All posts by Susan Shafarzek

Weeds Don’t Weep but Gardeners Do. by Nancy Halgren

Photo of single dandelion
 

Diligent was the only word that could be applied to my father’s pursuit of dandelions in our front yard. Clearly Iremember him in his worn work boots, laced to the top, socks rolled down touching, and an old white t-shirt and shorts of some kind, though never cut offs. Covering his head would be an old sailor’s hat turned down like a white mushroom cap. His clip on sunglasses would cover his regular ones, and the milky colored plastic nose protector was attached to the bridge. He would be bent over with his trusty pocket … Continue reading Weeds Don’t Weep but Gardeners Do. by Nancy Halgren

There’s a Beer that Tastes Like June 1981 by Harry Lee James

Photo of fully pint of beer
 

Once upon a time I was a soldier living in a small town on the eastern most edge of what was known at the time as West Germany. To the East, a little over a mile away, lay a continuous line of fences, mines, walls, watch towers and enemy soldiers that stretched north and south as far as the eye could see. All of that vast array of potential violence marked the end of an old war that waited to be resumed if enough reasons and grievances could be sounded to wake it up from … Continue reading There’s a Beer that Tastes Like June 1981 by Harry Lee James

Le Francais et Moi by Miles Fowler

Photo of french flags on masts
 

The other day, I was watching a TV program set during World War II. An American bomber group was about to drop leaflets over Nazi-occupied territory. The French text of the leaflet appeared briefly on screen, and I hit the pause button. I got the gist of the leaflet. Maybe eighty-percent. It was something like, “It has become necessary to bomb this town. Leave immediately.” This would be terrific except that I have studied French on and off for more than sixty years. I grew up with a father who spoke French. One of his … Continue reading Le Francais et Moi by Miles Fowler

Kali Gandaki by Connie Clark

Photo of canyon under blue sky
 

I have a fear of heights. It is a fear of depths, too. Stand on the edge of the Grand Canyon and look down? No, no matter how beautiful it may be. Sit with my legs dangling off a mountain peak? Never. I can’t even look at pictures of people doing these things without flinching. For years, I refused to look over the precipice’s edge into the world of the dying. I ran from them. I turned off the phone, been out of town. I left the room. I have said, “I’m praying for you,” … Continue reading Kali Gandaki by Connie Clark

Remedy for an Excited Amygdala by Billie Hinton

Photo of horses in the fog
 

On the first cold night since early last spring fog rolls onto the farm like a tide. I wake to a cloud buckling in the arena, around the barn, down the hill to where the horses eat their hay. It’s fog but my amygdala says smoke. Then, horses. Finally, fire. But they are safe, heads low as they draw strands of hay with their lips into their teeth. Jaws in circular meditation, as calming as yoga. The painted pony reaches to nose the crescent moon lying on its back along his barrel, a beacon of … Continue reading Remedy for an Excited Amygdala by Billie Hinton

Missive From the Snow Globe by Charlotte Matthews

Photo of snow globe
 

Not sure how we got here. But here is where we are. My next-door neighbor, Sarah, and her little sister Pearl, and me. We were eating cereal at their red kitchen table, the light of January moving across the wall where their parakeets, Peet and Repeat, lunge sporadically around their cage. We were at the kitchen table one moment. And the next we were inside this snow globe. On the floor is a circular rug, red and pink with miniature roses, probably wool, like the rugs at the store where Mom works. To the left … Continue reading Missive From the Snow Globe by Charlotte Matthews

Considering Volcanoes: What Lies Beneath by Mary Alice Hostetter

Black and white photo of large mountain and clouds
 

Mary Alice Hostetter has earned an Honorable Mention in Streetlight’s 2023 Essay/Memoir Contest   There was no real reason for volcanoes and pandemics to become associated in my imagination, but they did. The only actual link was on the first post-pandemic travel my wife and I did to visit family on the West Coast. While there, we went to the Palace of the Legion of Honor to see the exhibit with the less-than-upbeat title, “Last Supper in Pompeii.” It was a celebration of food and drink, with frescoes and kitchen utensils, crockery and furniture, delicate … Continue reading Considering Volcanoes: What Lies Beneath by Mary Alice Hostetter

The Hibiscus by Amy Boyes

Close up of bright red hibiscus flower
 

Amy Boyes has earned an Honorable Mention in Streetlight’s 2023 Essay/Memoir Contest   The hibiscuses arrived in six-inch grower pots. Packed for cold weather in a foil and Styrofoam-lined box, they had journeyed in a transport trailer to my grandmother’s prairie flower shop. “Careful, those are live plants!” Grandma would warn, as if “LIVE PLANTS” emblazed on the cardboard box was an insufficient indication. Deposited on the shop floor, the box remained until a knife or pair of scissors could be fetched. Typically, neither was found and a substitute tool was employed—pruning clippers or even … Continue reading The Hibiscus by Amy Boyes

Why I Loved the 8-Track by Karen Weyant

Photo of stacks of 8-track tapes
 

Today, we stream any song we can find, google obscure one-hit wonders, and watch anyone make their own music videos on TikTok, but back before they were delegated as punch lines to jokes about music history, we loved our 8-track tapes. The 8-track tape, a magnetic tape sound recording device enclosed in a plastic container, was popular from the late 1960s until the early 1980s. Although the quality of the sound was problematic, the protective casing was rather sturdy. Plus, 8-track tapes had the added bonus of continuous play, unlike their counterpart, the cassette, that … Continue reading Why I Loved the 8-Track by Karen Weyant

The Bus Was Late: a Stamford Memory by Jeffrey Coughter

Photo of five school buses side by side
 

Jeffrey Coughter has earned an Honorable Mention in Streetlight’s 2023 Essay/Memoir Contest   On a sunny, breezy late October morning in 1959, I was among a handful of kindergartners waiting for a school bus near the front stoop of Boucher’s, a restaurant at the corner of Long Ridge Road and Stark Place in Stamford, Conn. The bus was late, but we didn’t know how late. We were all five, or nearly five years old, and “time,” when you’re five is not quite the same as when you’re sixty-five. We waited that crisp, autumn morning, as … Continue reading The Bus Was Late: a Stamford Memory by Jeffrey Coughter