff favorites, which follow.
– Debra Simon, Editor & Publisher
"Gam Zoo Herding"
poetry by Christina Baumis of Goose Creek, S.C.
Stirrup and yoga pants with endless patterned leggings
emerged like a stampede of vibrant animals from the gym,
conforming wayward thighs, tummies, and booties.
Banishing nylon struggles in restrooms and panty hose run calamities
for mommies on the go, go, go.
"The Man With the Silver-Handled Mop"
fiction by S. G. Benson of Warne, N.C.
Jayce recognized the man but couldn't remember his name. Maybe she never knew it. She paused in the nursing home hallway and watched an elderly, mustached fellow work a silver-handled mop across the floor. Without looking up, he dipped the swab into a yellow pail, then lifted it, dripping, into the wringer. His wrinkled fingers firmly grasped the handle and pulled, squeezing moisture from the cotton strands. With an easy swing, he tackled the next section of linoleum. Jayce noticed that his mustache appeared waxed, and it twisted up on the ends.
He seems so familiar, she thought. Where have I seen this man before?
The institutional-green walls faded from Jayce’s eyes as she turned inward.
* * *
A sunny day, downtown Millboro. Her six-year-old legs pumped hard as she struggled to keep up with her mother’s purposeful march down the sidewalk.
“Hurry up, child. The bakery closes soon; we must pick up a pie for the picnic.” Mom slowed as she approached the establishment, and Jayce caught up with her.
By the doorway, a young, red-headed boy squatted next to a cardboard box with the words “Free Kittens” scrawled on the side.
A teenaged girl approached the box from the other direction, reached inside, and lifted a tiny tabby. “I’ll take it,” she said.
Jayce tugged at her mother’s skirt. “Mommy, can we get a kitty, too?”
Her mother waved her off and pulled open the door. “We’ll see.”
Jayce stepped over to the box and peered inside...empty.
A man rose from a lawn chair a few feet away and played with the upturned tips of his bushy, gray mustache. His bright blue eyes sparkled and he tousled the boy’s hair. “Nice job getting rid of the kittens, Bobby. Let’s get home now.”
Bobby beamed. “Sure, Grandpa.”
* * *
Jayce felt the disappointment as though it had happened yesterday. She thought about the boy’s grandfather and peered again at the worker at the end of the hall. No, I’ve seen him somewhere else, she thought, and drifted off into space again.
* * *
At thirteen, Jayce didn’t feel like going shopping for school clothes with a parent. She had her own ideas her wardrobe, and she doubted her mother would agree. But Mom had the checkbook, so Jayce got into the car and they drove to the mall.
Jayce spent a couple of hours trying on clothes. It surprised her that her cajoling had, for the most part, worked. Pleased with the victory, she stood behind her mother in the checkout line as the clerk rang up the purchases.
Mom reached into her purse, pulled out the checkbook, and flipped it open. Her face reddened. “Oh no!” She glanced at Jayce, then said to the clerk, “Can you set these aside for us? I’ll need to run home for more checks.”
“We’ll have to re-shelf these if you’re not back in an hour,” the woman replied, sounding annoyed.
As she followed her mother out of the store, Jayce noticed a gentleman with a trim, gray mustache, turned up at the ends, silently watching them with intense, azure eyes.
* * *
Jayce realized she was staring at the janitor, still concentrating on his task. I wonder what color his eyes are, she thought, but he didn’t look up. The hallway remained otherwise empty, and she dropped back into her reverie.
* * *
The sign read, “Fresh Strawberries.” Jayce, on summer break from college, stopped her blue convertible at a roadside farm stand. She took her place in the long queue in front of a table. Sweet fruit scent permeated the air.
The line inched forward as a gray-haired man handed customers small baskets of luscious red fruit and collected payment. When Jayce reached the front, the shopper ahead of her stepped away with his purchase, revealing a now-vacant table.
The seller fingered his gray handlebar mustache and observed her with startlingly blue eyes. “Sorry, that’s all for today,” he said. “Can you return tomorrow?”
* * *
Jayce shook her head and returned to the present, remembering her mother’s disappointment when she arrived home empty-handed. The wet floor glistened. The custodian appeared from an adjacent hallway, carrying a fresh bucket of water and resumed his work, ignoring her. That couldn’t be the same guy, she thought. He was old back then. If he’s here now, he’d be a resident, not an employee.
* * *
The Ferris wheel slowed, then stopped. A carney flipped up the safety bar on a slightly swinging pod and let out a pair of riders. Two new passengers climbed in. He lowered the rail in front of them and brought the next car forward.
Jayce, holding her small daughter’s hand, moved ahead in line. “Grandma took me on this wheel when I was your age,” she said. “You’ll love it.”
A few minutes later, the couple in front of them took their seats in a gondola, and the graying operator pushed the control lever all the way forward. Jayce heard oohs and aahs emanate from above as the wheel reached full speed. She patted her daughter’s hand. “We’re next.”
The carney twisted the ends of his silver mustache as he approached the waiting customers. He gazed at them with deep, cobalt eyes. “I’m sorry, folks. That’s the last ride. The carnival moves on tomorrow and must break everything down tonight. We’ll be back next year.”
* * *
Jayce recalled her child’s dejection as they returned home that night. Eyes focused downward, and still engulfed by memories, she glimpsed a mop head moving near her feet. She raised her head and saw the janitor approach. He stopped, politely waiting for her to move.
She reached for the knob in front of her, pushing the door open and calling, “Hi, Mom.”
Jayce looked again at the man in the corridor. He regarded her silently with sad, blue eyes.
She stepped inside. “Mom? No, please, no. Mom?”
"Access"
nonfiction by Emily Dunlap Carter of Beaufort, N.C.
I got my first library card the summer before I turned five. I’d been siphoning books through my older brother’s card, but the Moore County library established a four book check out limit and there was no way he was going to share his allotment with me. It was like asking for a few wine coolers when your alcohol source needed to buy Buffalo Trace and a twelve pack. It was non-negotiable.
My incessant complaining caused my mother, who normally sat in the car and relished the time alone while we children descended on the library, to come inside to help me apply for my own personal card. My mom was five feet, two inches. She stayed at home and tended to five children and our family farm while my father escaped to the freedom of his job. He never looked that unhappy to be departing our house with his black latch front lunchbox and thermos of Eight O’Clock coffee. In my memory, he kissed my mom on the cheek, patted me on the head, with a “see you later, blondie,” and skipped out to his work truck. My mom peered longingly after him, then turned to our expectant faces, sighed, and made us scrambled eggs and ham biscuits.
My mom was by nature, an introvert. She taught Sunday School and wasn’t one to cause trouble unless something was going down with one of her children. It was at those moments that she could redline from mild mannered Aunt Bea to stormtrooping Norma Rae in about four seconds.
The incident went down something like this.
“We would like to apply for a library card for her.”
“That’s great. Let’s get this little lady set up.” The librarian was young and beautiful. She was wearing hot pink lipstick. My mom only wore cherry red, and this fuschia shade was exotic and fascinating. I stared in the gawky way of a country child that didn’t get out much.
We walked over to an old typewriter and the lady loaded the contraption with special light blue paper. “Name.”
I am named after the wife of the minister that married my parents. Mrs. Emily Chaffin, which is how she signed the birthday cards she sent me. Her loopy handwriting was as formal as her signature, and she seemed to have a hard time getting to the point in her correspondence. Even as a little kid, I was a direct kind of gal. My middle name was same as my mom’s, and I always liked the way it sounded in her voice.
“Date of birth.”
“September 4, 1967.”
Miss Pink Lipstick stopped typing.
“This child isn’t quite five. We don’t release cards until age five.” She said this as though I was trying to get a commercial driver’s license or register for the draft.
My mother hesitated. “Why is that?”
“It’s the rule.”
“Well, she can read. Test her.”
It was a four way stop kind of crossroads and I could see the young librarian scanning her critical thinking skills database to determine what to do.
“Get her a book, really, not a picture one, a real one. She can read.”
And I could read, I read everything. It was an obsession. I am not stating this now, some fifty plus years later, to brag or lift myself up. I’m the fifth kid, most of my childhood was spent in a frantic hurry to catch up to my four siblings. I could also ride a bike, tie my shoes, and make the boxed kind of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese with medium sized saucepan, water brought to gentle boil, 1/4 cup milk, 1/4 cup butter, and orange powdery deliciousness. I had to use the smallest burner, but I could sure enough cook it.
A book was pulled, and I read aloud. Ms. Lipstick looked perplexed but smiled with kindness as she ruled me worthy of an exception. I was four years and nine months, and I scored a library card.
It was a green light day. I maxed out the four-book limit that summer, and most summers until I went to college. That card was my ticket to everywhere.
When I was nineteen, I went on my first airplane flight from Raleigh, North Carolina, to Denver, Colorado. As I flew over those states and looked down from the tiny square window to roads and farmland below, I thought of The Grapes of Wrath and the characters of Zane Grey. I thought of Willa Cather’s My Antonia. I remembered The World Book’s feature on The Donner Party. I was going physically where my mind and heart had already gone through the written word.
I am forever grateful to my mom, who gave us the gift of trips to the Moore County public library, to a young, pink lipstick wearing librarian, who made the decision to bend the rules and gave me an early license to read, learn, question, and ponder, and to the North Carolina library system that continues to be a safe and quiet place offering access for anyone to most anywhere and anything.
I have never lived outside of the borders of the Old North State. I am a product of the public school system from first grade through Appalachian State University. While the work was mine to do, the door was unlocked and opened by people who made it their life’s labor to make space for readers, thereby granting access to the world at large.
"When a Magnolia Is Clinically Depressed"
poetry by Molly Hanna of Boone
When a magnolia is clinically depressed
its thick leaves thin, brittle
and brown slowly from the inside
until they fall prematurely,
veins crumbling first.
It becomes unsaturated starch,
graying scattered canoes
fading into the mulch
until there is nothing left
that resembles the waxy ovals
once splayed above the forest floor,
remnants part of the underfoot
for mammals to trample.
Its roots, appetite gone,
will not absorb enough nutrients,
cellulose breaking down further
like fat melting off bones.
The twig shoots are eaten by deer,
will not grow back,
and the pollen produced
in the past is gone,
cannot feed the beetles
who rely on her.
"Full Circle"
nonfiction by Karen Kent of Chapel Hill
I’m five years old again. That was the last time I seriously considered running away from home. I honestly can’t remember why I wanted to go off the grid all those many years ago. I’m not even sure there was a grid back then. But given my age at the time, I’m pretty sure I immersed myself in a state of deep self-reflection before making that life-altering decision. My parents never even knew about that non-event, until I filled them in years later (Uh, I was five. Who was watching me?) They were very amused at my bravery…or lack thereof. (Again, five.)
It was a miserable, muggy July afternoon when I trudged up our driveway with a small red apple clutched tightly in my left hand. Even today, if I close my eyes, I can still smell the summers of my childhood. It’s a mixture of cupcakes (I’ll get to that), freshly cut grass, and the heavenly fragrances that originated from my mom’s numerous flower beds. I also distinctly remember the sudden fluttering of butterflies in my stomach. I thought I must have inhaled too deeply when I walked by the gardens.
I packed light. I was pulling a red metal wagon behind me which held my favorite doll of the moment…Holly Hobbie. My ‘Baby Alive’ doll was much too needy to be a good travel companion, and my Raggedy Ann didn’t want to be seen in public until the haircut I had given her grew out. Oh, and let’s not forget that apple. I was set. I mean, what else could a five-year-old girl possibly need before starting a brand-new life? I had my cool wagon, my one doll that didn’t have bald patches, and a snack. Apparently, long-term planning hadn’t made it into the kindergarten curriculum yet.
I should have held onto that early innocence about preparing to travel. Today, no one would ever accuse me of being a ‘light’ packer. I pack for trips like I’m Ginger from Gilligan’s Island who is about to leave on a three-hour tour. Meaning, I pack everything I own no matter the destination because I can’t possibly commit to what I am going to wear two days ahead of time. Just like Ginger, I need options. That’s why I end up packing a lot of diamond jewelry, false eyelashes and evening gowns for a day trip to the beach. You never know.
But let’s head back to that steep, lonely driveway. The instant I reached its peak, where the pavement literally hit the road, I hesitated. I became frozen with indecision on that sweltering summer’s day. I just stood there in all my five-year-old self-righteous uncertainty as my Buster Brown shoes seemed to grow smaller by the minute. I shifted my weight from foot to foot as I thought about all the trouble I would be in if I dared to cross the street without a grownup. I stood there for hours and weighed out the pros and cons of living a vagabond existence fresh out of half-day kindergarten.
Okay, maybe it wasn’t ‘hours’. But as soon as I figured out that I couldn’t watch the next episode of the Brady Bunch without a television, I snapped out of it. I simply decided that living at 105 Maple Avenue wasn’t so bad after all. Besides, it was almost my birthday, and Mom always made the best cupcakes. I mean, who runs away right before their birthday? Or before cupcakes? Certain I had made my point (yes, to those parents), I took a bite of my sweaty red apple and looked back towards my wagon. “Let’s go home, Holly.” She didn’t argue.
Now, only 50 short years later, I am considering hitting the road once again. I just endured a needle biopsy in my right breast, and I’m not too keen on waiting around for the results. Let’s see if you can follow my reasoning without a map and compass. If I run away, I will never have to know the outcome of said biopsy. Of course, the odds are in favor of it being good news. But you see, I’m not a gambler. I honestly don’t know when to hold them or even when to fold them. Though I do know when to walk away. And if I leave, it will be like the whole thing isn’t happening. What? I know, I know. That’s just my inner five-year-old logic coming out to play.
But seriously, I’m out of apples. And my Holly Hobbie doll is long gone. I’m pretty sure I ended up cutting off her braids, so I assume that she and Raggedy Ann went into hiding. Sigh. I guess I’ll stay put. Besides, no matter how light I pack, I realize I’m not going to be able to leave what’s scaring me behind. And whether you’re 5 or 55, carrying around fear is a heavy burden to bear alone. Even if you have a cool wagon.
*Dedicated to my grandmother and aunt who fought breast cancer and won. From their granddaughter and niece who as of now doesn’t have to face that battle after all.
"French Press"
poetry by Jennifer Weiss of Cary
My sister sings show tunes
in her shower overlooking the river.
Healer of others, she must pause
to mend a near-blinding retinal tear.
Her soprano notes manifest
the joy coursing water brings.
Humming, she enters her kitchen, head atilt,
and watches me make us breakfast.
She teaches me to use a French Press,
and I remember following her, squeezing
through sweaty bodies and acrid haze to the stage,
when she spirited me to my first concert years earlier.
Today, in flowing top and yoga pants,
she sits on the banquette brushing Socrates,
her ancient orange tabby, chiding him in baby talk
as he meows and purrs and bunts against her.
She spritzes him with scented oils,
gives both of us hits as well.
We add frothy milk and coarse brown sugar
to warm mugs of freshly roasted coffee,
interpret the past and divine the future
in this new season without parents
and separated from children