The first time I was summoned for jury duty, I was just out of grad school. From dawn till dusk, I sat in a cavernous auditorium with hundreds of others inside the Portland Justice Building downtown, devouring a paperback legal thriller, waiting for my number to be selected. It happened on the final case of the day — close to thirty Jurors were called, me being the very last one. As I hurriedly collected my belongings, the disembodied voice broke in again. That final juror called ¹ was not needed, and everyone in the room was excused with the court's gratitude. A flood of humanity rushed for the exits.

Believe it or not, I was incredibly disappointed. I know most Americans view jury duty as a tremendous burden or inconvenience; I, however, was eager to perform my civic obligation. At that point in my life, I'd already voted in several elections, but this was by far the most patriotic I'd ever felt as an adult. To come so close only to be sent packing at the last moment was heartbreaking.

So, several years later, when I was living on the Oregon Coast and I received another notice, I was absolutely delighted, particularly because the dates attached to this summons would not conflict with my professional schedule. It felt like the stars were aligning.

I reported to the small town courthouse, where I was quickly directed into a courtroom and finally ushered to a seat smack in the middle of the jury box. The judge (sporting a mop of distinguished salt-and-pepper hair atop a majestic, black, flowing robe) introduced us with great solemnity to attorneys for the prosecution and defense, before outlining the process of voir dire² and jury selection.

On my right side was parked an impatient middle-aged man wearing a three-piece suit.³ On my left sat an elderly lady who appeared to have passed the seventy-five year automatic excusal benchmark at least a decade earlier. She wasn't knitting or napping in a rocking chair, but based on her aura, she may as well have been. She peered through half-inch thick, horn-rimmed eyeglasses, smiling warmly at me and I beamed right back. Both of us were exactly where we wanted to be.

A conservatively attired woman not much older than myself stood behind one of the lawyers' desks. She'd previously been identified by the judge as our county's district attorney. The D.A. began by addressing the prospective juror pool about broad facts and local characters connected to the case, asking if any of us had strong opinions regarding (or close relationships with) major players. Several around me raised their hands to explain their personal conflicts, and most of these were politely dismissed from service. I could honestly claim I'd heard not a whisper of a rumor pertaining to this case, nor did I recognize a single name mentioned.

First hurdle cleared with flying colors.

The D.A. then launched into a speech about the importance and complexity of circumstantial evidence. With no direct eyewitnesses, no DNA, and no video proof, how can a jury possibly convict the guilty party? Well, she spoke at length about how rational citizens can weigh overwhelmingly improbable coincidences and land at a determination of guilt "beyond a reasonable doubt," the legal standard for conviction. So clearly this case was going to be based on circumstantial conclusions, and the D.A. wanted jury members capable of snapping puzzle pieces together where some gray area might exist. Got it.

Except the D.A. wasn't done. She'd prepared a well-rehearsed illustration of circumstantial evidence from everyday life, usingherself as a central character. The older lady to my left was already beginning to drowse. I considered the ethical implications of nudging another prospective juror awake during voir dire. If she couldn't maintain consciousness through a twenty-minute speech, how was she going to pin her eyelids open for a whole trial? I felt torn, but ultimately decided to keep my elbows to myself.

The D.A. had recently traveled out of town to visit her sister, she told us. She was greeted at the door by her adorably pudgy five-year-old nephew Johnny and the family's dog, a well-behaved Yellow Labrador so pale his fur appeared white. Johnny cheerfully escorted his aunt through the parlor, dining room, and kitchen on their way to the backyard, where the D.A.'s sister (who was also Johnny's mother) was working in the garden. Ever­ observant, the D.A. witnessed her nephew greedily eyeballing and salivating over a glistening three-layer chocolate cake that her sister had placed under glass on the dining room table⁴.

Over the course of laying out this story, the D.A. made certain to mention the name
Johnny no less than fifteen times.

The tale went on: she'd been chatting amiably in the backyard with her sister when the peaceful interlude was shattered by a tremendous CRASH from within the house. The two women rushed inside to discover the heavy glass cake cover miraculously intact on the floor, but the dessert itself completely destroyed. Johnny sat amidst its wreckage, his mouth and chest painted with frosting, his hands smeared with chocolate up to his elbows, an enormous, satisfied smile across his face. Then he noticed his mother and aunt staring at him from the doorway. His eyes widened with what the D.A. described as panic. After only the slightest hesitation, Johnny pointed wordlessly, accusingly at the dog, who bore not a fleck of incriminating evidence on his muzzle, coat, or paws.

"Now," the D.A. asked, building to her thesis, "there were no eyewitnesses to the actual destruction of the cake, apart from perhaps the criminal himself. But based on this testimony, who would you believe to be responsible beyond a reasonable doubt?" She scanned faces in the jury box hopefully, expectantly.

Suddenly, the epitome of octogenarian stereotypes seated to my left was wide awake, bouncing in her seat with wildenthusiasm, her thick spectacles threatening to tumble off.

"Jimmy!" she shouted breathlessly.

Jimmy?! There was no Jimmy. At no point during the D.A.'s detailed reconstruction of the crime was a character named Jimmy introduced or even peripherally referenced. This well-meaning prospective juror was accusing and voting to convict a completely innocent bystander off the street.

I couldn't help it. I burst into laughter at the absurdity of her response. As, I was certain, would anyone else with half a sense of humor who'd remotely been paying attention to the D.A.'s tale.

Immediately, both attorneys rushed to approach the bench. A hushed but heatedly animated conversation transpired. I prepared to bid farewell to the sweet, grandmotherly friend on my left.

Then, the impossible happened — I was dismissed. Despite my vehement protests. Not the older juror who couldn't remember the name of the prime suspect. Me.

A whirlwind of activity commenced, wherein I was unceremoniously escorted outside by the bailiff and dumped on the sidewalk.

I gazed back at the courthouse with disbelief and crushingly visceral disappointment, as jury selection continued inside unabated. Without me.

And this, fellow citizens, is how our American justice system operates. Don't laugh.

¹ Me!

² voir dire: literally "to speak the truth"; a pretrial procedure meant to reveal the unbiased nature and determine the competency of potential jurors. For further detail, see virtually any of John Grisham's early novels.

³ The well-dressed man on my right stood and made an eloquent, impassioned plea to be immediately excused. His small business was in the middle of a critical, lucrative negotiation, you see, and he was the essential cog in the process. The judge was unsympathetic, ordering him to sit down and perform his duty. The businessman sat, silently stewing.

⁴ Yes, the D.A.'s sister would confirm, chocolate cake was Johnny's absolute favorite. | RF

Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
Mary Oliver, The Summer Day

Ask yourself Mary Oliver’s question from time to time. Make room for your inner voice to freely respond. In her elegant prompt there are answers to be found, or at the very least a course correction. Wednesday morning last month, we were unable to meet the men at Oregon State Penitentiary. And so, they gathered in our room, they rang the Tibetan singing bowl, and they started the free write session with the command Tell Me. The writing instructions are straightforward. Quiet the inner critic, imagine that the ink in the pen is free flowing and keep the pen moving for five minutes.

Stressla Lynn Johnson asks:
Who do I seek for information to tell me how to relax and Breath? Where does that inner voice come from?
Who is speaking when I am silent, as the voice become louder?

Matt Reyes requests family stories:
Tell me about the good ol’ days.
Tell me about my grandma’s childhood.
Tell me about my grandpa’s struggles.

Uriah Vargas asks:
Tell me …
Why does the world’s taboo
tell you to lie to my face?

Yeyin Chin requests love:
Tell me that you love me.
Of all the things people envy or hate about me, my relationship is not one. I know it sounds pathetic and sad.

In Tell Me I Jai writes:
Tell me
Who to harbor and how to abstain Where the good ones hide
How to hold a broken heart in the rain

From that piece, Jai developed Tell Me II:
Tell me where the nectar is
And how to catch the breeze
I am here carefree and expectant

The past few months, we’ve collected writing about the ceremony we make, the pieces have parsed out the meaning of rituals and traditions. We have read about how this connects us to our humanity and how ceremonies change in prison. When we meet with our writers, we start our sessions by greeting everyone with a handshake. Folks move the tables to form a circle. Someone rings the singing bowl, and I read a poem out loud. This ritual settles the bustle of the space, elevates the mood. We are preparing to work. From this moment we will do the five-minute free write, using a prompt that comes out of the poem, or an exchange we had. We engage in reading the free write, building off each other’s ideas, and letting this guide the session. By the end of the two-hour workshop, each of us has participated. Oprah said that every person she has interviewed — even Beyonce — asks at the end, “How was that? did I do OK?” She says: “Everybody just wants to know that you heard me, you saw me, and that what I said mattered.” This is our ritual.

Next week we celebrate the Pony’s second birthday. Help us grow by recommending a piece on Substack or sharing the work with a friend. | TDS

Tell me …
Why does the world’s taboo
tell you to lie to my face?
I live in a life
not based in reality.
A splitting of the brain
has me hungry,
to have the veil lifted
off this delusion.
I’ve been fed a lot of
excrement
these last couple of years.
I crave different aspects
of life
based in reality
these days.
So when I rule the world
I won’t praise
any of the thing you say
so tell me
is it worth it to you
to live a lie? | UAV

URIAH A. VARGAS WRITES FROM OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY.

Tell me what I need to know
Where and how to find the answers
The questions that must pertain
To my life and commitment to path
With the wandering long past
I've found my lane
I have discovered the groove
That does not feel like a rut
Surely complexity beyond
That point is less than useful
Satisfaction and peace are
The pinnacle of success and
It doesn't take much to be satisfied
Although there is work always
To be done finding a semblance of harmony
From pieces packed up fumbled
Together and put to the fire
The soul yearns and the fuel bums
Here the chrysalis becomes clear
As we watch the butterfly become
Glorious and fulfilled needing
Nothing more but the breeze
And the nectar
Tell me where the nectar is
And how to catch the breeze
I am here carefree and expectant
Knowing it all awaits me
And I see you | JM

JAI WRITES FROM OSP. HE IS A CONSTANT GARDENER.

Tell me
What it means to be a man
What dreams are for
The difference between want and demand

Tell me
Who to harbor and how to abstain
Where the good ones hide
How to hold a broken heart in the rain

Tell me
Where it's supposed to hurt
How much pain can one man stand
The loneliness is a killer shoveling moist dirt

Tell me
Who do you believe in
Quickly before the die is cast
If it's not in your favor does anybody win | JM

JAI WRITES FROM OSP. HE IS A CONSTANT GARDENER.

When I am struggling with a problem, so overwhelming,

Who do I seek for information to tell me how to relax and Breath? Where does that inner voice come from?

Who is speaking when I am silent, as the voice become louder?

Alone in a space that has so many words and phrases scattered amid the ether. Tell me about the energy that is now vibrating in the air.

When I am struggling to understand why or how this tear reached my lips. On a string of emotions that seem out of tune.

Or maybe I have answers locked away underneath the question ... What! Who can tell me if I am struggling or just being impatient … Tell Me.

Words and Phrases read into the space/ether.

Splitting of the brain
Believe
Suffocate Time
Building
Structures
Symbols Works
Half of a couple Meeting
in the rain
Fake marginalized conform
Priceless
Changing
Architects
Construction
Improvements
Rewards Value

What can you tell me that I don't already know? Our creations are not perfection. | SLJ

STRESSLA LYNN JOHNSON WAS BORN APRIL 9, 1957 IN PORTLAND, OREGON. HE HAS WRITTEN POEMS AND JOURNAL ENTRIES AS MEANS OF HEALING. STRESSLA IS A MEMBER OF THE OSP EDITORIAL BOARD.

Tell me about the good ol’ days.
Tell me about my grandma’s childhood.
Tell me about my grandpa’s struggles.
Tell me about my mom and dad’s love.
Tell me about a sibling’s connection.
Tell me about next generation’s affection.
Before going to sleep at night,
my mind ponders about many things
involving many generations. What is
my connection? Their connection? Our connection?

I am thankful for being able to
think about such things and to also
be able to
not have a problem going to sleep. I then wake
up, not wanting to leave the
spirit world of all of the
generational moments, I go back
to the spirit world and enjoy my
sleep. | MR

MATT REYES IS A MEMBER OF THE LAKOTA OYATE-KI CLUB AT OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY, AND A MEMBER OF THE PONYXPRESS EDITORIAL BOARD. MATT SERVES HIS COMMUNITY IN ORDER TO MAKE LIFE BETTER FOR HIS PEOPLE.

Tell me that you love me.

Of all the things people envy or hate about me, my relationship is not one. I know it sounds pathetic and sad. I know that they will say that I did this to myself. Can you image me half of a couple? Sure. Sure. I have the sociopath’s ability to disassociate so I can walk around lonely for great periods of time, but I am beginning to suffocate now, in the depths of my vast loneliness and and I need the touch of someone who truly, genuinely loves me just to feel alive again. And maybe not for a very long time, just enough to recharge my heart so that I can last another decade or so in the darkness at the bottom of my own sea.

Just tell me that you love me. | YC

YEYIN CHIN WRITES FOR INTERNAL RELIEF FROM THE STORM THAT RAGES WITHIN HIMSELF.

Before someone releases, we celebrate by making a spread — that’s prison jargon for “fancy meal” if you consider ramen, instant refried beans, and squeeze cheese the core ingredients for fancy … Sometimes I consider that it is counter intuitive to make a meal for someone, when in just a few days he’ll have access to a world of food I can’t remember the taste of — though I often try. Think, things that are leafy and green, or juicy and fresh, or even cheese that must be sliced and melted, not opened and squeezed.
Phillip Luna, Walking Out

Walking Out seems like it would be the penultimate celebration: the anticipation of free air and space; reunion with family and friends; the ability to participate in the beauty of every day life; and of course, the feasting on favorite food. In his piece, Phillip Luna recognizes the complicated nature of prison matriculation. Like playing Double Dutch, leaving prison requires skill and a sense of timing to jump between two swinging ropes without getting hung up — it’s hard to get the pacing right the first time. Reentry is a celebration tied to a mundane list of important and difficult hurdles that need to be accomplished all at once to restart life. Imagine in two weeks getting a driver’s license, bank account, place to stay, purchase everyday necessities, acquire a cell phone, place to live, learn bus routes, and find a job. The pressure of failing exacerbated by the fear of parole violations and making rent … well, let’s say the long shadow of prison colors everything. The next few pieces illustrate the polarity of carceral life.

Traditions by Jai describes the birthday cards commissioned by prison artists to commemorate another year around the sun:
These visceral symbols of actual
Freedom and desperate longing
Reminders of wasted virility
And times ambiguous cruelty
The inside of the card and back
Covered in scrawled epithets
Eulogies reading like elegies

Thomas Derr’s Celebration twists life ceremonies into a complex dream sequence that turns nightmarish:
We reached the end of the aisle when I stop. Through my tears and the bright lights ahead I find it hard to see. Is she really there? “Don't do it!” she cries as the gavel is swung by the judge. Wait, is this just a Justice of the Peace ceremony? I thought you wanted a chapel wedding like you had dreamed of for years.

Uriah Vargas writes along the edge of the sweet and the bitter. He plays with punctuated language twisting and turning it in his poem Got One Shot:
You only got one shot
Eminem, M&M
Candy sweet opportunity
Sensational
Life can be sweet
Things in life make it seem bitter

During the past few months, we have been talking about adaptation and how making ceremonies inside marks carceral time. Every holiday past and birthday card magnify the importance of prison family. I write this on Juneteenth, a celebration that twists and turns like Uriah’s poem — we mark the release of people who should have never been enslaved. Last Saturday, our friends in Uhuru Sasa at Oregon State Penitentiary hosted family and friends to a feast in a space that still chains people. Despite this bitterness, the joy generated by the community radiates through the walls and fills the prison with sweetness of life and love and the pride of survival. | TDS

Here is a short video produced in 2019 to honor Juneteenth at OSP, features Sterling Cunio’s They Don’t Eat.

Our lives are often marked by ceremonies, the stepping stones to a new era, a new adventure, a new challenge, a celebration to set the stage. Birth, baptism, bridal bouquets — they leave indelible marks in our lives and in those around us. Some are anticipated with joy and excitement, some … with dread and disbelief.

I am walking down the aisle, noticing the beautiful flowers decorating the pathway. It's going to be such a lovely ceremony, just like she wanted. I hear my friends from the night before: “Don't do it!” “The old ball and chain.” “Tying the knot … on your own noose!” Irreverent, scared little boys fearing the commitment of growing up, jealous of losing me; jealous of my future. I'm the first of our group to take the plunge. They'll always be there with me — I just hope they dive in soon and join me on the other side. It's going to be such a wonderful life.

I hear the clatter around me in the bridal March. Somehow I feel like I'm floating, like I've been here before. Deja vu it must be the shock of the moment. The light is so bright I can barely see the beautiful white visage smiling at me from the end of the aisle. This is a sight I will always remember, to cherish for the rest of my life. I never thought I would make it, that I would be here — in love — after the life I had been through.

The rings, do I have them? Am I supposed to be carrying them? They seem so heavy why am I walking up the aisle, shouldn't this be she? The shock of the moment is clouding my vision, my sense of reality.

“Don't do it!” I would cry, as my dad went after her again. I pounded on his back and impotently. I just know, glad of the fact, they I’ll never be like him. Not with this wonderful woman — barely but a girl — who I love so much, as she looks up at me with adoring eyes.

We reached the end of the aisle when I stop. Through my tears and the bright lights ahead I find it hard to see. Is she really there? “Don't do it!” she cries as the gavel is swung by the judge. Wait, is this just a Justice of the Peace ceremony? I thought you wanted a chapel wedding like you had dreamed of for years.

“Stop! Don't do it!” her sister yells, pounding on my back. I'm so confused. Fired from my job, I stole from the petty cash and cashed it in for a fifth of Jack Daniel’s. Embarrassed, shamed, I'm grasping at straws to feel strong, in control period to assert my place as head of this home. Third job in four months. What do they want? This can't be happening to me!

At the end of the aisle, the man in black comes forward to offer his benediction. Do I have the rings? Yes, but they are so big … so heavy. Am I supposed to be wearing them on my wrists?

The gate clangs closed behind me and another clutter is away in front. Where's my mother shouldn't she be here to celebrate? And my wife, my bride …

The last thing I remember was her yelling to the judge, “Don't do it!” No such luck, this crime carries a mandatory three-year sentence. I'm pushed forward, past the bright lights. Past the illusion into a very real and hard gray hell, a noose of my own tying. A cell with no celebration.

Domestic abuse — it shames me. I hate it, feeling like the little boy pounding on my own back, “Stop! Don't do it!” Here I am, stripped and searched, the new ceremonial prison intake at the end of the aisle at the start of a gloomy three-year honeymoon, wondering who I'll be when I get out.

Will I grow up , grow out of the past? Conquer my demons and emerge out the other side a new man, in control and reconciled with my past? Ready to repent, to do the penance due, ask for forgiveness and … forgive the little boy who could do no more than cry, “Don't do it!”

I await the ceremony of that day to come, counting the days, day-by-day, praying that my bride will be there at the other side of the aisle. That I will emerge on the other side, man changed for the better will I make it? Will I make it? Will I be? Day-by-day, I wait to see a new celebration a new ceremony for me. | TD

TOM DERR WRITES FROM DEER RIDGE CORRECTIONAL FACILITY.

You only got one shot
Eminem, M&M
Candy sweet opportunity
Sensational
Life can be sweet
Things in life make it seem bitter
Even coffee is bitter
But it’s life’s way of giving you
A double shot of wake up —
Take your shot.
One more chance
‘cause there’s no second chance
In a moment, the feelings getting deeper
Until it’s gone
along with life,
art,
and all the coffee in the world
So wake up before it’s too late —
You only got one shot. | UAV

URIAH A. VARGAS WRITES FROM OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY.

A large impressive greeting card
Hand drawn by a master painter
With magical colored pencils or
Perhaps scratched out angularly by
A novice with a graphite pencil
Pejoratively depicting a rose
A naked woman, a motorcycle
Or all three with some skulls
Various compositions of images
Depicted in states of operation
These visceral symbols of actual
Freedom and desperate longing
Reminders of wasted virility
And times ambiguous cruelty
The inside of the card and back
Covered in scrawled epithets
Eulogies reading like elegies
As bros wishing well
As though an implacable illness
Manifest on ones day of birth
Make your mark boys, let em' know
Measuring love in signatures
Elite trauma unit — united infamy
The John Hancock of murderers
Misanthropes, and junkies
All heathens and hardened
Scratched and scribbled — some
Barely legible and so very valued
With them with us and we
Know that you were here, now
In a memory of a day that
A tradition was born
Living vicariously, but still living,
Sort of | JM

JAI WRITES FROM OSP. HE IS A CONSTANT GARDENER.

Ceremony helps us delineate time. Seasonal markers, like birthdays, harvest, winter solstice, provide structure to what is an otherwise nebulous experience of waking and sleeping from birth to death. Think them as organizing principles that frames our consciousness. And like the shadow on an object, these bounds shape our lives, giving them form. The essay Second Selves by Elisa Gabbert comes to mind. Gabbert writes about hyperthymesia, the rare condition whereas people remember the events by date that occurred every single day of their lives. The internal calendar provides a structured device for sifting through and remembering all their life experiences. Imagine recalling every day, every event and feeling the joys (and the pains) of these events with the same urgency. The psychological ramifications of this are daunting. Gabbert writes: “... the importance we place on our memories are in flux. Our personalities, our selves are likewise in flux; we choose the memories that serve our going narrative at the time.”

When I was young, I would think, “I will remember this always…” I now experience time in a selective calendar that pieces together enough detail without overfilling the tank. The memory of blowing out of the birthday candles from year-to-year provides an extended sense of my life on this planet thus far … the linear organization guides me through life passages and keeps me keenly aware of my mortality. The cultural weight of the ceremony is integral to the memory and cementing the autobiographical narrative.

The Seasons of Life by Paul Andrew Reyes: I hate the cold it's so unforgiving this season we call winter. Some mornings our tears freeze and our lungs attempt to stave off crystallizing as we inhale … it has a nasty bite, our own version of life below zero in Pendleton.

One. Nine. Six. Eight. by Le’Var Howard
Thickening
smoke until stone is Black and iron
is memory. Such violence is only
spoken when true. Who chose this
language as a man means to commune …
who accepts this offering.
in its gorge bludgeoned testimony
who prayed for this ceremony,
is this violence American
Ritual

Tradition by Hannah Brophy: I left town as soon as I was able and spent several years away. Eventually about ten years later I returned home and stayed for several years. Somewhere in that time period I was invited to attend the Debutant Ball as a spectator rather than a participant. I was not expecting time to have changed my mind about the event, but I was wrong.

Wavy Gravy by Jai:
I like gravy with my biscuits.
Early in the morning,
which should be 3 AM at night
at the getting biscuit spot.

The fabled old pancake place on Powell,
where all the wild things go
to sup and slather gaining sustenance
for the coming of the new day.

We Cut (O, Tannenbaum) by Ricky Fay: The de facto launch of our holiday season and another capital-T Tradition was the annual trip past the outskirts of North Plains to select and harvest our family Christmas tree. To hear my parents tell it, as newlyweds they'd been content topurchase one from a lot in town, but once they'd had kid(s), something more seasonally festive was called for. So we'd bundle up against the cold — which always felt more extreme in the countryside for some reason — and venture out to rural pastures, for what felt like the taming of the wild frontier.

A Stroll Down Memory Lane by Sarah Tonin
I remember strolling through this same market when I was younger. I held a mug of cocoa rather than Gluhwein back then, and I wasn't tall enough to see through some of the windows of the shops, but the same wonder and excitement that fascinated me then, filled me now. I can hear a choir of voices singing from the open windows of the building that surrounds the plaza, and somewhere out of sight, a live band plays music to accompany them.

A psychiatrist in our office building stopped to chat on a sunny day and we found ourselves in a conversation about mortality. He said he didn’t know how he could spend a life sentence in prison. It is an awful thing to imagine, and it as a reality for our writers who are aging in prison. A few have spent time on death row (which was dismantled by Governor Kate Brown in 2023.) During those periods, these men lived in isolation confined 23 hours a day. Each day and night stretched marked by meals and short periods accessing the yard. This time experience, in contrast to hyperthymesia, lacks the texture of daily events that hold time. For folks who have lived in these confined situations, they rely on an internal discipline to make meaning of this time. Rituals like reading or writing in a journal — endless sets of burpees hold the space. And memories are held, turned over and over. They learn time. Five Minutes R. Miranda writes: “Time lacks logic. It is magical — transcendental. It is the wayward child who simply refuses to follow the rules.” | TDS

Too many men, too many voices raised
in action. Hundreds shout in one
rage. One flame. One echo. Loud
solid, fluid as the Thunder bursting
through fields and warm skies.
No Fear can rule when blood boils,
this hot. And rage depends. Thickening
smoke until stone is Black and iron
is memory. Such violence is only
spoken when true. Who chose this
language as a man means to commune …
who accepts this offering.
in its gorge bludgeoned testimony
who prayed for this ceremony,
is this violence American
Ritual. Is this fire, a flame
for eternity.

From the destruction from uprise the
evil will be see light and be
afraid. They will cave. They
WILL CRINGE. They will beg, hide, bite their nails, shift blame
for the hour exposes
there are cowards under the sun.
They… THEY ARE COWARDS!!! …
Whisper this… Never...
Not love, they have no love of
GOD. They know no labor, these
works. Dark works. They have
taken no journey. Make them
respect the walk of life.
Oh, let's not mistake.

Those who stand shield and armor
Steady weights are those serious
to their duty. Those few are
Straw man. Not to be confused with
the rest, and pack for they
know truth as you do. They do
welcome the battle at times for
they understand the only way sometimes
to speak is through such instruments
and this is your song.

1968, Rise. 1968. Rise.
1968 … Rise and be Reborn.

Few will ever know these words
few will ever understand what
they mean. But you will remember.

You will feel. You will know.

One. Nine. Six. Eight. | LH

LE’VAR HOWARD IS A PORTLAND, OREGON NATIVE. MOST OF HIS FAMILY COMES FROM GULF PORT, MISSISSIPPI, ATLANTA, TEXAS, AND OKLAHOMA. LE’VAR IS A FOUNDING MEMBER OF THE GROUND BENEATH US WRITING GROUP. HE TRACES INFLUENCES ON HIS WRITING TO HIS AFRICAN-AMERICAN HERITAGE.

I hate the cold it's so unforgiving this season we call winter. Some mornings our tears freeze and our lungs attempt to stave off crystallizing as we inhale … it has a nasty bite, our own version of life below zero in Pendleton.

Things change: the snow melts, the flowers bloom, and long forgotten friends return, making this a miraculous event. I get to see my boy Blue, the great blue heron, more often, one of my favorite things about being here. And then someone gets shit on letting me know the barn swallows have arrived in the thousands, they like the B52 bombers of World War II, carpet bomb the prison in shit. | PAR

PAUL ANDREW REYES WRITES FROM EASTERN OREGON CORRECTIONAL INSTITUTION IN PENDLETON.

Time-mankind's greatest obsession.
The contemplating mind struggles to define it.
Refine it. Keep it. Lose it. Use it. Value it. Waste it.
Value it. Serve it ... Immortalize it.
As if time was an actual thing … not just a concept.

Time lacks logic.
It is magical — transcendental.
It is the wayward child who simply refuses to follow
the rules — sixty seconds does not a minute make.
It answers to no one,
yet speaks to us all.
In this sense it is unquestionable.

“Five Minutes!” Barks the voice of an unseen prison
guard. I sit in a cage of concrete and steel, serving
time. It seems like an eternity has passed before
I hear the welcoming “klack!” as the gates unlatch,
freeing 100’s of beasts … animals from their
cages. But not all at once, like the starting gate
at a not-so-local racetrack, do the men emerge.
It’s more like … well, something words cannot,
will not, do justice by defining it.

Time … what a concept

As I leave the sanctity of our writer’s workshop,
I contemplate what has become a binding staple —
a “five-minute” writing exercise. An experience
that must be felt to appreciate. Words defining
thought, immortalizing moments unhindered by
time … wayward children simply refusing to be
constrained by a single notion of what “spending
time” looks like. Giving birth to generations
that span, transcend, eternity.

Time … what a concept.

The Big Bang Theory: Billions upon billions of galaxies
spontaneously created in an instant!
So hard to comprehend.

My small self-marvels, and left overwhelmed
by mere dozens of words created in our “five minutes.”

Time … what a concept! | RM

R. MIRANDA WAS BORN IN SAN JOSE, CALIFORNIA. HE IS NATIVE AMERICAN (MAYAN, APACHE, YAQUI) AND SPANISH/ROMANIAN. HIS WRITING IS A FORM OF POSITIVE FOCUS AND HEALING AND EXPRESSION.

I like gravy with my biscuits.
Early in the morning,
which should be 3 AM at night
at the getting biscuit spot.
The fabled old pancake place on Powell,
where all the wild things go
to sup and slather gaining sustenance
for the coming of the new day.
Double-baked potatoes — russets are best,
roasted garlic, fragrant basil,
and enough salt to float your boat.
Tangy white gravy with
sweet spicy sausage, smooth not runny,
thick enough to choke a goat.
Country-style over biscuits, warm and fresh,
blistered butter bliss.
Made with driven persistence and hangover,
from the mid-days drunk.
A dash of strong chicken stock in the batter
to make ‘em hum and sing.
With slabs of bacon, almost burnt, on the side.
Things that bring a short cook
personal pride, in levels of legendary accolades.
A meal set for long running
crooks, fresh off the steal. Made in mind for
all the quickest foxes,
who have no pimps. A table set for tweekers
and drunks, starving for affection,
still bleeding. The mad man in the office manages
just barely to keep it all
in line, so that the 3 AM deep nights denizens
might find some humanity.
Sharing a space, eating a meal, and agreeing to
the primacy of human need.
Some semblance of a community, to justify living.
Even the half-hearted sleeper,
who has nearly nodded into his huevos rancheros,
has a place, with order he will never eat.
I like biscuits with my gravy, but only here and now,
in this place, where everything is wavy. | JM

JAI WRITES FROM OSP. HE IS A CONSTANT GARDENER.

The de facto launch of our holiday season and another capital-T Tradition was the annual trip past the outskirts of North Plains to select and harvest our family Christmas tree. To hear my parents tell it, as newlyweds they'd been content to purchase one from a lot in town, but once they'd had kid(s), something more seasonally festive was called for. So we'd bundle up against the cold — which always felt more extreme in the countryside for some reason — and venture out to rural pastures, for what felt like the taming of the wild frontier.

Our enthusiasm for the event (coupled with the fact that we kids were crammed together in the back seat for an hour) came spilling out as unbridled chaos. To help mitigate this madness, our mother orchestrated a sort of sacred, unspoken ceasefire by introducing the Tradition of singing Christmas carols to and from our destination once we'd left the freeway. This hallowed armistice not only channeled our energies in a less destructive direction so our father could pilot the car in relative peace, it also crafted an atmosphere of communal holiday joy and a calm before the hurricane to come. It was during these rides that we learned the Latin words to O Come, All Ye Faithful and consistently brought tears to our mother's eyes by inadvertently but enthusiastically butchering the melody of her favorite Christmas song, It Came Upon a Midnight Clear. She also taught us a secular carol from her Massachusetts childhood: Hardrock, Coco, and Joe¹. Because this one was something we'd learned and treasured from a young age, it never occurred to us until we were much older that these weren't lyrics anyone else in Oregon had ever heard before.

The U-Cut Christmas Tree Farm where we offered our annual patronage was a family­-run operation. I can't recall ever exchanging first names with them, but they always seemed to recognize us, though our relations were limited to this once-a-year transaction. Perhaps that anonymous, folksy charm was baked into their business plan? They had a wood stove-warmed shack away from their house, and it was here that the business end of our Tradition was conducted. Our father would check in and go through the motions of pretending to haggle with the owners over the price of this year's crop, before emerging and flashing us his inevitable thumbs-up to begin our tumultuous selection process.

Options were spread across several fields of trees. Depending on how late into the season we arrived, specimens closest to the parking lot were often either too young, too crooked, or too sparsely-needled, meaning we had to trek deeper across the property, searching for that one perfect tree. Of course, this was all subjective. The farm specialized in fir trees and our father made it clear he preferred the Douglas variety, while our mother seemed to favor Nobles or Grands. Given the opportunity to weigh in, I regularly leaned toward the rare, fragrant Blue Spruces. My siblings were wild cards, and both thoroughly enjoyed wreaking havoc on our yearly decision-making process with their votes, which could be bought, influenced, manipulated, or changed on a whim at the last second 'just because.'

There were no fixed rules to the family polling procedure when it came to choosing our tree. Some years a majority vote would suffice, others when a plurality was the best we could hope for. One traumatic December, when our incessant bickering and refusals to compromise caused our patient father to reach his breaking point, we were sternly herded back to the parking lot and we departed without making a purchase. By the time we passed treeless through the city of North Plains, the final drop of Christmas Spirit had been all but wrung out of the vehicle. Everyone was fuming, silent, or bawling, and Dad pulled into the parking lot of a local restaurant, where he proceeded to deliver perhaps the most legendary scolding we kids had ever received as a group. Chastened, we then returned to the farm, where we made our selection in near-record time.

My earliest memory of cutting down our tree was similarly fraught with permanent emotional scarring and psychological tripwires, albeit for a different reason. I was maybe five years old, which meant there had to have been siblings in tow, although I don't recall how they reacted to the sudden emergency. We were at the bottom of a gentle, wooded incline when I suddenly felt the rumble of a brewing bowel movement. I glanced with consternation toward the parking lot — which to my eyes looked as high and far away as the peak of Everest — and calculated there was just no way I was going to make it there in time. So, while my mother hiked back to the car in search of paper towels, I clenched and prayed. But no divine intervention was forthcoming. No, I was in labor and the baby was cresting now. I looked up at my father with helpless, pleading eyes. He nodded, then simply carved a trench in the ground with the heel of his boot and pointed. Here? Outside?! I was incredulous, but the call of the wild was unrelenting. By the time Mom returned with a paper towel roll, all evidence of the deed had been buried, including her husband's ubiquitous handkerchief. A most valiant (if ignoble) ending for a piece of cloth we'd often teased him for carrying. Never again would I question his custom.

For decades afterward, Dad would jokingly exhort us to keep an eye peeled for the reappearance of a lone spectral handkerchief as we scoured the grounds for our tree.

* * * * * *

On every tree-hunting expedition, when we'd finally somehow reach an accord, our father would initiate the cutting process with great pomp, squatting to eyeball and gauge how much of the base we had to include in order to guarantee the trunk would fit in the stand. If it met with his approval, he'd pierce the bark and begin sawing with his own hand tool brought from our garage, the reigning Guinness-record holder for World's Dullest Blade². Once he'd started cutting, we'd each kneel to take a turn, ducking beneath the lowest branches to inhale the scent of Christmas — fresh sawdust, sap, evergreen needles — and work the saw until lactic acid filled our arm. Then we'd roll away and allow someone else to step in. There were times when Mom missed her spot in the rotation because she was too busy examining the majesty of nature around us. The louder we'd call for her to come take her turn, the further away she'd wander. Coincidence, not causation, I'm sure.

Once the blade had nearly severed the trunk, the on-duty lumberjack would summon assistance and others would rush to support the branches from on high. When the tree began to tip and gravity took over, a thunderous shout of "Tim-ber!" announced to the county that the Fays had successfully secured their yearly prize. All that was left was for one of us to stand atop the newly formed stump and recite a short, ironic soliloquy from Dr. Seuss's anti-deforestation manifesto, The Lorax.

There was the year we pulled into the farm's dirt and gravel parking lot and just sat there, awestruck. Not ten feet in front of us was the perfect tree. None of us dared breathe, for fear of this rarest of occurrences evaporating like the morning mist. Our parents insisted we survey the entire property to see if anything else caught our eye, but nothing better than perfection was to be had. Miraculously, the flawless specimen was still standing and unclaimed when we returned. I shudder to think of our reactions had it not been.

On an annual basis and from the time we were little more than toddlers, my siblings and I reveled in the discovery of ‘Ice Cities,’ a fascinating natural occurrence where frost created tiny pillars between topsoil and the next layer of clay. We'd make surgical incisions in the earth with our mittens, attempting to pry the solid top layer loose and flip it over, exposing miniature icy skyscrapers and crystallized geodesic temples below.

Though we found ourselves in subzero climates countless other times as we grew, nowhere else did we ever witness this ecological phenomenon. The exploration of Ice Cities was a wintertime revelation confined to the frozen tundra of North Plains alone.

For a decade or so, our family vehicle was a Plymouth Reliant, a six-seater station wagon featuring a new-car smell that never dissipated and likewise never failed to make me carsick. We were for several years tasked with acquiring a tree for our paternal grandmother as well. This meant we'd leave the farm not only with one tree tied to the roof, we also had to fold down the back seat and stuff a second one inside the vehicle itself for the return trip. Invariably, we kids fought over the privilege of riding unseatbelted in back with the tree, pressed up against the windows like suction-cupped plush toys, giggling hysterically the entire time as the intoxicating aroma of freshly-cut evergreen filled our nostrils.

There was the year the tree on top kept falling off. This was a supernatural aberration, as our father was an experienced sailor who could tie reliable knots in his sleep. The only rational explanation was that the quality of the rope itself was subpar. Or perhaps that was the year he began letting me 'help' with the tying process?

Upon arriving back home, our beloved new tree would be unceremoniously cast onto the front lawn for the night. Dad insisted on this, “So the spiders have time to crawl off before we bring it inside.” The rest of us all silently believed this part of the ritual to be utter nonsense, providing local arachnids just as much opportunity to crawl on and hitch a ride indoors for the holidays, but nobody was willing to openly contradict our genius engineer father. The dozen tiny spiders who'd annually migrate across our living room ceiling over the next week did that well enough through their mere defiant presence.

* * * * * *

There was the year both my father and brother got walloped by some mutant strain of the Siberian Death Flu, leaving them bedridden³ and unable to attend our much-anticipated tree harvest. This battlefield emergency resulted in my sister recruiting her best friend (and neighbor) to attend, marking the first time any non-blood relative had infiltrated our grand Tradition. Happily, by no means would it be the last.

The circumstances also promoted me to a position of great authority, and I'm ashamed to admit I temporarily became a bit of a tyrant. After silently watching my mother, sister, and neighbor argue over possible selections for the better part of an hour, I made the executive decision to drop the bomb, quietly approaching a likely fir and proceeding to saw.

“What are you doing? !” they shouted in a horrified concert of protest.

“Are you going to cut the tree down?” I replied, blinking innocently, already knowing the answer. “Are you going to carry it up the hill to the parking lot? Do you know how to tie knots to lash it down?”

Abashed silence met my pointed inquiries.

“No? Then I've got the tiebreaking vote, don’t I?” Concealing what must have been a truly Luciferian grin, I turned back to my task.

That year I fear we returned to the sick ward with not just a tree, but a good deal of lingering hurt feelings as well. However, the introduction of my sister's best friend to the mix added a grand new element to our Tradition. In years to come, the Fays would be joined by all manner of friends, significant others, and offspring/pets on our annual arboreal quest. And so the Tradition began to sprawl to other cities, states, and countries as we grew and left home, making connections with others who'd become our chosen extended families, yet always returning to Portland and thence to North Plains. We shared the joy of the caroling; the contentiousness of the selection; the communal sweat equity of the cutting/tying down/transporting process; even the Traditional, nonsensical overnight spider-proofing that — regardless of geographical location or climate — still never seemed to actually work.

* * * * * *

Perhaps one of my favorite moments of expanding and amplifying our Tradition occurred when pets, who'd never before witnessed a live Christmas tree in their living room, were initially confronted by this baffling paradox. Regardless of feline or canine heritage, their responses were nearly identical: eyes wide, fur standing on end, nerves fraying and palpable to all.

“There's a tree ... in the house!” They'd stare with a mixture of excitement, alarm, bewilderment, and fascination, gaze darting rapidly from menacing evergreen intruder to owners and back, as if their trusted humans had lost their minds by signing off on this absurdity. It was another Christmas Miracle that our beloved furry companions all quickly recognized the sanctity of our festive centerpiece. A few harmless swats at low­ hanging ornaments, perhaps, but no late-night attacks or attempts to remove it entirely. In fact, some of the most adorable photographs resulted when they grew comfortable enough to nap beneath the branches, as if the tree too had become an accepted member of the family.

I have heard tell of households who claim their Christmas tree over the Thanksgiving weekend. We discovered through trial-and-catastrophic-error that, if we wished our tree to make it past New Year's Day⁴ without the local fire marshal assaulting our front door with a battering ram, torches and pitchforks not far behind, then harvesting our family's fir or spruce somewhere between December 10^th and 15^th was the optimal window.

Sometime in early January, the ornaments would go back into the box, the lights would come off, and any remaining tinsel would be removed. Our tree would be lifted gently out of its base and — in a grotesque reenactment of its first night on the property — our cherished holiday mascot would be flung outside (backyard rather than front, this time) to hasten the drying process. A month or so later, one of us would head out back with the big 'cloppers' and that same toothless saw to dismember and chunk the residual physical echo of our favorite yearly Tradition. The needled branches would often immediately go into the woodpile in the garage, while sections of trunk remained stacked outside for the better part of a year to weather against the moss-covered retaining wall in our backyard.

At some point, they'd be conveyed back indoors, eventually making their way into our fireplace, where they were given the seat of highest honor, usually around Thanksgiving. There they'd be reunited with their disembodied branches in a crowning, culminating blaze of glory, the fragrance again swimming together as needles crackled, sap dripping and popping; one spectacular final hurrah as our precious tree bade farewell with a flourish, transformed into a blend of smoke, flame, ash, and — perhaps most generously — warmth, wrapping once more around the family who'd chosen it above all others. Each holiday season, our tree gave us everything — its life, its festive cheer, its withered husk … so perhaps it should come as no great shock I’ve always considered Shel Silverstein’s masterpiece The Giving Tree to be a Christmas book.

* * * * * *

There came one tree-hunting excursion when our adventure felt like the terminus of a story arc scripted long ago by angels of destiny. We kids were grown and scattered, but had all returned for the holiday, every one of us sincerely enjoying each other’s company. Ice Cities were plentiful that year. For once it wasn’t a competition to have our will manifested in the form of our selection of tree being chose by the group. The weather was crisp and cold enough that we could see our breaths, adding spectacularly to the ambience of the morning, but not frigid or uncomfortable to the degree that we were rushing to complete our task. In fact, we all seemed more than content to wander the grounds leisurely, not one of us in a real hurry to select, saw, pay, tie down, and speed home. We were telling stories and laughing uproariously at shared family memories, only peripherally aware of the trees around us, each straining for our attention.

Then it happened. And we all froze instantly in place, mystified and captivated by what we were seeing.

Beneath the lowest branches of the prettiest tree any of us had ever laid eyes on … was a spotless white handkerchief. Exactly the same sort our father had carried unfailingly for decades.

Our jaws dropped. Dad pointed silently at the miraculous discover and held the pose long enough for one of us to record the moment for posterity with a photograph. Without a word, without a hint of our Traditional, time-honored bickering or even taking a moment to qualify the choice against all other possible contenders still available across the property, we silently bent to our work.

In the quiet midst of the North Pains morning, the Ghose of Handkerchiefs Past had somehow managed to burrow out and escape from its ignominious earthly tomb. Now, its mere presence spoke volumes. Our annual tree choices had been made for us. We didn’t question it. We just celebrated. And laughed and sang and laughed some more. All the way home with our newest evergreen treasure. | RF

¹ The title of the tune refers to three of Santa's elves, memorialized in an early holiday-themed, animated TV special. Apparently, the popularity of the broadcast earned the theme song a great deal of airplay on New England radio stations during Decembers in the 1950s and early '60s. Happy hunting on the Internet!

² Each year some member of the family who owned the farm would step out of the smoky shack to suggest their loan of a more efficient implement free-of-charge and we dared hope for half a second. But Dad unfailingly waved away their razor-sharp offering. It wouldn't have been Tradition.

³ My mother will be only too happy to back me up on this. Their symptoms were so extreme that she not only quarantined them in different wings of the house but also issued each a little bell to summon assistance (due to claims that their throats were so raw and sore they were unable to croak for help). Further evidence of the serious nature of their illnesses can be found in the fact that neither abused this amenity, likely because both were honestly too weakened to muster the strength required to lift and ring it.

⁴ And this we fervently did. We all loved Christmas, but through white-knuckled discipline instilled over decades, we trained ourselves to wait. Knowing our Christmas tree would still be green and vertical through early January meant we were able to maintain the yuletide season just a bit longer. Seeing dried­ out Christmas trees on the curb with the trash on December 26^th is still one of the most melancholic sights for me, nearly as depressing as plastic trees replacing the real thing. I know ... #FirstWorldProblems.

I stand outside, feeling the cold winter air whip from mountains of the Alps, and gently caress my rosy cheeks, holding the ceramic mug closer to my body for warmth. I made the decision a few years ago to go back to Germany, the place I was born and where I spent a lot of time as a child, to experience everything again as an adult. What better way, than to go during the best time of year, and visit some of the most popular Christmas markets in the country? Weihnachtsmarkt as they are called, or if you're from the Southern region or Austria like I am, Kindlemarkt. Regardless of what town you're in, many businesses close for the season to become a full-fledged Christmas shops of their choosing. For instance, the seamstress and shoe repair place we would visit during the year, would close for a few weeks in the beginning of November before reemerging as a Christmas ornament and candle shop. The streets are lined with other businesses that did the same and are now hosting trinkets for sale, geared for the Christmas season.

The ominous clouds above me, and forecasts of snow, are out shadowed by strands of lights, bowing and arching, making zig-zag patterns over the walkway. The air is filled with music, voices, laughter, and pure joy. Peppered in amongst the vendors on each side, are jolly folks welcoming you over, to fill your mugs with warm spiced wine called Glühwein, which everyone is more than happy to accept — especially me. I can't get enough of it. Its warmth and scent is intoxicating, and although the steam billows off the surface, it's the perfect drinking temperature. The sensation of cinnamon and clove tickle the tongue and dance across it with the zest of orange, before my pallet is soothed with the smoothness of red wine laced with hints of vanilla in every sip. I run my thumb over the slightly raised image of the town which portrays the very market I'm currently standing in, that's hand painted on my cup. Each town has their own mug for the event, and as you walk through the market you can get it repeatedly refilled along the way.

I take another sip and savor the aroma and flavor before continuing with my journey. With each step, the memories come flooding back. I remember strolling through this same market when I was younger. I held a mug of cocoa rather than Glühwein back then, and I wasn't tall enough to see through some of the windows of the shops, but the same wonder and excitement that fascinated me then, fills me now. I can hear a choir of voices singing from the open windows of the building that surrounds the plaza, and somewhere out of sight, a live band plays music to accompany them. Everyone is smiling and happy and some people are arm-in-arm singing along. It's so easy to get swept up in the festivities that you don't even need the alcohol to entice you into a good mood. A large Christmas tree towers in the center of the square, and reminds me of the tree we had during the holidays that took up the majority of our living room when I was a child. Sturdy branches held candle holders that were securely fastened. In the evening we'd light each one, which would illuminate the tree. Then that evening before bed and prayers, we'd blow them out. This was an old tradition and the origin for the use of stringed lights we use today. Many of the customs Americans use during Christmas, like hanging stockings, decorating and lighting a tree originated in Germany.

As I pass a brightly lit shop packed with festive displays, something in the window catches my eye. I move away from the laughter and music, and step inside to the sparkling lights of the room. When I get nearer, I feel a ping in my heart because I see something that I haven't seen or even thought of in over 30 years since I lived at home with my parents.

Made of thin lightweight foil, small figures intricately folded into the shape of angels holding instruments are attached to a thin wire that's secured to a center metal post mounted to a square platform. Little inserts in the base provide a space for candles. Once they're lit and the heat begins to rise, the warm waves catch the angled edges of the gowns on the angels suspended above them, and they slowly begin to move in a circle around the center post. As long as the flame is going, it will spin continuously. I am mesmerized as I watch the parade of angels holding a harp, flute, and violin appear to float in front of my eyes.

The whole piece only stands about six inches, but as I watch them dance, I realize the memory of having a similar one growing up still holds a place in my heart. I am immediately filled with emotion as the memories come flooding back. During the holidays, the one we had remained lit every day, and sat in the center of our dining room table. I remember countless meals, sitting eye level to the spinning, hovering angels, while stuffing my face with delicious meals and treats. Desserts were not common in our household growing up, but Christmas was the exception.

Each year, I would help my Oma (grandmother) make a ginger-pear strudel. Together we'd lay out the thin sheets of pastry, drizzle it with butter and crushed gingersnap cookies and stack sheets on top of each other with the same tasty concoction until we were 10 layers deep. The night before, we'd chop dried apples, pears and walnuts and let them soak in brandy overnight, allowing them to absorb all the liquid. I got to spoon the mixture onto the pastry, which was my favorite part, mostly because I would sneak a bite or two of the alcohol infused fruit when no one was looking. Since my Oma had longer arms, she would carefully roll the delicate pastry into a shape of a log before baking it to a golden, crispy brown. There were other components including a special infused cream sauce and fresh apples and pears in a thick, spiced syrup, that made the dish absolutely divine and I looked forward to both making it and eating it, every year.

I don't have the opportunity to cook with my Oma anymore, or celebrate with all my family, but I can still keep the traditions alive. So with that thought, I ask the round-faced man behind the counter, to box up the angel centerpiece for me. The nice thing about it being made out of thinly formed leaf-like material, means it will store nicely under my seat on the plane on the ride home. I'm determined to bring the experience of the Kindlemarkt home with me and create new memories. I’ve made the strudel so many times, I am certain I know the recipe by heart. I plan on making it when I get home, just as I will with the Glühwein. I even have the keepsake mug I can drink it in. With a pot of the mulled wine, warming on the stove and strudel browning in the oven, sending their nostalgic and comforting aromatics in the air, I know I can recreate these special memories. I can hear it, taste it, and smell it. Although years and thousand miles away, I will forever hold Christmas in Germany in my heart!

Frohe Weihnachten! | ST

SARAH TONIN IS A MEMBER OF THE COFFEE CREEK CORRECTIONAL FACILITY HECATE’S LANTERN WRITING GROUP. SHE WILL BE JOINING US IN THE COMMUNITY IN JUNE 2025.

Why is it whenever I hear the word, tradition I want to raise my arms and snap my fingers as though I live my life in a musical reproduction of Fiddler on the Roof "Tradition!"

I grew up in a small Texas boom-or-bust town which was known for two things - oil and an Air Force Base. I am not a gambler which I attribute to being from a town where we learned that the price of oil dictated our economy. We also learned what goes up, always comes down.

My mother was a nester. Once she's established a home, she's never wanted to move again. But this behavior on her part dictated our summer vacations for twenty years. To her way of thinking, a vacation was the time to see family. Both sets of grandparents lived in Nebraska. Every summer and most Christmases we drove from North Central Texas through such fly-over states as Oklahoma, Kansas and into the wilds of Nebraska.

Occasionally on television you will see a night scene of the United States from space. The East Coast is lit up from New York to Washington DC. Chicago and Denver occupy the middle of the country before you see the lights of the West Coast. There are no lights on in Oklahoma, Kansas or Nebraska which pretty much tells the story of our family vacations. These were dark times.

Eventually, my family traveled somewhat. I cannot remember a single place we stopped for more than half a day that my mother didn't say, "we should have an apartment here."

Nester.

My response was equally as repetitious. "Why? We've been here. Next time, let's go someplace else."

My hometown was also a participant in Jim Crow laws which affected all people of color, but blacks were more discriminated against than Mexicans. Blacks lived on the East Side of town. With separate-but-equal being the motto of the day, they had their own high school.

Times were slow to change in a town with a deep suspicion of East and West Coast liberals in particular, and Yankees, in general.

Rioting in Watts occurred in 1965, the summer of love took place San Francisco, in 1967 and Vietnam War protests were in full swing by 1968, the year I graduated high school. America was in the throes of change. But Wichita Falls had rubbed lamb's blood on their city limits' sign, because anything new and exciting passed us by without a whisper in the dark.

Our proudest achievements were our high school football teams and our debutants - the traditional ceremony where fathers announced their daughters were now available for marriage.

There were two groups of debs. One was composed of black women in their senior year of high school who had a Cotillion Ball which received a lot of newspaper coverage which was the only reason I knew about it. The girls dressed in white anti-bellum dresses and the boys were in tuxes.

The second group was white girls also about to graduate high school. Since I was a member of this group, I can assure you that not every girl qualified for the purity of white and there was a scandalous whisper that a couple were said to be pregnant. Which is pretty much where I'm sure the phrase 'clutching one's pearls' was derived.

In 1968, my eyes were turned toward college and the future. I thought the entire concept of being a debutant was stupid, but dutifully I went along with the flouncy dresses and bouquets of flowers because that was what there was to do.

I was not an independent thinker at that point in my life. Rebellion for me and my friends qualified as driving on back country roads, drinking beer and peeing by the side of the road without a bathroom. Thank goodness, Fidel Castro had already taken over Cuba and wasn't waiting for my help as a revolutionary.

I left town as soon as I was able and spent several years away. Eventually about ten years later I returned home and stayed for several years. Somewhere in that time period I was invited to attend the Debutant Ball as a spectator rather than a participant. I was not expecting time to have changed my mind about the event, but I was wrong.

The girl comes out on stage and curtseys to her father, who then leads her down a short flight of stairs and along a long run way. Ten years after I'd made that walk, I noted that the debs looked either as scared or bored as I remembered, but the fathers beamed. It occurred to me that once girls reach puberty they have few events that involved their father in a meaning way. The only other time such an event happens is the walk down the aisle when the father 'gives his daughter away'.

Being a debutant was an event for the fathers, not the girls. And maybe it dates back to when daughters were chattel to be bartered for land or farm animals, but it was the only event my father and I participated together during those years.

I hope it was as memorable for him as it had been for the other fathers I viewed. Men of his generation were taught not to express their feelings so it was never discussed between us. And he is long dead now, so I will never know.

Life is made up of moments, held together by traditions, rituals and memories which few of us recognize their importance until long after the time has passed. | HB

HANNAH BROPHY IS AN ORIGINAL MEMBER OF THE HECATE’S LANTERN WRITING PROJECT AT COFFEE CREEK CORRECTIONAL INSTITUTION.