Quills & Pixels

2011

University of Arkansas at Little Rock

Writers Network

Quills & Pixels accepts submissions on a continuous basis from all members of the University
of Arkansas at Little Rock writing community, including past and present students, staff, and
faculty, as well as alumni of the university. The editorial staff welcomes submissions from persons
affiliated with UAMS and with the William H. Bowen School of Law.
Writers of nonfiction in all its formscreative nonfiction, personal essays, research essays,
academic writing, journalistic features, technical communication, and other genresare
encouraged to submit, to have their work peer reviewed, and depending on the outcome of the
review, to have their work published. Only original, unpublished nonfiction work not under
review elsewhere will be considered.
Quills & Pixels does not publish or review poetry, fiction, or drama. The staff will not consider
anonymous or pseudonymous writing.
Do not include your name anywhere on or in the writing (use a temporary pseudonym if your
name must appear in the writing).
A title must appear on the first page and may also be used as a header, along with the page
number, at the tops of subsequent pages.

Each submission must be accompanied by the authors address, e-mail address, telephone
number, and the title of the submission on a separate page or on a submission formavailable
from the University Writing Center and the Department of Rhetoric and Writing.

We strongly encourage electronic submissions. Send one electronic copy plus the author
information in a separate file in Microsoft Word format attached to an e-mail addressed to
cmanderson@ualr.edu with the subject line, Quills & Pixels Submission.
If you prefer to submit hard copy, Writers Network/Quills & Pixels drop boxes are located in the
University Writing Center, SU-B 116, and in the Department of Rhetoric and Writing mail room,
SU-B 100. Submissions may also be mailed to:

Quills & Pixels

Department of Rhetoric and Writing

University of Arkansas at Little Rock
2801 S. University
Little Rock, AR 72204

Quills & Pixels

2011
A Publication of The Writers Network
University of Arkansas at Little Rock

Development Editors

Janet Anokye, Jennifer Atkins-Gordeeva, Gloria Conley, Brittany Foster,

Fredy Guzman, Susan Heffern-Shelton, Caleb James, Eva McKinney,
Darricka Malone, Paige Mitchell, Kelly Plopper, Priscilla Rodriguez,
Kenneth Tuberville, Lauren White, Amanda Wilson, Jade Wilson

Production Editors

Gloria Conley, Heather Ernst, DeAnna Gupton, Drew Glover,

Susan Heffern-Shelton, Caleb James, Kelly Plopper, Lacey Thacker, Priscilla
Rodriguez, Kelsie Walker

Layout and Design

Priscilla Rodriguez, Chuck Anderson

Cover Photo
Drew Glover

Funding provided by the UALR Office of Student Activities and

the Department of Rhetoric and Writing

ditors Foreword
Gloria Conley

Heather Ernst

Drew Glover

DeAnna Gupton

Susan Heffern-Shelton

Caleb James

Kelly Plopper

Priscilla Yvonne Rodriguez

Lacey Thacker

Kelsie Walker

narrative /ner--tiv/ n, the representation in

art of an event or story, from the Latin verb narrare, to recount;

related to gnrus, knowing, skilled.

arrative is essential
to communication, to
understanding, some would
say to our very humanity. Whether
the story is one that leaves us
nodding in recognition or shaking
our heads in disbelief, it is our
connection to another person, and
it creates the communities in which
we become the best, the most fully
human that we can be. The UALR
community is as diverse, as deep,
and as interesting as any you could
hope to find. Students, faculty, and
staff from all over the world gather

on this campus, each with a unique

story to tell, some personal, some
public, some recount the pleasures
and insights that come from
research. In your hands, you hold
an exceptional collection of these
stories.

The stories in Quills & Pixels 2011

run the gamut of human experience,
from ordinary events we can
appreciate for their familiarity to
incidents we would never want
to face firsthand to extraordinary
moments we wish had been our

own. By writing their stories, the authors

have transformed experiences into
narrative. By editing with them, we have
gained understanding. By reading the end
products of our collaboration, we hope you
will gain a larger sense of lifes possibilities
and a deeper connection with your
community.
Just as people benefit from connection, so
too do narratives. As far back as Aristotle,
writers have known the importance of
arrangement. Stories have beginnings,
middles, and ends; movements and
transitions; echoes and tides; vistas and
crescendos; luminous moments and long,
unbearable stretches of timeparts that
collaborate, connect, and create meaning.
The same is true of this book.

In the beginning, Jenna will touch you with

its poignant recounting of birth and the love
affair of mother and child; in the middle,
The Bridge will carry you to loss and back
again; at the end, Storytellers will inspire
you with its homage to family tradition
handed down and passed on and with the
opening of that tradition to the largest of all
large things. As you move from beginning
to middle to end, you will travel from the
Old South to South Korea, from wild horses
to domesticated people, from the twilight
of dying to the dawning of love. Youll feel
injustice and grace, destruction and renewal,
hopelessness and healing. When youre
finished, we can promise youll look at some
things in ways you never have beforeeven
things you didnt think were worth a single

glance, like answering machines and pillows,

wigs and wind, a broken window, a stick and
a soft drink can.
As works of nonfiction, the skillful sincerity
of these narratives is sure to speak to you.
They will take you on truthful journeys. The
journey is, of course, a clich, but only
because true things tend to get repeated.
What does not often get repeated are the
particular moments that make up each
particular persons particular journey. It is
these moments, these small and wonderfilled steps along the way that teach you
something, that offer experience, that take
your breath away.
We hope you are changed by what the
particular moments that make up the
narratives in this volume have to tell you.

Now go ahead, turn the page. Its time for

the story to begin.

Jenna

Deana Nall

Learning, Listening, and the Power of Change

Raison dtre 101

Song and Dance

ElbowRoom

The Answering Machine

Carole Geckle

Dana F. Steward
Bethany May

Table of

Erin Pennington Wood

Fade

16

Arrive Costumed and Enjoy Fine Spirits

20

Gentle Solutions for Wild Horses

28

Deanna Smith
Katherine Parker Lamb
Jim Dawson

Perspective, Perseverance, and the Call of Yesterday

A Meditation on Pillows: An Appeal to Reason

35

Elizabeth

39

Mark Isbell

Kathryn Brady Ragan

Wind, Wheels, and Water

Chris Bell

41

54

My Old House and HGTV

59

The Story of the Yurt

63

Februarys Ghost

67

Mike Rush

Donna Landreth

Thompson Murray
Sarah Peterson

The Bridge
Mark Stanley

Resistance, Reprise, and a Vow to Fulfill

What Do You See?

83

Worth the Weight?

86

Caving In

91

Remembering Through Celluloid:

World War II Films as Memorials

94

Londons Burning

103

A Formal Analysis of Carl Gutherzs

Light of the Incarnation

110

Kathryn Brady Ragan

Jennifer Stanley
Loria Taylor

Jeff Wright

Siobhan Bartley

Bryce A. Chandler

Contents

Every Day a Champion

Jonathan

114

Joseph Johnson

Delight, Desire, and the Complications of Love

A Souls Delight

121

A Short History of Men

124

An Old Fashioned Love Song

131

Marriage in the Middle East

135

That Beautiful Stupid Hot Damn Wig

139

Homeless Tequila

142

To Touch a Man

148

(continued)

Don Streit

Amy Manning Burns

Janet L. Darling

Jennifer Guzman
Valerie Henley

V. Louise Johnson
Joseph Johnson

Storytellers
Mark Isbell

J
10

enna
Deana Nall
Deana Nall has been writing features for
magazines since 1994 and contributes to
a number of nationally-distributed publications. She has also written newspaper
features and a weekly humor column, for
which she won an award from the Texas
Associated Press Managing Editors in
2002. Deana lived in Texas most of her life
before moving to Arkansas in 2006. Deana
is working on an MA in professional and
technical writing at UALR. She lives in Bryant with her husband Chad and their two
daughters, Julia and Jenna.

n an August morning in 2004, Jenna

came wailing and wriggling into
our lives. Eight-and-a-half pounds.
A golden sheen to her head that promised
blonde hair.
And her eyes. I guess you would say they
are blue, but they are more than that. There
really isnt a word to describe the color of her
eyes.
But Ill try.

I learned to scuba dive in 1993. And I learned

something about it right off: scuba diving
is a big hassle. So much heavy, awkward
equipment is required for breathing
underwater. The tank by itself weighs eighty
pounds. Then theres the weight belt, which
must be adjusted just right so you wont float
to the surface or be stuck on the ocean floor.
Then you have the buoyancy compensation
device, the fins, snorkel, mask, and wetsuit.
Once you get all that stuff on, its hard enough
to remain upright, let alone walk normally.
But once below the surface, the oppressive
gear becomes your key to the underwater
world. You swim around, weightless, holding
out fingers as curious fish swim up to them.
Your teeth clench around the regulator that,
on land moments before, was uncomfortable
in your mouth. Now its the only way to
get air into your lungs. The sound of your
constant inhaling and exhaling is a reminder
that youre doing something humans
werent made to do. You are living, thriving

underwater. The hassle, for the moment, is

forgotten.
It took us a long time to get Jenna into this
world.

I got pregnant, then miscarried. Pregnant

again, but one sad morning, blood. Pregnant
a third time, then another loss. We started
thinking about adoption. Then I got pregnant
again, and this one held. I became very sick,
was placed on home healthcare, and then
developed gestational diabetes. Then, one
Thursday morning, the previous year and a
half faded as I finally looked into her eyes.
And I remembered the circle of light.

Thirty feet under the oceans surface, its easy

to become disorientedto the point that you
can lose track of which way youre supposed
to go to reach air. As a scuba diver, you learn to
look for light. Light means surface. When you
find the sunlight piercing the blue depths in
which you are submerged, you slowly swim
toward it, exhaling all the way. Surrounded
by shades of watery blue, the circle of light
expands and seems to pull you toward itself.
You keep swimming up, up, upuntil you
think your lungs cant expel any more air.
But the bubbles keep coming, and you keep
moving toward the illuminated mass.
Then you reach it, and you burst through it,
into air, light, life.
Thats what color Jennas eyes are.

L earning,

the Power

 Listening, and
of Change

Raison dtre 101

Carole Geckle
Carole Geckle is a freelance writer living and working in Little Rock. She is committed to creation care, the environment,
scripture studies and spiritual formation. She holds a BA in Ministry and Organizational Management and is pursuing
an MA in Professional and Technical Writing at UALR.

A school is not a factory. Its raison dtre is

to provide opportunity for experience.
J.L. Carr

y heart was pounding, and I had a hard

time catching my breath as I walked across
the hot asphalt of the parking lot. I was covered
in sweat, but it wasnt from the August heat. It
wasnt even from being out of shape or from the
fact that I was already exhausted after putting in
the proverbial long day at the office. My panic
was because I was headed to my first college
class in more than twenty years. I was terrified.
The thought of going back to college to finish a
BA had been exhilarating when it had been one
of the Long-Term Goals on my To Do list, a
someday-when-I-have-the-time-and-the-money
dream. But it was actually happening here and
now, the first night of my first class had arrived,
and I was sure I would pass out before I even
reached the classroom.

I entered the big concrete building that housed

the English Department with my husbands
words running through my pounding head: Just
give it a tryone classthats allYou know
youve always wanted to do this. His words
had given me courage earlier, but now they just

seemed like the platitudes of a loving husband

trying to be kind. Who was I kidding? This was
a ridiculous idea. I am definitely too old! But
suddenly, there I was, standing in the doorway
of Room 104B, trying to get enough courage to
go in.

Somebody bumped me from behind, and my

shaky legs didnt have any more time to be shy.
I casually sauntered over to a desk in the center
of the first row, just like my brand-new copy of
Success Guide for Adult Students had advised, and
awkwardly sat down in a kindergarten-sized
chair attached to a very unyielding desktop. I
told myself to breathe. Big cleansing breath in
light shallow breaths outpuh, puh, puh, puh, puh
WAIT A SECOND! That was for childbirth class a
million years ago!
When my head cleared a little (probably from
the Lamaze breathing), I experienced one of
those startling dj vu moments. Being in class
wasnt actually much different from the way I
remembered it twenty years before: the room
had the same book-and-kid-body smell; it had
the same grey carpet, metal/Formica desks;
and most of the other students had the same
nervous look in their eyes that I remembered
so well. I could almost read their thoughts:

Dont look scaredlook coolis anyone watching

me? Im sure my eyes were telegraphing the
same message. As long as I couldnt see my
reflection, I was eighteen again. All of my hardwon self-confidence and leadership skills had
vanished. I was once again a sweating, pimply,
uncomfortable freshman waiting for the Grim
Reaper. The classroom was a more effective time
machine than H.G. Wells had ever conceived.
Our professor still hadnt arrived, so I got the
courage to look around the room at my fellow
classmates. It immediately struck me just how
diverse we were. There was one other nontraditional student in scrubs, who looked as
scared as I felt; several who were talking in
different languages; a guy in a turban; and a
woman in a Muslim-looking head scarf. There
were twenty-somethings; dual-enrolled high
school students; kids with pierced things,
tattoos, blue fingernails; and a guy who
obviously spent as much time in the gym as I
do on the couch watching TV. Surely someone
in the Admissions Office had made a mistake.
Didnt they have different classes for different
people? How could any one teacher get the
same message across to this A to Z of humanity?
It seemed impossible. I was glad I wasnt our
teacher.
But the class which seemed so impossible
that first night, morphed, week by week, into
something quite differentand so did I. Like
seedlings unfolding in a National Geographic
video, I saw our class grow together. We were
all leaning toward the sunlight at the same time.
We talked, we laughed, and we learned. It was
easier for some than for others, but we became
2

a community of people who helped each other

and didnt ridicule or embarrass. Even though we
didnt always agree, we were a community. And
our teacher, who somehow had learned to speak
all of our individual dialects of age, gender, race,
and culture without even a discernable accent,
taught us much more than English composition.
Watching this classroom bloom brighter each
week brought me an even greater epiphany;
I realized that I wasnt quite as sophisticated
and intelligent as Id been pretending to be all
these years. There are actually some things
that people younger than me or from another
country or with different religious beliefs know
more about than I do. It was a cruel, ice-water
epiphany at first, but the moment it poured over
me was the moment I really began to learn. It
no longer mattered how much money I hador
didnt have. No one cared how many people I
supervised at work or who my friends were.
Gradually, my entire Zeitgeistevery cultural,
ethical, spiritual, political presupposition I had
held onto so firmlywas being examined and
expanded.

I may never again learn as much in thirteen

weeks as I did in that first class. It transcended
any casual definition of the word education.
Despite age, diversity, or self-perception,
people need to continually learn aboutand be
challenged byeach other and our differences.
There will never be any graduation ceremony for
this kind of education.
Or will there?

My husband pulled up to the pump and got out

of the car to fill up our gas tank. Its funny how
the mind seeks to occupy itself when left alone
for even a short while. Instantly bored, I started
scanning the neighborhood, seeing what was up.
The glow from the street lights that were just
coming on softened everything. I hadnt noticed
anyone when we first pulled in, but there were
four of themwhat you would politely call
street people. A few months ago, I would have
called them bums. Sun-darkened skin, dusty
with dirt; matted, uncut hair; filthy clothes. But
their appearance belied their activity.

HEY, BATTA BATTA BATTA SWING!

They smiledand waved. I opened the car door

and stepped out.
In tribute to
Professor Lynne B. Thorner
2009 Teacher of the Year
Broward Community College,
Ft. Lauderdale, Florida

A noise: CRACK! Wood hitting metal. And then

loud hoots and hollers, followed by clapping. The
sound didnt make any sense, but once I focused
on where it was coming from, everything fell into
place. They were playing baseball! Street guys
playing baseball with the only sports equipment
they had: wooden fence slats and empty soft
drink cans. The rules seemed the same, even
though the equipment was unique. The pitcher
pitched his best fast can over home platethe
batter swung his fence slatCRACK!
One diet soda can, sailing into right field. More
hoots and hollers as the batter half ran, half
limped to first basean old cardboard box from
the nearby dumpster.
I watched the game while my husband
squeegeed the windshield, and I realized that
we were sharing the Great American Pastime. I
rolled down my window and smiled as I cupped
my hands around my mouth

Song and Dance

Dana F. Steward
Dana F. Steward is a retired teacher of English and Composition who received her MA in Technical and Expository
Writing from the University of Arkansas at Little Rock in 1995. Her most recent book is Rough Sort of Beauty:
Reflections on the Natural Heritage of Arkansas, published by UA Press.

ike many women who carry a freshly-minted

Medicare card, I have lived my life on the
cusp of two generationsthe generation of our
mothers, who considered making a home their
ongoing profession, and that of our daughters,
who did not. Predestined by my heritage to stay
home, I managed pretty well. Trained to teach, I
had a successful careerafter the children left
home.

Two days a week, I keep Violet. On another

day, my dad and I make the rounds of doctor
appointments central to his life. But on this day
each week, on Friday, Violet and I spend most
of the day with Dad. Violet babbles incessantly
to her great-grandfather. His speech has been
compromised by a stroke, but he still carries on
fluent conversations with her.

Lady, looks like youve got your hands full, the

clerk volunteers, as I trail my granddaughter
and my father down the baked goods aisle at
Wal-Mart, becoming frantic as they spin off in
separate directions. My granddaughter Violet is
a chunky twenty-month old, pushing her toddler
cart with authority; my dad is eighty-eight,
hurling his riding cart through the store. Both
are oblivious to other shoppers and ominous
stacks of canned vegetables. They are totally
enamored of their rolling stock and clearly
paying no attention to me.

After my retirement, as my mother-in-laws

health continued to decline, she was consuming
more and more of my time, but also capturing
my imagination. As we wandered the mall
together, she slowed my pace, and finally, after
forty years, we began to really get to know each
other. I learned that she too felt she had lived on
a cusp of time: coming of age in a depression,
serving as a Red Cross nurse during the Dust
Bowl, daring to board a train in 1940 to a new
career a thousand miles from home. There
had come the fateful meeting with her future
husband, the handsome captain who took her
hand to help her reach a dish on a high shelf at

Now, in retirement, I run into old acquaintances,

especially younger women, who ask, So what do
you do now? I fall mute, feeling inadequate to
reply. What DO I do? I muse....

This is not my first venture into care-giving.

Several years ago, I left my high school
teaching position and assumed more of the
responsibilities of keeping one arthritic, little old
lady, my husbands mother, in her home.

a USO dance and never let go. Next thing you

knew, she was president of the PTA and chair of
the Methodist Women. She had been the great
champion of my freedom when I was a young
mother, but it wasnt until she was eighty that
she began to say I amwith emphasis on
the ama registered nurse, even though she
hadnt worked in the profession in sixty years.

My dad and I have occasional squabbles about

me spending too much time with him. On the
way to get his hair cut or to shop for the best
price on birdseed, he will say, You need to not
be doing this; you need to get on with your own
life.

Now I spend time with my dad, and I am learning

that he too feels he lived on the cusp of two
generations: this farm boy who had never left
the hills of rural Arkansas until he went off to
seek his fortune picking vegetables in the Texas
Valley in the late 30s, this young man whose
world view consisted of basketball tournaments
and city girls from the county seat, this soldier
who saw Paris and the worst and best humanity
can be, courtesy of Uncle Sam. Like hundreds of
thousands of Americans, he would never return
to the farm.

What do I do now?

Shes gone now, Miss Elma, but not before her

great-grandson Baby Jack and I became regular
visitors to the hospice, where these two, some
ninety years apart in age, bonded over shared
kisses and Wendys Frosties. Although Elma died
when Jack had just turned two, he remembers
her last birthday cake.

But I think hes wrong. This is my own life.

Then comes Friday. Today, Dad and Violet have

their heads together. They play with the Russian
stacking dolls, put pennies in the toy clown,
and split a Wendys Frosty. Together, they enjoy
an intimate musicale: Dad hums, You Are My
Sunshine off-key, and Violet twirls precariously
about. I grin as I watch them.
I listen to my daddy sing, and I watch my
granddaughter dance.

As we sit waiting for test results and doctor

consultations, he tells me random stories Ive
never heard before. Unhindered by chronology,
these stories amaze me: I imagine him driving
his Jeep through Europe; I visualize his father
carrying him as a toddler across a muddy field
after he broke his leg.

ElbowRoom
Bethany May
Bethany May lived in Busan, South Korea, with her husband Adam, where she taught English to kids who were too cute
for their own good. She learned to set aside Southern manners and to push back in the crowds. Despite the amazing
experience and government healthcare, she sorely missed her family, friends, weenie dog, and IHOP. She is on her way
to growing up, slowly weaning herself from tu-tus, online tabloids, and candy for dinner.

n a moving crowd so thick and frantically

kinetic that its dangerous to slow for even a
moment, youre supposed to throw your elbows
out hard. Let them hook into the crevices of the
crowd and pick up your feet. Let the crowd carry
you when theres no space for you to move your
own feet.
Ive been in Busan, South Korea, a city of four
million, for nine months now. Little Rocks
population density is 1,576 people per square
mile. Busan, my new home, is an elbow-to-elbow
12,168people per square mile. I never believed
that overpopulation was a real phenomenon
because I had never had to really share my air
with anyone to the point of discomfort. Sure, I
shared a bedroom and bunk bed for awhile when
I was a kid, but in rural Arkansas, I spent years
swimming in, sleeping on, strolling through,
sprawling out in, and even wasting an expansive
space. Precious space.
HowManyPyeongs?
A pyeong is the Korean unit of measurement
for floor space in living quarters. One pyeong
is about four square yards. It is supposed to be

about the size of a man with his arms and legs

outstretched like the Vesuvius man making snow
angels on the rug. I would generously estimate
that the studio apartment my school in Korea
provided me was about 56 pyeongs. Once we
removed our boots and dropped our luggage,
there was enough room for a small tip-toeing
path to the bathroom.
A twin-size bed for the newlyweds. Spooning
was a necessity with no relation to intimacy or
romance. We took turns sleeping on our sides
throughout the night, and I cracked my neck and
yawned all throughout my ten-hour workday.
For three weeks in that apartmentwhich was
very near the size of a dorm roomI cried and
thought we had made a big mistake quitting
our jobs, selling our car, and moving around the
world and away from our friends and families.

Its not how I pictured married life. I thought

I would be a 50s advertisement for a Maytag
with a laundry basket under my arm, peep-toe
heels on my pedicured feet, potatoes and carrots
around the pot roast, and a big roof over my
perfect head of hair. You cant fault me though,
I hope. No one wants to daydream about a life
with flaws and hurdles. The disconnect between

the hallways in my head and the room that

doubled as bedroom, kitchen, dining room, living
room, closet, and receiving foyer was a constant
disappointment and source of guilt. Why do I
want so much space? Why do I need so much
space?

We only stayed in that room for one month.

Adam got a job at a different hogwan, a Korean
private academy (or cram school. Ironic?),
and we moved to the apartment that his school
provided. It was a bit bigger, about fourteen
pyeongs, with a full-size bed. This home is
twenty minutes away by subway from the
neighborhood where I work. Its at the end of
the line, so I always get a seat before the train
car gets too crowded. I still knock knees with
ajummas (Korean for woman old enough to
be married, but colloquially a permed, visorwearing, old, pushy woman who wears floral
print shirts and mismatched patterned pants)
and businessmen in shiny suits and bedazzled
ties. Sometimes, Im so sleepy by the end of the
day that while I sit with my eyes closed, my head
drops and my body weight shifts onto whoever
may be sitting next to me. Its worth it, I think,
for those extra pyeongs and a washer of our own,
snuggling for comfort rather than spooning to
save space.
Actually, I spend most of my transit in Busan
underground in concrete tunnels packed with
hundreds of others going somewhere fast. Were
anonymous, staring at each others differences.
I walk past schools and offices and bars stacked
on top of each other to reach our new home. The
neon buzz and drunken duet from the No-raebang, the Korean singing room, serenade me

all the way home: sounds of commerce and

entertainment, people enjoying themselves
despite the close quarters.
Aislespace
For me, the crowds are a hindrance to the
fun. Even shopping, a once relaxing and even
therapeutic pastime, is too hectic for me to
just stroll through a mall or market and let
the rush of the workday dissolve. Instead, the
rush thickens, as escalators sometimes hold
customers on every ascending or descending
step. Every American is familiar with Black
Friday, the busiest shopping day of the year. The
crowds are suffocating in all retail locations.
Our first shopping experience was like this, and
almost every subsequent trip to the grocery
store, department store, and even the fabric
market has been equally swarming with rushed
shoppers and oblivious strollers. To stay on your
feet in the crowd requires constant awareness
and reaction to any haphazard change of pace so
you can move out of the way for those in a hurry
or redirect your steps when the walker directly
in front of you stops abruptly.
Farmers park blue trucks along busy sidewalks
to lay their fruits and vegetables in bowls for
pedestrians and future customers to examine,
sample, and buy. Bike racks and trees occupy
more sidewalk space, and then entrepreneurs
set up tables with silly socks or homemade hair
bows. The walkers are forced to set their paths
in the bike lanes and jump out of the way when
they hear the Brinng! Brinng! of bike bells or
the Vroom! Vroom! of delivery motorcycles that

make use of the lanes when the traffic lights turn

red. The pushing just happens. It isnt rude; its
just necessary to get where youre going. Its like
the Native American belief that space is no ones.
Its everyones. So just take what you need and
give it back when youre finished with it.
Then at the elevator, the huddle to get on starts
before anyone even steps off. Adam and I always
get pushed to the back, often with two or three
people stepping between us as more people
load the elevator when we stop on every floor.
Like clowns in a car or marshmallows in a game
of Chubby Bunny, the Koreans can always fit
one more inside. Its not a more the merrier
mentality. Its just their space economy.
PanicRoom
I cant think like that yet though. Its still
frustrating when someone just steps in front
of me or uses their elbow to shoo me aside.
We came to this new place to seize financial
opportunity, eat kimchi, and spread our adult
wings. Set against this new environment are
my memories of wide open spaces and plenty
of room for snobbery and ten-foot poles with
which we refuse to touch some people. I dont
have room for that anymore. I just come home
to our little apartment to find a slower pace and
sanctuary from the mob scene outside. I spend
my weekends inside craftingpainting canvas,
framing photos, embroidering pillowcases
trying to make our space feel like home. I keep
adding to the nest, trying to manage this space
because it is mine, and no one can run over me
in here. If I take ownership of it, if I keep it for
8

only us, I feel a little more in control. Its like my

tangible space is connected to my headspace. I
am not so anxious when I have this breathing
room.

The Answering Machine

Erin Pennington Wood
Erin Pennington Wood lives in Little Rock with the two loves of her lifeher husband, Brett, and her bullmastiff, Angus.
This essay was written as part of her collection, Storied Things: A Memoir in Possessions.

n the age of voicemail, the Uniden 5.8 GHz

answering machine looks like something
that should be tossed with the garbage, but it
is different to me because I know what it has
recorded. I have avoided it, keeping my closet
door shut tightly, as if touching its buttons might
pour old ghosts into my new life.
What do you do with an answering machine
that holds two messages from your dead father
that make it sound as if your relationship had
been the one you always wanteda thoughtful
exchange, a warm and steady hand reaching
through telephone lines? What do you do when
the tone of his voice, his words, imply that he
built bridges between you rather than digging
a gap as broad and deep and stratified as a
canyon? Do you take the machine out of storage
and press erase? Do you press play and let the
snap and sizzle of dead lines send you reeling?
Or do you try to understand your father through
those messages, try to salvage something good
of him from the wreckage and, by extension, to
understand and salvage something of yourself?
Hi, sweetheart. Just checking in on you. Im sorry
I didnt talk to you in a while. Just been busy
packing up and pitching stuff at the store. Ill be
moving Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday of next

week. Give me a call if you get a chance. Bye-bye.

Love you.
Im sorry I didnt talk to you in a while.
He knew better than to call me. He knew he had
made me mad. I had always done what I could to
keep hundreds of miles of phone line between
us. He was in Hot Springs, Arkansas, and I had
gone to boarding school, first in Maryland and
then in Massachusetts, spent summers in Maine,
had gone to college in North Carolina, and then
moved to Atlanta. I leaned closer and closer
to home, but doubted I would ever return to
Arkansas; he was there.
He made me angry at the end of the first visit I
had spent at his house in thirteen years. I had
been living in Atlanta and going to law school,
and I had just taken the bar exam. He had told
me over the phone that he wanted me to come
for a visit. He told me there were things that he
wanted to talk to me about.
I know there were some things I could have
done differently. I know I havent always been
the best father. His words rang in my ears like
the unexpected doorbell that makes you jump.

I visited. We never talked. He went to work each

day and avoided me at night by turning on the
television or by going to bed as early as 7 p.m.
He was complaining of back pain so severe that
he could not sit to eat; instead, he ate standing
up at the kitchen bar. But he wouldnt go to the
doctor. When he walked into the house after
work during my visit, he would take one of his
painkillers. I would watch his eyes glaze as the
release hit him, and he would disappear down
the long hallway to his bedroom.

The last night of my visit, he took my stepmother

and me on a boat ride across the lake to meet
their friends for dinner. I sat in the front and
felt the breeze from the water, relieved that I
was done with law school and the bar exam,
anchored by the sweet weight of relaxation.
He and my stepmother were bickering about
something in the back of the boat, and his
voice gained force. He snapped at her, Stop it!
Youre making my daughter uncomfortable! It
was unsettling to hear him imply that he was
defending me; wasnt he the one raising his
voice, making me recoil? I wanted to tell him
to take me back to the dock, to tell him I was
going to pack up my things and drive through
the night back to Atlanta. I wanted to tell him
that he was the one making me uncomfortable,
who had always made me uncomfortable. But
I said nothing. I closed my eyes against the
scene because thats what I had always done. I
imagined my arms stretching out like harpoons;
I pictured myself diving into the warm lake
and hearing the boat motor take him further
and further away until there was nothing but
darkness and stillness and silence.
10

Habit wasnt the only thing that kept me from

asking to go back to the dock. I had a feeling that
if I went back to the dock, I would never see him
again. So I stayed on the boat, and we got to the
shore. We had dinner with their friends, and we
drank too much, and I laughed at his jokes, even
though they were not funny. I laughed out of
some vestige of love. I laughed because I could
see in his eyes that he was worn down. He knew
that he wasnt funny anymore, but he hoped we
would all keep up our end of the bargainif he
would continue his role as the entertainer, we
would nod and laugh and join him as actors on
the stage he set.

The next morning, he told me to meet him at his

clothing store before I made the nine-hour drive
back to Atlanta. He had something to give me, a
lamp that had belonged to my great-grandfather.
He wanted me to put it on my desk at my law
office. We left his house at the same time, and he
told me he would meet me at the store.
I waited for thirty minutes. He showed up with a
dry-cleaning bag hanging in the back of the car.
SorryI wanted to stop and get my clothes.
I said nothing, but boiled inside.

He gave me the lamp, and I put it in my car. I

took my camera out and told him I wanted to
take some photos of him in the store. I took two
inside, one of him lifting some bowties from a
hanging rack, the other of him standing behind
the counter. I took a final photo of him standing
underneath the store sign. That was the last time
I saw him conscious.

Just been busy packing up and pitching stuff at

the store. Ill be moving Monday, Tuesday, and
Wednesday of next week.
Before I was born, the store had been located
a couple of miles away. It had been run by my
fathers parents and my great aunt and uncle as
a hardware store. When my grandfather died, my
father moved back to Hot Springs from Dallas.
After he married my mother, the two worked
together to transform it into an upscale mens
and womens clothing store and gift shopthe
most successful store in the city and one that
people knew around the state and beyond.
After he and my mother divorced, the store
became less and less of a success. As money got
tighter, sections of the store were eliminated
and employees let go until eventually there was
only the mens section. Time burrowed holes in
the soles of his loafers from standing day after
day. The stores hardwood floor behind the front
counter became darkened and worn from the
steady presence of his shoes. The water line in
the apartment above the store leaked through
the ceiling and dripped onto the pool table he
used to display belts. There was damage to
the rear walls from a rockslide, and he began
to crumble physically, seemingly linked to the
stores slow but steady financial decline. The
damage was visible in the drooping of his jowls,
the hollowing under his eyes, and the stooping
of his shoulders ever closer to the stores
foundation.
I stayed with him on Wednesdays and every
other weekend, and much of my time was spent
at the store while he worked. I usually tried to

avoid being in the same room, keeping to the

break room or helping customers, because when
we came together, even my use of too much
tape on a package would result in a blow up and
cause me to dissolve in tears.

I often cried when he would call me into his

office once a month to write my child-support
check. He paid it from the time of the divorce
until I was about ten; then he stopped altogether.
In his office, he would pull the cord of my greatgrandfathers green lamp to illuminate his
checkbook. I stood next to his desk and watched
as he performed the ritual of filling out the check
with his square, capital letters. He would then
deduct the amount from his balance, making
comments about how he sure could use the
money to fix the air conditioner in the Jeep or,
on particularly slow months at the store, Dont
know how Im gonna pay Mr. Freeman. When
crocodile tears made rivers down my cheeks, he
would tell me to stop crying.
Sometimes the source of my tears ran deeper.
Sometimes he would grab my wrist and hold
my palm flat against the same table where store
packages were wrapped. With his other hand,
he would pick up a pair of scissors and see how
fast he could touch their pointed end to the table
between my fingers from side to side and back
again without cutting me. Sometimes he would
let me go when I started to cry; other times he
would hold my hand fast.
Give me a call if you get a chance.

I never got a chance. I was away for the weekend

at a wedding in New Jersey. He refused to call

11

me on my cell phone because he thought cell

phones were ridiculous. I wouldnt realize that
he left the messages on my answering machine
until I got back homeafter I had gotten a call
from my uncle telling me my father had had a
heart attack, after I had driven to Hot Springs
to see him in the hospital on life support, after I
had spent days waiting to see if he would move
a toe or a finger, after I had come back to Atlanta
because getting back to work was the only way I
felt useful, normal.

Ill be moving Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday of

next week.
He would have been moving, but instead, he
would be found lying in the store having suffered
a massive heart attack. Instead, we would
be making the decision to take him off of life
support. We would be watching and waiting for
ten days as he died a slow, sputtering, violent
death against a canvas of white hospital sheets.
Love you.

He always told me he loved me when we got off

the phone, but I hadnt said it in almost a decade.
Not since my mother told me, as I was sitting
in the little phone booth that I shared with the
twenty girls in my boarding school dorm that he
had been taking money from my college savings
account and signing letters that it was for my
benefit. When I went home for Christmas break, I
went to the store and asked him about it. He took
two piles of money from the cash register.
Heres how much you have, he said and piled
twenty singles. And heres how much I have,
12

placing a one next to the larger pile. Would it

really bother you that much if I just took this?
he asked, sliding two ones off the top of my pile
and onto his.
When I returned to boarding school, I alerted my
hall mates to tell him I wasnt around. I severed
the lines that ran between us. Eventually, he
resorted to writing a letter. And I wrote him
back, telling him that I needed time to get over
what had happened. When I signed it, I left off I
love you. I would never say it to him again.

Hey, sweetheart. Just Dad checking in with

you, again. Figure you must be out of town or
something. But anyway, I wanted to call you. This
is my last day at 120 Central. Were gonna start
packing up this afternoon, and the movers come
tomorrow. So, kind of a sad day and a happy
day altogether. Umm. Lookin forward to the
move, though. I cant wait for you to see the new
storeits all painted and fixed up and lookin...uh
...lookin forward to it. Better location I think and...
well see what happens. I love you. Bye-bye.
When I was fourteen, my father bought a
Mustang convertible. He had a special plate
embossed with, This car was made especially
for ESP (my initials). He told me that when I
was sixteen, the car would be mine. If it were
spring or early fall, he would sometimes drive
us up West Mountain in the Mustang to enjoy
the view. But I could feel my back and my neck
stiffen as we made the steep ascent. I knew what
was to come. The drive down had intensely
angled switchbacks. He liked to see how far
down the mountain he could get without putting
on the brakes.

When I turned fifteen and got my drivers permit,

he told me I could drive the Mustang as fast as I
wanted, as long as I was willing to pay the ticket
if I was pulled over. He reminded me again and
again that the car would be mine, asking me if I
was excited to cruise around town with the top
down. I touched the cruise control and the stereo
buttons, imagining the moment that I would be
able to have complete independence, to drive
around alone. I turned sixteen, but he never gave
me the Mustang. When I asked him about it, he
said that he had decided he needed it for himself.
Hey, Sweetheart...I love you.

When I stayed with my father, I used to imagine

crawling out the window of my bedroom,
walking down the highway to the Co-zee Lounge,
and calling my mother from the payphone. I
wanted to tell her to pick me up, that I never
wanted to see my father again. Every now and
then, I would prepare for my escape; I would go
to my piggy bank and count my change. One time
I went to count it to find that all the quarters
were gone, and only dimes, nickels and pennies
remained. In my adult life, even now, words like
Sweetheart and phrases like I love you are
empty for me. He told me these things, but his
words were transparent against their backdrop.

When I think of my father now that he is gone, I

like to think of his baby pictures. I like to imagine
a time when he was all instinctno disguise
or cover-up or recognition that such things
existedwhen he was pure and uncorrupted.
Despite everything that I remember, there
was something that always kept me from

permanently cutting off all communication with

my father, from leaving him altogether. Sometime
in college, I began to accept that he wasnt
going to change and if I was to ever be happy, I
would have to change my expectations of him. I
stopped expecting him to know the names of my
friends and what classes I was taking and what
was going on in my life, and I became a listener.
It wasnt always an easy role, and sometimes I
resented it, but I listened to him. I wondered if
anyone ever really had.
He began to tell me things, to open himself, to
share. And I began to see a larger picture that
was beyond me, beyond a father and a daughter,
stretching back through the gnarled and knotted
branches of our family tree. It wasnt until after
my father died, and I was talking to one of my
stepmothers friends that the gravity of the
things that had shaped him became clear to me.
She asked, Did he ever show you the whip that
your grandmother used on him?
No. I knew that he and my grandmother had
a strained relationship, but I never knew she
whipped him.

Come here. She led me to his closet and opened

it. From behind his hanging clothes at the back of
the closet, she pulled out something that looked
like a cat o nine tails.

My god. I thought of my grandmother going

to church every Sunday and on Wednesday
evenings. I thought of my dad getting so drunk
when we went to one of his girlfriends houses or
to a party that he ran off the road.

13

When I see the cover art to the Penguin Classics

printing of Death of a Salesman, I think of my
father. He is Willy Loman, sketched in charcoal
against a stark backdrop, the shadow of his
body hunkered over his folded knees, his tie
swinging as he raises a fist to pound it against
the unyielding ground, the anguish of all those
years of disappointment and unfulfilled dreams
stretched across his pained face. My father
carried his years of failure in his chest, in his
ventricles. I think of the enormous gap between
his potential and his reality; the gap I knew he
felt, but never labeled. I think of the continental
shelf that had eroded between his intelligence
and his lack of drive to carry things through. He
was an idea man, but his ideas only incubated;
they rarely came to fruition.

The more the world ignored him, the harder

he yanked at its coattails, the louder he
shouted to be heard, the harder he pretended
that everything was okay against the glaring
evidence that it was not. Like Loman, he wanted,
more than anything else, to be the light of his
customers days, to be well-received, to be wellliked, because without that, I dont think he
believed he was worth much at all. My father
pretended to the point that he no longer knew
what was true. He seemed to only know who he
wanted to be, never who he was.

What was confusing to me as his daughter was

whether it was better to go along with the story,
to sustain his illusions, or to confront him with
reality. Somehow, confronting him with the truth
seemed too cruel, and what his reaction might
be seemed too unpredictable. I worried he might
implode with the realizations, and so I continued
14

to let him dream. But he must have known. He

must have known in the weeks and days leading
up to his heart attack that this was his D-day.
This was the time that counted. If things did not
go smoothly, if the store did not get on its feet
and run, there would be a landslide down the
mountain of lies that he had built. We could see
this after he died, when we discovered that he
had taken out loans he had never even discussed
with my stepmother, extended his credit to the
max. He was pushing himself and everything in
his life to the limit.

...lookin...uh...lookin forward to it. Better location

I think and...well see what happens.
What I gained from my father is his optimism. I
like to think that mine is much more grounded
in reality, but at my core, I have always had
the feeling that things will work outthat
everything will be okay. And maybe that is true
of the way I will deal with these two telephone
messages. The emotions I connect to them are
not neat and tidy; they are messy and dark,
tangled and confused. After listening to them
over and over again, I have tried to find the gift in
them. How many people get to hear a message of
love from their father on the last day that he was
alive?

Maybe someday, I can realize that in the words I

heard through the receiver before our last visit,
(I know there were some things I could have
done differently. I know I havent always been the
best father.) there was recognition. There was
a willingness to take responsibility; there were
the kernels of change. Maybe someday I can be
certain that pushing play on the answering

machine will not cause ghosts to seep out. Maybe

I can trust that as messed up as things were
sometimes, my father may have actually meant
the things he said.
As difficult as it is for me to say, maybe my father
did love me. After all, people dont love you the
way you need or want them to. They love you the
only way they know how.

15

Fade
Deanna Smith
Deanna Smith is a wife, mother, knitter, writer, and late-blooming student owned by two meowing fur-balls who think
they rule the world. After completing her undergraduate degrees in Professional and Technical Writing and Spanish at
UALR, she hopes to begin graduate work, focusing on creative nonfiction. While Deanna believes it is possible to have
too much of a good thing, she doesnt believe that rule applies to naps or chocolate.

had known this bedside vigil was coming ever

since Dad got sick ten years ago. I thought I
was preparedI researched the disease, the
treatment options available, and what to expect
when there were no more optionsbut I was
not confident I could process the emotions that
would surface.
Dad was seventy-eight years old. For the last
forty-eight hours he had been bedridden, living
in a drug-induced wonderland of cowboys and
soldiers, even though just five days before, he
was walking around and telling jokes to the
hospice nurse.

I was sitting next to his bed when he pulled the

oxygen tubing away from his face. The hissing
sound startled me, and I put down my knitting. I
gently replaced the nasal cannula and looped the
tubing around his ears.
Do you need anything, Dad?
He didnt answer.

I grew up afraid of my father, and throughout my

adult life, ugly memories dominated my mental
scrapbook. Dads parenting style started off
harsh, but not unbearable. For example, when I

16

was seven, he grounded me for putting a fork in

the dishwasher upside down. Over the years his
hostility grew. At age twelve, I was snooping for
Christmas presents when I ran across a notebook
with my dads careful handwriting describing
me as lazy and worthless. Then late one
afternoon when I was seventeen, the bubbling
undercurrent of hostility erupted into violence. I
found myself hunkered into a dining room chair
with my arms wrapped around my head for
protection while Dad was trying to pry my hands
away. He was yelling at my mom to hit me in the
face because the marks she was leaving on my
back wouldnt teach me enough of a lesson.
I was afraid that when Dad died, the bad feelings
were all that would remain, but in his final days,
the traumatic incidents from my childhood
faded into ghost writing on a chalkboard that I
had to squint to see. As I sat by his bed, knitting,
the easy rhythm of the yarn looping around
the needles lulled me into a relaxed state, and
gentler memories began to emerge.
I am eight years old, sitting on the tweedy
recliner watching Diffrent Strokes when I feel
something touch my forearm. I look around to

see what it was, but I only see Dad taking a nap

on the Naugahyde sofa. Mom is staying late at
work to do inventory, so Dad and I are settling
into our usual after-dinner routine. I decide that
I am imagining things and turn my attention
back to Arnold and Willis and whatever Willis is
talking about.

The second time, I feel more of a sting than just

a harmless brush against my skin. I rub my arm
and start looking for a wasp. As I do, I notice
that Dads eyes are closed, but one side of his
mouth is curled up, like it cant keep a smile from
leaking out. His right hand holds a single rubber
band.
Dad?

He opens his eyes and turns to look at me.

Gotcha! he says, and the almost-smile becomes

a grin, a grin he usually saves for drinking beer
and telling jokes to his buddies. I wonder why he
is sharing it with me.

He sits up and shoots another rubber band my

way. I swerve in time, but I need ammo. The
rubber bands collected from the daily newspaper
are sitting in a little pile on the end table. I grab a
few and stuff all of them into my pocket but one.
With the rubber band looped around my index
finger, I pull back and then release.
Ouch!

I only succeeded in snapping the rubber band

against my own finger.

Here, do it like this, Dad says as he shows me

how to point my finger like a gun, keeping it
angled in a way that keeps me from getting hurt
but wouldnt keep the rubber band from firing.
Then, to demonstrate, he snaps me at close
range.
Dad! Thats not fair.

He aims in my direction again and says, Youd

better run!

I scoop up the rubber bands that have fallen

to the floor and dash into the dining room. I
can hear the canned laughter coming from the
television set, but after focusing my senses, I can
also hear Dad breathing on the other side of the
wall. I jump around the corner and fire my first
shot. Over the next few hours, we hide and stalk
and snap until red splotches bloom on our arms
and legs, and our breath is short from laughing.
When the headlights from the station wagon
flash on the living room wall, Dad looks at me
with a little boys eyes.
He whispers, Moms home. Where should we
hide?

I am eighteen years old, lying in bed, when I hear

the cast iron skillet drop into the kitchen sink.
I slink down in the bed and pull the covers up
over my ears. The night before, I drank a couple
of beers with some friends after work and got a
ride home. I figure I ought to get up and explain
the situation before my parents notice that my
car isnt in the driveway.

17

Dad?

You know what? Dad asks.

Youre finally out of bed.

You and your mother are different. Youve just

got to accept that.

He is sitting at the kitchen table in his blue

coveralls, making a list of building supplies. He
sips his coffee and looks up.
Yeah.

I circle my big toe in the carpet and take a breath.

Dad, about my carI left it at work.

Whats wrong? Is it the thermostat again?

Dad has been a mechanic most of his life, so he

knows his cars like a mother knows her children.
I explain about the beer the night before and
how Michael, the designated driver, had been
kind enough to give me a lift. Then I wait for
the yelling to start. Instead, Dad just adds one
more item to his list, stands up from his seat at
the table, and says, Well, Im headed out to the
hardware store in a little bit. Can you be ready in
fifteen minutes?
I am thirty years old, sitting at the kitchen table
across from Dad, hiding my face with my hands
because I am embarrassed by my red, puffy eyes
and the mascara running down my cheeks. My
mother and I have been arguing about heaven
only knows what, and she has retreated to her
bedroom. Even though I have three children of
my own, my mother and I still fight like we did
when I was a teenager.
18

He has been sitting at the table watching as

my mother and I march through the house,
screaming at one another.

I wipe my eyes and just sit there, not sure what I

am supposed to say next.

Me and your mother used to fight like that, too.

I remember. I used to be the one sitting at the
kitchen table watching them.
I know, Dad, but she just drives me crazy.

Well, shes been driving me crazy for thirty-five

years. I drive her crazy, too. Were just different.
He scoots his chair in a little closer. I cant make
her be like me any more than you can make her
be like you.
I blow my nose, and Dad looks at the clock.
He eats his meals according to the time of day
instead of by the growling of his stomach. He
stands up and heads toward the refrigerator.
Its almost noon. Do you want a baloney
sandwich?

Dad sighed, and my wandering mind rushed

back to his bedside. I looked up from my knitting,
expecting to find the oxygen tubing in disarray

again, but instead, I saw his eyes, bright and clear

for the first time in days. He coughed and shifted
in the bed as well as he could.
Sometimes life gets complicated, doesnt it? he
asked.
Yeah, Dad, I guess it does, I replied.

I waited for him to speak again, but the small

effort had exhausted him. He sighed once more
and drifted back into his sleepy haze. I watched
for his breathing to ease, and as it did, I took a
deep breath and blotted the tears from my eyes.
Then I looped the wool back around my fingers,
continuing with my work.

19

Arrive Costumed and Enjoy Fine Spirits

Katherine Parker Lamb
Katherine Parker Lamb can find a lost pacifier anywhereeven amongst the clothing racks at Target. She can redirect
a toddlers attention in any wayeven if that means siccing him on the cats, again. She can predict with frightening
accuracy what that toddler is thinking about doing at any timeeven while studying for Language Theory. And, when
shes not pregnant or breastfeeding, she can still drink you under the tableas long as the toddlers at Grannys. She
graduated with her MA in Professional and Technical Writing in May 2011, two months after Carrolls new little sister
arrived.

he night I took the testthe fifth one in

three weeksI peed on the stick, then went
to the kitchen and poured myself a shot. I barely
had time to down it before I heard Joe yell across
the house, Youre pregnant! I needed another
shot to wash that down. Instead, I met Joe in
the living roomhe was still holding the plastic
wand, and he was beaming.
Are you sure? I asked.

He held up the box. Plus sign. Youre pregnant.

Shit.

I quit smoking immediately, cold turkey. I had

been a half-a-pack-a-day regular for five years,
and suddenly I was a former smoker. I quit
drinking. Immediately. Cold turkey. I had been a
borderline lush for three years, and suddenly I
was a teetotaler.
I started cleaning house, real nook-and-cranny
cleaning. I let my hair grow out to my chin and
went to the salon to keep it trimmed instead
of doing it myself. I wore glasses. I bought
maternity clothes. I quit calling some friends
20

back. I made friends with Joes friends wife, the

only other woman my age I knew with a child. I
bought What to Expect When Youre Expecting.
I talked to my mother-in-law daily, sometimes
multiple times a day. I stopped drinking so much
coffee. I ate healthy. I slept all the time. I thought
about the future. My future, our future, a future
with a baby, a future for a baby. I quit cleaning
the cats litter box. I told inquiring strangers
the due date. I told inquiring strangers the sex.
I told inquiring strangers, This is our first. In
the seventh month, when my hands swelled,
I stopped wearing my wedding ring and felt
scandalized. I bought a breast pump. I deleted
phone numbers. I threw away old notes. I threw
away old photos. I started to regret my tattoo.
I thought about my previous twenty-four odd
years. I wondered if I would ever see myself
again.
Then Carroll was born.

And I became a different person.

When my aunts came to visit me in the hospital,

they eyed me suspiciously, like I might be an
imposter. Like if they looked at me close enough,

I might betray some trace of my unfitness. Like

I, the wild child and former black sheep, might
not know how to love a baby, not even my own.
Then, as they held my son, they must have seen
the way I proudly watched. They must have
noticed how exhaustion couldnt keep my elation
in check. They relaxed and seemed to accept me
as a mother. They gazed down at Carroll and told
me how beautiful he was, how much he looked
like me.
And Joe, too, they added.

A month later I cut my hair and switched back

to contacts. Not long after, I dyed my hair black
again. After a few more months, I lost enough
of the baby weight to fit into some of my old
clothes. But the black jeans didnt look right.
And the white t-shirts showed the seams of my
nursing bras. The hole in the toe of my Chuck
Taylors bothered me for the first time. I bought
new clothes. Conservative clothes. Mom clothes.
They looked strange, too.

My son turned one on Monday. Thats all Ive

thought about for the past year and nine months.
Ive been the wife eagerly preparing for her
firstborn and then the young mother struggling
to do everything right and make it all look not
just right but effortless. Ive thought of nothing
but Carroll for hours. Ive watched him sleep for
hours, held him for hours, rocked and talked to
and sang to and danced before him for hours.
But I dont want to be that person.

The winter before Carroll came, a minor ice

storm hit Conway, and the bookstore I worked at
was closed for a few days. Joe still had to report
to work, so I was home alone with the cats. I
focused on clearing out the master bedroom
closet. At the time, I was about seven months
pregnant. I cleared out a space in the floor of the
closet and somehow, awkwardly managed to sit
down, though once I was there, I wondered if I
could get up again. As I tossed broken hangers
and old shoeboxes through the doorway and
stuffed old woolen sweaters I would never wear
again into a trash bag, I came across a series of
photos from my Great Gatsby Birthday Party. I sat
on the floor, huge and uncomfortable, transfixed
by the strange familiarity of the images.
Here I was, married and pregnant, home from
my joke of a job, living the kind of domestic life
Id stopped seeing for myself. I hadnt spoken
to most of the people in the pictures in a few
years. And yet, in my hands, here was another
me, the girl from the party house. She grinned
at the camera in a mean way, then winked in the
next frame. She stood in a doorway and dragged
on her cigarette, looking past her conversation
partner. I could see the gleam of her flask, tied
with lace to her outer thigh. She wasnt that
much younger than me, but she had something
I had losta glint in her eye, an easy way with
laughter. I dug deeper into the box, and there
were more pictures from other parties and some
of the house itself. I knew what I was looking at.
I hadnt blacked out during any of the photos.
But she had become strange to me. I wasnt
sure anymore what I saw when I looked at her
smirking in the night.

21

At the time, I had been dating Seth, the rebellious

son of a politician, for roughly a year. He was
a self-proclaimed socialist who idealized and
mimicked the original skinhead movement of
1960s England. He taught me how to shoot
whiskey and introduced me to bands like The
Business and Cock Sparrer. I never took his
political affiliations seriously, though, despite
all his late-night lectures on unions and
underground movements and how evil NAFTA
was and lots of other stuff I dont remember.
Hed dropped out of college before we got
involved, and Id somehow talked him into
re-enrolling. Wed lived together the summer
before. When I left him behind to go on a monthlong road trip that summer with an ex-boyfriend,
Seth had stopped trusting me. We figured wed
move back in together, and all our problems
would dissolve.
From the outside, the house had the appearance
of a large, traditional home of a lawyer or
businessman from the early part of the twentieth
century. Nothing flashy, nothing fancy, just a
series of steps leading up to a distinguished, yet
modest, front door. Just nine, shuttered windows
looking out. Nothing about the exterior revealed
that the inside had been gutted and quartered
into four separate dwellings. Nothing about the
white siding or the immensity of the building
itself would hint at the lack of insulation or
the structurally unsound second-story floors.
From the outside, it almost looked prestigious
and homey in an established kind of way. The
house was on Faulkner Street, so named for the
22

Confederate General who wrote The Arkansas

Traveler. We called it the Faulkner House.

The rooms were big for an apartment. The

ceilings were high, and the flooring was old, dark
hardwood. The front door didnt shut rightwe
had to jimmy the handle until the rusty lock
gave. The glass in the windows was warped,
and the scene through them seemed to sway
as though it were underwater. The toilet hadnt
been installed yet, and the bathroom was still
bare drywall. There was a refrigerator but no
washer/dryer hookups. There were no blinds on
the windows that faced the street and no door on
the sizable closet in the middle room. There was
a sunroom in back and a back door out. Seth and
I moved in mid-October, when the temperature
was just starting to drop at night.

In the beginning there was a sense of community.

A kind of hippie-ish community, albeit with
some pretty obvious posing. The kids who lived
in the Faulkner House were artsy. They came
from Southern working class families. They wore
used Levis from the Salvation Army and tight
cotton t-shirts. They listened to Bob Dylan and
Eliot Smith and Kimya Dawson and a bunch of
other weird music I never really got into. They
rolled their own cigarettes (I did too) and drank
Pabst Blue Ribbon or Schlitz. Understated as
a pair of ripped jeans and chic as a dark pair of
shades, the tenants of the house were aloof local
somebodies. They were the guys everyone else
wanted to know.
Id been a loner since my mothers death when I
was fourteen. Before she died, I was sometimes
irreverent, but basically a good, smart kid. I

was a bit of a smart aleck, and maybe that got

on some peoples nerves, but I knew right from
wrong, and I was an obedient daughter. After she
died, though, our family fell apart. We stopped
functioning according to the roles we had once
played. Without her, none of us knew who we
were anymore. Fourteen is a dangerous age
to lose your orientation in the world. During
the years after her death, I discarded almost
all of my childhood beliefs. I remember that
sometimes, like when wed see something
shocking on the news, my mother used to say,
The world is an evil place. She meant it in a
religious sense. By the time I
lived upstairs at the Faulkner
House, I believed it in an
absolute sense.
When we moved in, I remember
feeling like I was becoming
part of a group; by moving in
near them I would become a
somebody people wanted to
know. I wanted that to happen.
Not that I didnt already think
the world of myself; I did. But
this was a new version of cool to
me, and I was interested. I thought I was going
to become a more attractive version of myself
there. I thought I was going to have the time of
my life there.
I turned twenty-one during finals week that
December.

I wanted to throw the party to end all parties,

and I wanted costumes, and so the concept of a
Great Gatsby Birthday Party was born. I printed
book cover images of Fitzgeralds masterpiece
and taped words over them detailing when,
where, and what. Prizes will be awarded to the
best dressed. I photocopied the invitations
in the campus office where I was a student
worker. When the night came, I wore a golden
homemade dress with a chiffon skirt and draped
long, golden chains and fake pearls around my
neck. After spending hours trying to bleach
my black hair, I had to settle for an incomplete

transformation.I came as a raven-haired Daisy.

Seth wore an understated gray, three-piece suit
and came as Nick Carraway.

Our kitchen table was crowded with dozens of

bottles of liquor and liqueurs donated by my
friend Briannes parents after they cleaned
out their cabinets. Brianne and I provided a
few staples ourselves: a few handles of cheap
whiskey and gin. The table, complete with cups,
functioned as an open, serve-yourself bar. We

23

had two kegs in the foyer and a massive tub of

electric green jungle juice in the living room. By
10:30 p.m., our apartment was crowded with
costumed people, most of whom wed never met
before, but all of whom looked like people we
had met or wanted to meet. The middle room
was packed; people smoked and ashed on the
floor. The line to the bathroom went into the
kitchen. The fridge was raided. Someone turned
the lights off in the living room, put in a Pat
Benatar tape and dumped the jungle juice out on
the dance floor. I was handed off a magnum of
champagne, and while I gulped it and sang along,
an Armenian exchange student Id had a class
with once grabbed me by the face and kissed me
on the lips.
This is a great party! he shouted.

Around two, I enlisted the help of some friends

in choosing the best dressed. They were
determined to be a girl I knew who came as
Myrtle, and some guy nobody really liked, but
who, in the words of one of the judges, wore a
goddamn monocle. They were each awarded
Jack Daniels boxed sets. Neither of them
shared the customary celebratory glass with
their hostess. I hated to see the whiskey go.

We floated both kegs. The kitchen table was

littered with empty bottles, everything but
the very weird and very cheap having been
consumed. The jungle juice mixed with countless
cigarette butts and ruined the floor. Someone
stole my brass knuckles. Two unclaimed coats
lay on the floor near the closet. The Pat Benatar
tape was mine for keeps. The last person left
around four-thirty.
24

During the middle of another party across town

a week later, Seth pulled me aside to berate then
break up with me. Tensions between Seth and
me had steadily escalated since wed moved back
in together. I realized that he was serious about
his political sentiments. We fought bitterly and
often. About ideologies. About nothing. About
things between our ideological differences and
nothing. This time, hed seen me leaning in too
close to speak into one of our neighbors ears.
Actually, it was one of our neighbors Id been
making passes at for a while. I denied everything,
then broke into humiliated tears. Of course, Seth
yelled at me some more, then stormed out of the
party. I went outside for a cigarette, still crying,
and finished another friends bottle of wine.
The neighbor came over to console me, and I let
him console me. Boy, did I let him console me.
Nobody knew where Id ended up that night until
months later.
Seth went to stay with a friend for the next
week, then moved out of our apartment into
an apartment in the back of the building.
Oddly enough, the neighbor whose ear served
as a catalyst for our breakup moved into that
apartment too, along with some other people (it
was a big apartment). I couldnt afford the rent
on my own, so I moved upstairs, in the front of
the same building, into a three-room apartment
that had just been vacated. My new roommate
was a girl whod been a drama major but had
recently dropped out of college. We were the
only girls in the house (the non-shaving, Yankee
feminist from Sarah Lawrence in the back

apartment didnt count). We were those girls

that live upstairs.

Nearly every apartment had someone with a

little extra liquor, cigarettes, or whathaveyou,
that he would sell when you were in a pinch.
Sometimes hed give it to you, though there was
always an unspoken understanding that this, too,
was no free lunch. It was risky not to be home on
Friday or Saturday nightsif there was a party
and you werent there, drunk people would get
in your apartment and either eat all your food,
trash the place, or back up the toilet. The hall and
stairway reeked of beer and sweat and the floor
was filthy. The heat worked but the walls werent
properly insulated, and the winter cold slipped
in through the cracks. We had barely functional
window units, no real air conditioning.
Then, sometime in April, the friction below the
surface became more apparent. We just stopped
ignoring it. Things between Seth and me were
strained, at best, and we basically stopped
speaking. Wed walk past one another in the
yard, pretending not to see each other. I ignored
my door once when I knew it was him knocking.
He knew I was in there, and I knew he knew, but
I didnt answer. When the truth came out about
where Id gone from the party after he broke
up with me he was deeply hurt. He confronted
me at school, yelled at me in a public place, and
called me some names. I was embarrassed, but
I tried to put on a good show of not caring. The
neighbor-turned-roommate thought it was all
too awkward. It wasnt just us three, though.

There was a nameless, widespread unrest. It was

the house itself. Wed used it up. It was over.
In a way, I think we all expected it.

During the last party in the back apartment, the

cops came, something that had never happened
before. No one was arrested, but lots of people
ran. The lights were off, and the cops walked
through, shining their flashlights around the
floor and in our faces. Later on, after the cops
had been gone for a while, someone broke a few
windows. Someone managed to stomp a hole
through Seths bathroom floor. He covered it with
a large doormat anchored in place with bricks
from the back yard. The next morning, when
my roommate and I surveyed the damage, we
pulled back the rug, and we could see leaves and
dark earth below. The concrete back steps were
broken during the party, though no one knew
how, and a drunk girl nearly knocked her teeth
out falling down them. At first, we thought the
destruction was hilarious. Fuck em, we thought.
Theyre a bunch of creeps and assholes. No one
bothered to clean up the mess.

A few weeks later, I met Joe at a house party

down the street. He looked at me that night like
he knew me, which confused the hell out of me
because I was pretty sure I didnt know him,
but it also made me want to talk to him. In a few
weeks, wed developed a romance. He helped me
move out of the Faulkner House and across town.
Two years later, we were married. Not quite two
years after that, we were parents.

25

When Carroll was seven-and-a-half months old,

we let Joes parents keep him overnight for the
first time. We dropped him off and then checked
into the Capital Hotel in Little Rock. It had been
months since wed had a night out together.
A mini-fridge was delivered to our room so I
could store the breast milk I would be pumping.
I pumped, Joe poured us both a drink, and we
relaxed and chatted in the room for a while.
When we finished our drinks, Joe called us a cab,
and we went out for sushi and sake.

We ate until we were beyond sated, until we

were uncomfortable. We drank sake until
we broke a light sweat (and I made two trips
to the ladies room to pump and dump my
contaminated milk). I went outside with Joe
when he took a mid-meal smoke-break, and I
puffed a few drags off his Marlboro in the spirit
of the moment. We talked politics, we talked
current events, we talked gossip. We briefly
mentioned Carroll, but for once, we did not
linger on him. I asked Joe about the Formula One
racing season and about the drivers. He asked
me about my classes and the graduate program
I was five months into. We drank and ate and
talked and fell back into familiar rhythms. In
the time after I pumped and before my breasts
returned to their clockwork ache, things seemed
almost back to normal.
Not everything was the way it had been before
Carroll; I wasnt smashed prior to arrival or at
the time of departure. We took a cab back to
the hotel instead of driving tipsy. The biggest
difference, though, was our endurance. It was
26

clear once we got back to our room that we were

spent. We were both asleep by nine-thirty.
In the morning, I was more hung over than I
had been in a long, long time. I slept past our
checkout time, and Joe had to call down and
clear it with the front desk.

Katherine, youve got to get up. Theyll charge

us for another night.

I dressed in stale clothes from the day before,

washed my face, and packed the breast milk. I
wore sunglasses to the front desk, and when the
midday sun hit me, I closed my eyes. As Joe took
us north, to our home in Conway, I reclined in
my seat, feeling the world spin from behind my
closed eyes.

Breastfeeding and hangovers, when combined,

create massive hunger. My case was no exception
to that rule. Joe exited in Mayflower and ordered
me a chicken wrap at the Sonic. I took two
bites and put it back in the paper bag. Before he
could merge back onto the interstate, I sounded
the alarm. Joe pulled over on the shoulder of the
entrance ramp; I opened my door and puked.
The girl in the picture in the closet has the
freedom of going in any direction she wants to,
though she doesnt yet know it. Shes not serious
about anything. Shes not looking out for anyone
but herself. She hasnt thought much about
the future. Shes lost hope in the world and in
herself, though she does not yet know what that
really means. Shes young, and she thinks shes

arrived. She thinks oblivion is, in some ways, as

good as it gets and that the rise she feels from
that pull of vodka is happiness. That her laughter
in the face of all situations is her triumph. To
her, image isnt just as good as reality. Image is
reality.
I cant party like I used to, practically or
physically. My life demands different things now.
Going in any direction is a freedom I no longer
have. I have things at stake that the girl in the
picture has never seriously thought about. Im
still her, in a way. I still like to go wild and have a
good time. Only now, I do that by becoming the
tickle monster or playing the Wheres Carroll?
game. I used to be able to drink anyone under
the table. Now, my endurance is channeled into
dealing with my teething baby and his damned
plastic turtle that sings the counting song when
its back is touched. I am inexhaustible in a game
of throw the ball or bang the pots together. I
love to repeat sounds for minutes at a time. Like
Carroll, I cannot get enough of his favorite board
books.

When Joe read me the result of the pregnancy

test, I wasnt prepared to give up who I thought
I was. That Katherine wouldnt willingly be
pregnantshe wouldnt be someone you would
want to let babysit. She wouldnt be a mother.
But I changed. I hated it every step of the way,
and afterward, I wasnt sure who I was anymore;
party girl or nursing mother? Im still working
on it. Im not the way I used to be, but I havent
become the way Im supposed to be. I havent
become the way my mother was. And, although
I can tell you how I used to be and how I am
now, neither of those descriptions is completely

accurate. Neither depicts me as I actually was

and am. Identity is elusive. It is hard to pin down
what it means to be anyone at all, but the people
who know me best know me only in two ways.
Joe knows me only as Katherine. Carroll knows
me only as Mama.

And whoever that person is, shes all I need to be.

27

Gentle Solutions for Wild Horses

Jim Dawson
Jim Dawson is currently attending the University of Arkansas at Little Rock, and works as a Graduate Assistant at
the University Writing Center. He is earning his MA in Professional and Technical writing. His thesis project will be an
argument for natural hoof care (shoeless) and against conventional shoeing. When hes not at the university you can
probably find him working with horses, naturally and gently, polishing his horsemanship skills. In the future, hed like
to teach at a junior college, when hes not teaching horses how to deal with people problems. He is a trainer certified
by legendary horse whisperer, Frank Bell.

hey said his name was Santana. I didnt see

that name in him, so I named the big red
boy Montana Red. His nickname is Tana. We had
gone down to Amity to pick up a couple of horses
to help us start our own unwanted horse rescue
operation. They asked us to take him home with
us, along with the other two horses we had
chosen. He was a nondescript red mustang with
big feet, nothing much to look at. We really didnt
need another horse, but we had high hopes as a
new equine rescue that wed have no problem
moving all the horses we took in. He was as
wild as the West Texas wind and wary of human
beings. Little did I know that all my years around
horses would come into play as I brought him
under saddle, the cowboy way. More on that
later, but when that unremarkable horse shed
his winter coat the next summer, he turned out
to be drop-dead gorgeous. I almost sold him for
a hefty sum, but I decided to keep him instead.
He was one of our first four rescues; weve had
as many as sixteen at one time. We are down to
eight now.
We started 2nd Chance Equine Rescue of Benton,
Arkansas, in December of 2008. In June of 2009,
28

my wife and I received our non-profit status,

which means we dont pay taxes on feed, we
can accept donations, and we can solicit grant
money. Nave to say the least, but we stuck it
out, and here we are in November of 2010, still
afloat, but struggling to make ends meet with too
many rescues to handle. And, as you read this,
you are probably wondering why we got into this
business.
Those of us who know horses intimately know
they are reasoning creatures that return much
more than we can give them. They are capable
of love and affection; they fight, they play, they
dance. They show joy, anger, jealousy, and even
sadness.

Horses helped build this country. The most

diminutive breeds have lived out their lives in
deep earth coal mines, while the heftiest still
haul timber in Tennessee. They have starred in
movies, they have carried us to war, and they
have died in our service. Theyve run their hearts
out carrying mail on the Pony Express. Winston
Churchill wrote: The outside of a horse, is good
for the inside of a man. Yet, when it comes time

to feed and care for them, many would-be horse

owners seem to forget how much horses have
meant to us, or they simply dont know how
to care for a large animal. Sadly, many people
simply have no conscience, and they ignore the
horses until they starve to death, never knowing
or considering a horses intrinsic value.

The United States (and much of the world) is

experiencing an overabundance of horses, mules,
burros, and miniature horses, collectively known
as equine, due to negligent breeding practices
and because the US has banned horse slaughter
within our borders. The latest recession has
further added to the glut of equine. When
well-meaning citizens can no longer afford
to feed them, the unwanted equine are sold,
given away, turned loose, seized by authorities,
starved, abused, shot, or euthanized. In addition,
the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) is
systematically removing wild horses, Mustangs,
from public lands to make room for cattle
grazing and for mining and drilling operations.
36,000 wild horses are in BLM holding pens,
awaiting adoption or slaughter. Thats three
times the number of horses remaining in the
wild. The BLM has a three-strikes-you-areout policy. They truck these horses in cattle
cars around the country, offering them up for
adoption for a fee. Horses that are not sold in
three consecutive sales go to slaughter beyond
US borders.
Many of the Mustangs lucky enough to find
homes are extremely wild. For the average
horseperson, they are simply too much to
handle, and their fate will be neglect, abuse,

starvation and a premature death. Montana was

one of these wildest of the wild horses.
Each year there are about 100,000 unwanted
horses in the United States, too many for the
registered equine rescue and sanctuary groups
to handle, according to a recent survey by
experts at the University of California, Davis.
They found that the 236 registered rescue and
sanctuary organizations could only help about
13,400 horses a year (The Horse.Com, 2010)

Eight million horses live in the United States,

13% of which are in relocation at any given time.
In 2007, the Unwanted Horse Coalition projected
the number of surplus equine to be about
170,000, and that was before the US banned
horse slaughter. At that time,

The U.S. slaughtered approximately

59,000 horses per year.
37,000 were exported to Canadian
slaughter houses.
47,000 were exported to Mexico for
slaughter.
21,000 were unadopted feral horses
enduring hardship in BLM holding pens.
9,000 feral horses were in the BLM
adoption pipeline.
The remainder are neglected and/or
abused (UHC, 2009).

And this is where we come in, the folks who

sacrifice their own living to secure a life for
unfortunate horses that have run out of choices.
If we divide the surplus horses by the number
of contiguous states in the U.S., we have

29

approximately 3,500 unwanted horses per

state. Thus, Arkansas has approximately 3,500
unwanted equine (UHC, 2009). Only three 501
(c) (3) non-profit rescue organizations exist in
Arkansas. 2nd Chance is one of those three. We
knew we could not reduce the glut of horses
overnightalonebut we thought we could
serve the equine brought to our attention. We
could teach others about the inherent value of
horses and about the rewards they can bring to
loving, responsible owners. We could retrain the
animals to become productive and happy equine.
Owning a rescue carries certain responsibilities,
the main one being to rehabilitate the horses we
bring in. In order to move horses, I had to have
good, friendly riding horses to offer potential
adopters. No one wants horses they cant ride.
We soon learned rescued horses are like used
cars: theres a reason the owner got rid of them.
It behooved me to rehabilitate them as best I
could, as safely as I could, for myself and for
the horses. In the beginning, learning to retrain
horses was not in my plans, but it was necessary
if we wanted to move horses.
This brings us back to Montana, wild horses,
and gentle solutions. The old-school cowboys I
grew up with taught me to simply get er done.
We thought little about the effects on the horse.
Breaking horses was, in truth, bending them
to our will. In order to get them to do our will,
it sometimes got violent. I was never violent
with Montana, and I managed to get him under
saddle, but not safely. He got some rope burns,
and I got a broken foot, not to mention the many
bruises from kicks, stomps, and head butts.
When I broke Montana, he nearly broke me. I
30

was not happy with our relationship and neither

was he. I got the job done, but I didnt gain a
friend. Montana, although broken to ride, still
doesnt like me. Using archaic methods, I failed. I
will have to start over with him. But how? I knew
there had to be a better way to bring horses
under saddle. I found it in Frank Bells methods.
Frank is a horse whisperer, and he was the
consultant for the movie, The Horse Whisperer.
I got in touch with Frank and started buying
his training DVDs and reading the information
on his website. We exchanged e-mails, and
one day he invited me to one of his clinics, at a
reduced rate. The clinic was in Tucson, Arizona,
November 714, 2010. As I write this, I have
been home from that clinic for less than a week.
I graduated from Frank Bells Gentle Solutions
program with his blessing to teach his method
and to train horses using his method, and my
head is filled with new information about
horsemanship.

My trip to Tucson was a life-changing event. I

learned a lot about myself and volumes about
natural horsemanship and proper horse care. Six
students came together with three instructors,
including Frank Bell, and we made a difference
in the lives of six horses. By the end of the week,
Frank had taught us to ride our horses with
nothing but a string around their necks. I never
would have imagined it could take that little to
control a horse. But then Id never been taught
to begin work with a horse from the relationship
standpoint.
We bonded with each horse first and foremost
each day and won their trust. Then we put them

through exercises designed to teach safety on the

ground and in the saddle, and we finished each
day with turns on forehand followed by turns
on the haunches, or, as Frank Bell calls it, ballet
in the saddle. Using Frank Bells techniques
and theories, and following his steps, I brought
a horse from a scared Dude Ranch pony, to the
point where he followed me around like a puppy
on the final day.
Montana is still young enough to forgive me,
and lucky for me, horses live in the moment.
Although horses rarely forget, they have a
greater capacity to forgive than humans do. Hes
going to be my Mustang Ambassador. Due to
the sad economic state, we are going to reduce
our herd. I may not rescue a lot of horses in
the future, but I will try to rescue as many as
I can, one horse at a time, as a horseman who
has traded the old-school cowboy ways for
the modern, natural, gentle approach. Starting
this weekend, I am going to try to rekindle my
friendship with my buddy Tana and show him
what Ive learned about Gentle Solutions for
Wild Horses.

References
IRS, (2010) http://www.irs.gov/charities/charitable/
article/0%2C%2Cid=96099%2C00.html
(accessed November 24, 2010).

The Horse.Com (2010) http://www.thehorse.com/

ViewArticle.aspx?ID=17070 (accessed October

7, 2010).

UHC, (2009) 2009 Unwanted Horse Survey: Creating

Advocates for Responsible Ownership.

Unwanted Horse Coalition/ The American

Horse Council. Washington DC, 2009 (1-33).

www.unwanted horsecoalition.org (http://

www.equinewoman.com/ (accessed November

18, 2010).

Note: Six months laterMontana has become a

friend, a wary friend to be sure, but hes easier to
catch, he seems to enjoy our work together, and
I feel that very soon, as I continue to bond with
him and to gain an ally, we will become riding
partners.

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