Utah Division

after the cloudburst
buzzard spreads his wings
for Drying & orders coffee–
could I actually get used to
being called “hon”?

Reinvented

in mountain time
I talk more
with strangers and have
to pee less

Click

in this forgotten canyon
lamped by moonglow
Why did I just lock the cabin?

Investor

A short swift fall
into bankruptcy shall
not be my fate—
I squat to collect
a dark brown feather

Directions

enough aspen
chic already
let’s drive
back to
green river
and buy
more melons

Paul Hadella is from Talent, Oregon and he and his wife recently celebrated retirement with a road trip that inspired these poems.

P O E M   Eleven years old, lost in Prospect Park
with my friend Alan Weberman, a beatnik
who doesn’t play stickball, stoopball, or shoot
water pistols but wears a French beret, black
turtleneck sweaters and bangs the bongos.

We’re trying to find a way out of a
585-acre urban wilderness in the
heart of deepest Brooklyn with
no maps, canteens, compass,
food or shining stars to guide us.

We’re far from Sol’s candy store
with its vanilla egg creams, chocolate
Clark Bars, Drake’s pound cakes,
cherry lime rickeys and long salted
pretzels in plastic see-through bins.

We’re far from the Patio Movie Theater,
with its double features, cartoons,
newsreels and a goldfish pond
in a beautifully tiled lobby to
throw pennies into.

We’re far from Jahn’s Ice Cream Parlor with
its Kitchen Sink—a jumble of ice cream,
chocolate syrup, whipped cream, maraschino
cherries, and a hodgepodge of other things
that can serve up to six.

We’re far from the Empire Rollerdrome,
Ebinger’s Bakery, Erasmus Hall High School,
Freddie Fitzsimmons Bowling Lanes and
Ebbets Field, home of the ‘55 world champs,
’57 world chumps, who left Flatbush for LA.

We’re far from college, marriage,
work, retirement and a quiet
home in the country away from
the racket, hubbub and delight
of inner-city childhood life.

Martin H. Levinson is a member of the Authors Guild, National Book Critics Circle, PEN, and the book review editor for ETC: A Review of General Semantics. He has published nine books and numerous articles and poems in various publications. He holds a PhD from NYU and lives in Forest Hills, NY.  martinlevinson.com

T R A V E L   I had a lot of fun teasing the French when I lived in Paris in the 70’s. All I had to do was invite friends over, serve four courses instead of seven, make pancakes for lunch, put the salad at the beginning of the meal instead of the end, or – worst transgression of all – dump the meat, potatoes, vegetables and salad all in one plate, American-style, and say, “Voilà!”

It was easy to be a rebel over there, something I’m good at as long as attitude counts more than subversive action. What can I tell you? It was the spirit of the times. I never burned any bras, but, on the other hand, I didn’t wear any either.

In the playground I took off my shoes and squatted in the sand alongside my baby son. And slid down the slides after him. The other French mothers were too busy admonishing their offspring not to get water from the Place des Vosges fountains on their leather-trimmed “playclothes” to have my kind of fun. The occasional father would guide his child up the stairs of the slide like this: “First place your right foot on this step, lift your left foot up x centimeters, now pull yourself slowly up!” The poor child would lose all taste for the adventure ahead and reap the scorn of the other little ones waiting on the steps behind him.

Of course I wore jeans with an embroidered butterfly I had stitched on to cover a hole that was – come to think of it – suggestively positioned on my thigh. Let the françaises prance in their heels and summer dresses. I had scarves in my shoulder-length hair.

Still I looked French enough pushing a baby carriage for one confused American tourist to continue to talk to me in French even after I said, “Listen, you can speak to me in English!”

Other outrages of mine – putting the light on during the day in my darkened apartment before the appointed (?) hour, rinsing dishes with the water running, “insulting” a clove of garlic by not slicing it daintily enough, boorishly putting a container of milk on the kitchen table (instead of a creamer), oh, and picking up my son whenever he cried instead of letting him “make his lungs.”

Not exactly a march on Washington, but I did my darnedest to stand up for the good ole American way of life!

Janet Garber’s satiric novel, dream job, wacky adventures of an HR Manager, available on www.janetgarber.com. She’s working on a second novel about a Franco-American couple living in Paris in the 70’s.

T R A V E L  Where’s Fredy when I need him?

Fredy was my “go-to” mechanic in Costa Rica. From brake pads to fuel injectors, shocks to wheel bearings, Fredy could diagnose it, fix it and I would be on my way – usually within a day.  Sometimes he would even deliver the repaired car to the house!

I’m jinxed when it comes to used cars.

We bought a 2013 Hyundai Tucson the day after our arrival back in the U.S. – actually within hours – because our “second” Costa Rican car was a Tucson (Tooc-sun in CR) and it was reliable has heck. BTW: in 2011, we bought a 2004 Tucson for $20,000. In 2017, we paid 1/2 that for a 2013.

We bought the car on Friday, 7/28. First road trip, the A/C was iffy. Since we weren’t sure if it was the 100 degree real feel outside that the a/c didn’t handle it, we drove it the rest of the day. Next day we were convinced it was not US it was the Tucson, we took the car back to the dealer on Monday. They wanted us to leave it but we were running around like crazy house hunting. I took it in on Tuesday. They sent me back on the road after a couple hours, but Wednesday it was not cooling like should. I took it back in to the dealer, he gave us a loaner, and three days later we are still without our car.

We were told today they had reproduced the problem, but needed Hyundai to sign off on the repair. I guess South Korea is kinda preoccupied with Kim Jung Yum Yum because are awaiting further instructions on repair of our car.

Fredy could have rebuilt the damn a/c/ by now.  I’m positive.

If it’s not fixed soon, Nancy may go ballistic before Kim Jung Yum Yum does.

Mark Van Patten writes a blog called Going Like Sixty and has been married to the same woman since 1968.

T R A V E L  We’d taken a couple trips back in the day, when we were students. And we traveled together a few years ago when both our husbands were gone. This time we planned eleven days on the road: every important stop in New Mexico and Arizona from Carlsbad Caverns to the Grand Canyon and points in between.

She lives in the Midwest and I’m in the Southwest. We put the trip together over the course of a year, conferring by email and on the phone. We both noticed an interesting phenomenon: almost any time we mentioned the trip to someone they came back with “Oh, Thelma and Louise.” And then when I returned, friends urged me to write about my Thelma and Louise “experience.” I wasn’t sure I’d had a Thelma and Louise experience and it had been at least 25 years since I’d seen the movie. Truth be told I didn’t even remember which one was which anymore.

Undaunted by my hesitation, a few friends secured a copy of the movie and we made a festive evening of it. Snacks, pizza, margaritas. And the movie was good. Thelma and Louise are quite clearly delineated and now I know the difference again. So how did our trip stack up against theirs?

Well, let’s see. First there are the cars. They drove a 66 Thunderbird. Pretty cool. We ventured out in my 2009 Subaru Forester, newly overhauled by professionals to insure its safety on the road. They drove off the road a number of times while being chased by police. We never did. Our only encounter with the law was at a border patrol stop in southern Arizona. There was a short line and we spent the time rifling around in the car for our purses so we could produce our drivers licenses when asked. Our turn came, an agent stuck his head in the car, looked at the two of us, and said, “Both American?” We nodded and he waved us on. Thelma and Louise should have been so lucky.

Then there was the rowdy bar. Nope. The assault in the parking lot. Thankfully, no. Stolen money? No way, we used credit cards. And at the Grand Canyon, the highlight for sure, we did not drive off into the abyss. I’m not expecting that anybody will want to make a movie of the Susie and Norma trip any time soon. After all, no sex, no death, but I swear, it really was fun.

Norma Libman is a journalist and lecturer who has been collecting women’s stories for more than twenty years. You can read the first chapter of her award-winning book, Lonely River Village, at NormaLibman.com.

T R A V E L  Summer camp for baby boomers? Yes, that’s a thing. And it’s probably great if you loved summer camp the first time around when you were 10 years old. Or if you never had the summer camp experience back then and want to see what all the fun is about. If your only summer camp experience was not having a belt to hold up your shorts and resorting to using the rope that came with the duffel bag, it may be more of a “not so much” proposition. (Yes, that was my camper experience. My belt was at the bottom of my brother’s duffel bag…a fact that he denies to this day).

Camps geared to adults are becoming a big deal. According to the American Camp Association, about a quarter of their accredited camps offer adult-only programs. Prices range from $375 on the low end to more luxurious camper digs for $1,170. Adults in their 60s and 70s are signing up in big numbers.

Canoeing, swimming, archery, tie-dyeing and crafts are still mainstays of the camp experience. But the counselors are there to provide support rather than keeping an eye on rambunctious kids. There is still storytelling and singing songs around the campfire, so nostalgia is very much a factor if you’re wondering what would motivate a 70 year-old to sign up for summer camp.

My memories are a little fuzzy (except for the missing belt….that part is seared into my brain), but I remember the canoes being fun and we made potholders (OK, hotpads for some of you) to bring home to Mom. The highlight for me was making a lanyard out of something called gimp. I think we were supposed to use the lanyard to hold a key. I didn’t own a key so it’s unclear what use I would make of it, but I was pleased that I could learn how to do a box stitch to create a multi colored marvel. Little things can entertain little minds.

I get why a baby boomer would want to relive summer camp life, especially if the away camp experience was the highlight of their adolescent years. I’m going to stick with independent travel that does not include potholders and gimp. And I’m going to wear one belt and pack a second one just in case.

Jay Harrison is a graphic designer and writer whose work can be seen at DesignConcept. His mystery novel, Head Above Water, is available on Amazon and Kindle.