Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

The newsletter devoted to spreading love and cultural awareness around the world.

August 28, 2006

Today’s announcements

A Happy 41^st Anniversary goes out to Jeannie and Frank Frodsham: fjfrog@charter.net  

Now onto the good stuff!

Today’s Queue Stories

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Cock a doodle do – Solution to the Rooster Problem

Sharon Bryant

Many suggestions have come in regarding the rooster problem at my house.  I really hate to shoot them, I'm not the shooting kind of person, nor does my husband want to do that.  Even if I COULD catch them, cooking them is out of the question.  These are mean old birds and probably tough as rubber if I COULD cook them.

Someone suggested buying some rubber snakes and placing them around the flower gardens and trees.

I took yesterday off from work and went to buy some rubber snakes.  One man swore they work, as he uses them in his garden for the same problem.  I thought, "Boy, how simple is this?"

I went to several stores yesterday looking for rubber snakes.  Even Wal-Mart didn't have any.  I spent the whole afternoon running all over looking for these "snakes."  I have to say, people really look at you funny when you ask for them.  I guess because I didn't have a kid with me, they wondered what I wanted them for.  Some asked why I wanted them.  I got tired of being asked WHY I wanted the snakes so I started making up some things.  Like I told one, I was going to play a trick on my hubby and make him a snake sandwich.  I really got some odd looks with some of the remarks I made. 

I finally found this shop that had all kinds of weird things.  They didn't have rubber snakes, but they had wooden snakes.

They look real.  Some have tongues sticking out of their mouths.  One looks like a Cobra.

Meanwhile, while I was out looking for the snakes, hubby was re-doing the flower gardens with new borders.  He ran out and got new mulch, so by the time I spent the whole afternoon running from store to store, he got all the borders finished. 

I placed the snakes all over the place, then I waited.  Waited for those suckers to fly down from the trees and see what they'd do.  It's so hot here, the roosters won't even come out of the trees until late in the day, so it was almost supper time when they all three flew out of the trees.  Naturally, they ran for the flower garden.  The black rooster saw the snake right where he's always digging in the garden, and he raised his silly head and let out a cock-a-doodle-doo.  The other two white roosters came running over to him, one saw the snake and backed off.  I stood still and kept watching, thinking, "Gee, this really works."

They ran to another bush they tear up, and another snake was there in a different position.  Again, the black rooster roared out a cock-a-doodle-doo.  The other two ran up to him, and I guess the black one got mad, so he chased the other two around the yard.

Lord, was I happy.  I thought, gee, maybe they'll kill each other fighting over the snakes being in the flower beds.

Then they ran to my dad's tree.  That's the one I really watch constantly when I'm home.  Again, a snake was half coiled, with its head sticking near the edge of the border.  This black rooster must be the leader because he's always the first one to run.  He ran up, saw that snake, and I think he got real mad that time.  He did what I call a "chicken dance."  Started stomping his feet on the grass, roaring out one cock-a-doodle-doo after another and kept circling the tree.  But he never touched the mulch.  None of them did.

The person who told me to put the snakes out, told me to reposition them every couple of days.  So now I have a yard full of wooden snakes and mornings, I will move them around.

I thought to myself this morning......"I've GOT to get a life!"

Sharon Bryant

1946@bellsouth.net

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 Warning the following story deals with adult content and my not be suitable for all readers. Please do not read the story then complain that you did not like it.  Roger Dean has lived through a very hard life and I am presenting is real-life story.

Saving Face

Roger Dean Kiser

There are many difficult obstacles one must contend with while in prison. To me, the most difficult was making sure I did not insult anyone. Just bumping into someone or accidentally talking while they were speaking was considered an insult. Though minor, in the outside world, this type of thing could escalate, very quickly, into a full blown killing and possibly even a riot.

I recall one instance when two young men were arguing over a pack of cigarettes which had been left on a weight yard bench. For weeks they threatened to kill one another because the one inmate had smoked the cigarettes without trying to find out who they belonged to. Almost everyday threats were made causing anyone in their area to be on guard. Should a fight or stabbing occur on the main yard that could lead to one of the tower guards shooting anyone who might be in that area.

Late one night one of the two inmates came to my cell and asked if I could write and file an appeal for him. After discussing his case I asked him what was happening between him and the other inmate.

“That bastard is going to die. It’s just a matter of time,” he told me.

I was surprised to learn that the other fellow was one of his homies. (A “homie” is someone from your home-town).

A fight or disagreement between homies is very unusual; as they stick together in order to protect one another.

Several days later I was in the library when the other inmate came in and sat down next to me. As we talked the conversation came around to his disagreement with the other inmate.

“Well, you think a pack of cigarettes is worth dying for? I asked him.

He did not answer my question.

Over the next week I managed to get their home addresses. Late one night I sat down and wrote both their families a letter asking them to do something for me. About three weeks later I received a large brown envelope in the mail. After looking at the contents of the envelope I placed it in my locker.

Several days later I finished the petition for the one inmate and sent word for him to come to my cell at seven o’clock in order to sign the documents. I had, earlier that day, asked the other inmate to come to my cell at seven-thirty. Just about the time the inmate had finished signing the papers the other inmate showed up at my cell door.

“What the hell are you doing here, punk?” shouted one of the inmates.

“I asked him to come as I have something for the two of you.”

I reached over, took the envelope out of my locker and opened it. I took out two identical photos and handed one to each of the two men.

“Who the hell is that?” asked one of them.

“That’s my son but I don’t know who the other kid is,” said the other inmate.

“That’s both your sons playing basketball together. It appears they are friends,” I told them.

“Well, I be damned,” said the inmate, who had signed the papers.

“Just thought you fellows would like to know that when one of you kills the other one that your son will be very proud of you for killing his best friend's daddy.”

Both men looked directly at me and said not a word.

I asked the inmate who had signed the papers to give me a few minutes with the other fellow. After he left my cell I asked if he would consider giving the other inmate a carton of smokes in order to try and end the dangerous situation.

“I ain’t got no box of cigarettes,” he replied.

I reached into my locker and then held out a carton of Marlboro cigarettes. Slowly he reached out and took the smokes. I got off my bunk and walked to the cell door and motioned for him to come back down the tier.

When he entered the cell the one inmate held out the carton of cigarettes and said, “I believe I owe you these.”

The young man reached out and took the cigarettes. He said not a word as he turned around and walked away. We sat there for almost thirty seconds, not saying a word, before we heard the words “Thank you,” as they echoed off the cell-block walls.

“Is that the end of it?” I asked the inmate.

“I guess. I just don’t like him getting the best of me,” he replied.

“He didn’t get the best of you.”

“What do you mean?” he asked me, with a puzzled look on his face.

“You gave him a carton of Marlboros and he smokes Pall Malls.”

“Yea, that’s right. The bastard doesn’t smoke Marlboros,” he yelled out in excitement.

I watched him smile; clap his hands together, as if he had just won the battle. He turned around and walked away, laughing as hard as he could.

Roger Dean Kiser

trampolineone@earthlink.net

Poetry Section

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Alia

Maura Badji

My middle name

is a town in Sicily

I found on a National

Geographic map, not far

from Piazzo Cangilosi. So close

to my grandfather's name--Congilosi,

meaning with jealousy. Paired with NaNa's

maiden name--Amato, meaning beloved,

their arranged marriage lasted fifty years.

My middle name

is a town in Sicily,

where I have never been, close

to the seaport of Carini where

I dreamed myself into the olive

groves my PaPa spoke of over endless

cups of coffee, promising me Sicilian

lemons, big as oranges, twice as sweet.

My middle name

is a town in Sicily,

the name of a sprawling Seattle

family I've heard of, never met,

yet feel a part of. Part of this family,

that town I've never walked, this name,

those people I haven't found. I feel

connected by the syllables of our name,

as if the alphabet could direct me

to my origins.

My middle name

is a town in Sicily,

a word that means gift in Hebrew,

as in to make an offering in the temple,

which is lovely until I wonder if only men

are allowed to do this, so I change the subject.

My middle name

Is a town in Sicily, a word

Which means noble in Arabic and other in Latin,

The name of a dead Jordanian Queen and a Saudi airline,

A woman’s clothing line in Vancouver and a lovely

Singer who died too soon.  I reflect on fate and time.

My middle name is a town in Sicily,

A pet name a sweet friend I met too late calls me,

Somehow making me his and he mine.  I lament

The tricks of fate and the limits of time.

My middle name

is a town in Sicily

I plan to see one day, please

soon. A place I hope to find

faces I can trace in my own,

faces who will return my smile, faces

who will welcome me home.

Maura Alia Badji

maura_badji@yahoo.com

~**~**~

Survivor's Song

Maura Badji

Better to cry

than to tighten your jaw

til your teeth crack

in your sleep.

Better to talk, to tell.

Unshed tears

may sharpen to razor points

as lethal as avenging daggers

turned inward.

Better to yell

and point the way

to the source of your pain.

Anger undelivered

may ferment

to decay, seep

into your blood as slow poison.

Better to spit it out.

Better to believe yourself.

Because the body never forgets

and cries out to be heard.

Cell memory doesn't lie

and waits for you to listen.

Better to believe yourself

than to put yourself on trial

Better to put the blame

where it has always belonged--

before it takes up residence,

claiming squatters rights

to your dreams, to your guts,

to your every night.

Better to remember,

because the body never forgets

and cries out to be heard

or whispers " What happened to you

was real."

That velveteen rabbit

had it wrong.

You become truly real

when you believe yourself,

when you listen to

your own survivor's song.

~Maura Alia Badji

maura_badji@yahoo.com

Bio note:

Maura Alia Badji is a poet, writer, Early Childhood Special Education teacher, and mother of Ibrahim.  Her poems have appeared in Switched-on-Gutenberg, exhibition, Synapse, Gather.com, The Haight Ashbury Literary Journal and many other publications.  Her chapbook, Resculpting :poems (Paperboat Press), was published in 1995 and is for sale on Amazon.com.  She is currently at work on a full length collection. She earned her MFA in Creative Writing at the University of WA in Seattle (1998) and her M.Ed in Special Education at SUNY New Paltz (2003), where she also earned her BA (1988).

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