CORNUCOPIA

BY TRACY SCHLAPP

The pace of the world picks up this week, as cars circle parking lots, and easily agitated grocery cart drivers turn through aisles stacked high with bags of pecans, canned pumpkin, mini marshmallows, corn syrup and pounds of sugar. A panicked call: Did you remember to order the turkey? Long lists scratched on the back of used envelopes. Menus are adapted as new family members bring their traditional foods to the table.  All of this for the feast. The feast to give thanks. We anticipate family visits with the big emotions and old habits that are familiar, comforting. Familiar and frustrating. The thanksgiving cornucopia overflows with life and death: the richness of the deep-colored gourds, alongside the last of the autumn leaves, brown and rumpled, blowing across the field. We have created a season filled with company and traditions to move our human selves through the dark winter nights, even though our very bear nature would rather gorge on berries in September and sleep until spring.

Chris Lewis has been unable to attend our Oregon State Penitentiary writing group and has instead sent his work through the kyte (inner prison mail) system. This fall he hasn’t tended his garden next to the Special Housing Unit. The loss resounds in his poem Harvest. Chris cares for his plants with the attention he would normally pay his daughter, given the opportunity. For our folks inside, tending to the earth, to their jobs, to one another is a lifeline. When that opportunity is cut, a systematic shutdown occurs, and numbness fills the void.

Whispers from the shadows
have manifested their malevolent form.
Dizziness and nausea envelope me,
I spin (in my heart and mind)
with confusion and pain…

Some of our writers have gone days, months, and long years in isolation — some while sitting on Death Row. Inhumane treatment bears inhumane results. In the face of this, those prisoners who can stay connected to writing, to art, to reading, a game of chess called from another cell (toilet paper sculpted player pieces placed on a grid)… for those who are able to hold on, there is camaraderie on the other side.

From Coffee Creek, Regina Baker remembers past harvests through the lens of her faith in Fruit Bins. “Beautiful wood grains and colors hold memories of harvests gone by that bring us together in love, peace, and joy.” Her beliefs and her prayer hold her, along with the memory of those beautiful apples. Home is in the harvest, in the hands of the community. For Angela Kim, the tang of Kimchi is home. While she was inside, Angela watched cooking shows for a glimpse of those Korean dishes that rooted her. She also weighs the influence of fusion cooking: “At first, I was shocked and a little offended. How dare they sully my foods! Years passed and I began to dream of Kimchi burritos and deep-fried sushi. Why not? Isn’t this great country a melting pot?” She wonders how her great-great-great granddaughter will transform her Korean ancestry. We wonder if this Thanksgiving will be finally be filled with the taste of home.

As we move into bustle of the holidays, we thank you for your support, for reading these pieces, and perhaps even sharing one at your table. | TDS