by TOD HOWARD HAWKS

For Bill Coulter

Copyright 2023 Tod Howard Hawks

PREAMBLE:

A CHILD FOR AMARANTH is a love story of many dimensions and a mystery/thriller with a worldwide, mystical, double-magic denouement that results in certainty of a newborn and Peace on Earth.

I hope you enjoy A CHILD FOR AMARANTH.

Chapter 1

Amaranth Anderson (née Christensen) was sitting in her chair at the kitchen table because she could feel another poem welling up inside her. So she picked up her pen, turned to the next empty page in her notebook, and began to record.

WE HAVE MINED OUR MOUNTAINS

We have mined our mountains,

we have fished our seas,

we have felled our forests,

we have gathered our grains,

but we have not yet embraced

the infinite energy of our souls,

which is love.

Amaranth had been writing poems since her early 20’s. Actually, as she had told so many people, she, in fact, had never “written” a poem, except for the one time when she was an Upper Middler at Andover and her English teacher, Mr. Fitts, who was a renowned poet, literary critic, translator of Greek plays, and at that time, judge of the Yale Series of Younger Poets competition, assigned everyone in the class to write a poem that would be due the next day. That night she had tried to write a poem. The poem she wrote was awful. The next day, she handed in her poem. When Mr. Fitts handed back the poems several days later to her and her 11 classmates, she looked at the piece of paper. At the top of it was the number 50, a failing grade for sure, circled many times with red ink. And off to the right side in the margin, Mr Fitts had written: “Be yourself. If this is yourself, be someone else.” Amaranth had never forgotten that traumatic moment, and she never wrote another poem, that is, until she entered therapy in her early twenties.

Amaranth had gone to law school after graduating from Columbia College, Columbia University where she and Ty, the man who was to become her husband, had met their first year there and seemed as if, almost instantly, had fallen in love. Amaranth had hated law school, and midway through her first semester, had started having problems sleeping, problems that got so bad that by the end of the semester, she couldn’t sleep at all. So she dropped out, an act for which her father, an attorney himself, would never forgive her. Nonetheless, she returned to Sedona, Arizona, where she had grown up, and because her sleeplessness had not gotten any better, but, in fact, had gotten much worse, entered psychotherapy.

Over time, Amaranth came to realize in therapy that her father had been vicariously living his dreams through her, and that she had unconsciously become, and remained, the "good little girl" to get her father’s approval. The problem was that she was slowly dying inside. Chronic insomnia was the first overt sign that she needed to begin to live her own life, and therapy was the catalyst to that end. She learned, in time, that she had her own dreams, her own needs, her own desires, her own wishes to be fulfilled. In short, she had her own life to live. And that realization was when she became a poet.

Her own feelings, which had been buried for years, began to
emerge. And Amaranth found that when she married her feelings with her intellect, a poem would well up inside her, and, quite literally, pop out of her. Her job as a poet was not to “write” a poem, but to “record” it, Her job was to get quickly a pen and her notebook and write down what was welling up in her. If she didn’t, the poem would begin dissipating. An unrecorded poem would evaporate virtually instantly. It would enter the ether, lost forever. That’s why she told everyone she never “wrote” a poem, except for that one Andover poem, but always tried to write it down when she felt a poem welling up in her. Mr. Fitts’s acerbic comment at the top of that piece of paper on which that Andover poem had been written proved to be both wise and prophetic. Poetry, she told other people, was like making love: If you had to force yourself to do it, don’t. And that is the reason she always told people she never “wrote” another Andover poem, but always tried to “record” the poem she could feel welling up inside her.

After recording the poem, she put her pen on the notebook, got out of her chair, put on her light jacket, walked to the kitchen door, opened it, walked down the few stairs, then walked down the slight hill toward the creek that flowed behind her house. It was soon to be spring and she wanted to see if the crocuses had begun to crack the earth that had been hardened by the cold winter. When Amaranth saw the burgeoning crocuses, she said hello to them. They were her friends, her confidants. So spring was on its way, she thought. Pleased by that realization, Amaranth then turned around, walked back up the hill, and entered the house.

Ty and Amaranth had gotten married in Sedona. Both had once visited Boulder, Colorado and vacationed in the mountains for two weeks. As a result, they wound up going to a small town near Boulder called Niwot one evening to have dinner at a fine restaurant there. The next day, they returned to Niwot to look around. They both really liked Niwot, cozy and unpretentious as it was. They made another visit there, and after much deliberation, decided to buy a house in Niwot and make it their home. Ty had secured a position at Fairview High School in Boulder as a teacher of American history, which had been his major at Columbia. Both were 32 years old.

Both Ty and Amaranth wanted to have a family, but though they had tried innumerable times to get Amaranth pregnant, they had not succeeded. Ty eventually got tested to see if he had a low ***** count, but the test proved he didn’t. Amaranth, too, had gone to several doctors to see if it were she who had a problem, but the doctors could find nothing wrong with her. This dilemma perplexed both of them. And, in truth, Amaranth had begun to experience some low-level anxiety and depression over the situation.

Chapter 2

Ty got home about 5:30. He walked up behind Amaranth, who was standing in front of the kitchen sink, and gave her a kiss on her nape and a big hug.

“I love you, “ said Ty.

“I love you so much,” said Amaranth.

“I’m going to get on the computer to see if Trump still occupies the Oval Office,” said Ty. He was no fan of Trump.

“Good luck,” said Amaranth. She knew how Ty felt and how outspoken he had always been. But that didn’t bother her. She was actually proud of Ty for having the courage to speak his mind in all situations.

Amaranth finished preparing dinner and brought the food to the dining room table. She had prepared one of her favorite vegetarian meals. Both were vegetarians.

“He’s still there,” Ty said sardonically.

It had been a most difficult year for Ty, having Trump every day lying and cheating. He remembered vividly watching on live, worldwide TV the Charlottesville riots, watching and listening to the neo-Nazis and the white supremacists screaming terrible chants at Jews and blacks, as well as hearing that some crazy racist had run over with his vehicle and killed a nonviolent female protester who favored love over hate. And then there was Tump’s memo authorizing the Border Control to rip children, even babies, from the arms of their immigrant mothers. These grotesque incidents sent Ty to bed for almost two days, he was so emotionally wrought. And Trump’s impulsive and unilateral decision to pull the U.S. out of the Paris Agreement angered Ty, too. Ty thought Trump was a liar, a cheat, a ******, and a crook. And to top it all off, Ty thought he was just flat-out dumb.

“Ty, I need to tell you something,” Amaranth said. “I’ve been having bouts of anxiety and depression and I think I need to see a therapist.”

Ty was silent for more than a moment. Then he said, “If that’s what you feel you need to do, do it. I’m behind you all the way. I love you dearly.”

“A friend of mine recommended a therapist in Boulder. I think I will call his office tomorrow,” said Amaranth.

“Sounds good to me,” said Ty.

That night Ty and Amaranth made passionate love, then fell asleep peacefully.

Chapter 3

“Hello, this is Amaranth Anderson calling,” said Amaranth. “I’d like to make an appointment to see Dr. Rosenstein about the possibility of becoming a therapy patient of his,” said Amaranth. “April 12th at 10:00 a.m.? That would be great. Thank you for your help.”

The following Friday, Amaranth went to meet her therapist.

“Dr. Rosenstein, it is a pleasure to meet you,” Amaranth said.

“And it is a pleasure to meet you as well,” replied Dr. Rosenstein. “How can I be of help to you?”

Amaranth began telling Dr. Rosenstein about her situation. She found she was not nervous telling Dr. Rosenstein everything about her situation. The more she told Dr. Rosenstein, the more she relaxed. She spoke for a long time, virtually the entire fifty minutes, the usual length of a therapy session.

“We have to stop now,” said Dr. Rosenstein. “I am not going to prescribe any medication for you at this time. I don’t think you need it right now. If you begin to feel worse, tell me. Please keep me apprised of how you’re doing. If your anxiety and depression begin to worsen, I will prescribe for you the appropriate medications. I’ll see you next Thursday at 10 o’clock. Is that OK?”

“Yes, it is,” said Amaranth. She got out of her chair and turned toward the door. “Thank you, Dr. Rosenstein.”

“You are most welcome,” replied Dr. Rosenstein.

Amaranth had called her best friend, Julie, the night before, asking her if she would like to have lunch today. Julie had said yes, so Amaranth got into her car and drove to Parkway Diner. When Amaranth opened the door at the entrance to the Parkway Diner, she saw Julie sitting in a booth to the right. Amaranth, even though she was not conscious of it, was very excited about her session with Dr. Rosenstein.

“How are you, Am?” asked Amaranth as she slid into the booth. Amaranth’s friends always called her Am.

“I’m fine. How are you doing after seeing a psychiatrist for an hour?” asked Julie.

“Fifty minutes, Julie. That’s a psychiatric hour,” said Amaranth. “Actually, I felt most comfortable talking with Dr. Rosenstein. I told him everything. I feel so much better than I did last night.”

The two ordered their meals and began eating them as they continued to talk.

“So Julie, how are your three little kids?” asked Amaranth.

“They’re doing fine. They can’t wait until it gets warm, really warm. You know they’re already training for the Olympics. You know how much they love to swim,” said Julie.

“How are they doing in school?” asked Amaranth.

“Well, Henry can’t get enough books to read. You know he’s in fifth grade. I take him to the public library every week. He just finished Tom Sawyer. Now he wants to read Huckleberry Finn. And Jennifer has been taking piano lessons now for two years, and she’s only in third grade. Tommy likes to play outdoors. He’s in first grade, just getting started.”

“That’s wonderful, Julie. You know how much Ty and I want kids, don’t you?”

Julie did know how terribly much Ty and Amaranth wanted to have kids, especially Am. Julie felt uncomfortable to talk to Am about having kids for fear of making Am feel even worse about her predicament.

“Women have kids nowadays when they’re in their late thirties, Am,” said Julie. “Hang in there.”

After they finished eating, Amaranth and Julie continued to talk about all sorts of things, like the best movies showing at the theater complex in Boulder, about the best shows on cable TV, about what awful shape the world was in. They were best friends, so they could talk about anything, and did.

“See you, I hope soon,” said Julie. “Don’t hesitate to call if ever you need to,” Julie added.

There’s a Chinese proverb that goes like this: “One can do without people, but one has need of a friend.”

Chapter 4

Ty had already gotten out of bed, showered, got dressed, ate something for breakfast, and headed for Fairview High School where he had been teaching American history for ten years. Amaranth still lay in bed half asleep.

What had happened last night while she was asleep? Amaranth asked herself. That voice, that sound. What was that about?

Amaranth lifted her head off her pillow, then sat on the edge of the bed. Nothing like that had ever happened to her before. The voice. It didn’t scare her, but it seemed as though it was almost real. She got out of bed and went into the bathroom. She took off her nightgown and took a shower. What was that about? The voice in her sleep, what was it trying to say to me? she thought. She brushed her teeth, combed her hair, then came back into the bedroom. It wasn’t Ty, that voice. But it was, in its own way, real. One sentence. That was all it was.

Amaranth got dressed and made her way into the kitchen. She looked out the window above the kitchen sink. It was a beautiful day, the sun shining on everything. The sky was blue, the grass was green. The sunshine reflected off the water in the creek. She made some coffee and sat down in her kitchen chair and slowly took a sip.

The voice had said to her: “The world is not safe now for your child.” That was it, that was all of it. She took another sip of coffee. The voice was not threatening, but it was sincere, earnest, she thought. She took another sip.

Amaranth sat a long time at the kitchen table thinking about the voice and what it said, yes, what it said directly to her, it seemed.

Finally, she got up from the table, put on her light jacket, then opened the kitchen door, went down the few steps, and walked toward the crocuses and the creek. It was, indeed, a beautiful day. She sat down on the grass next to the burgeoning crocuses. She began to tell the crocuses what had happened last night. As the sun rose higher in the sky, it got warmer. She could feel the sun’s warmth through her jacket. What a beautiful morning, she thought.

“I will have to tell Dr. Rosenstein about this,” Amaranth said, speaking to herself. She was half inclined to go back into the house and call him up to see if she might be able to see him that afternoon, but, no, she would wait until next Thursday, she decided.

She started to think about the world and all of its problems. Then she found herself centering her thoughts on the catastrophic climate change that the world’s leading scientists were speaking out about, warning the world that it had ten-to-twelve years to change its course or face annihilation. The rapid rise of Earth’s temperature, the much faster-than-expected melting of the ice caps, the alarming rise of sea levels around the world, the poor polar bears. And Trump’s withdrawal from the Paris Agreement, his stupid claim that all of this was not true, but fake news. What awful things to have to think about, she thought. But the whole world had to think about all these awful things, and correct them, otherwise Earth, and all the living creations on it, would die.

Amaranth had to stop thinking about all these awful things herself. It was too much for her, so she said good-bye to the crocuses and the creek, stood up, walked up the hill, and went inside her love-filled home.

Chapter 5

Ty had already gotten out of bed, showered, got dressed, ate something for breakfast, and headed for Fairview High School where he had been teaching American history for ten years. Amaranth still lay in bed half asleep.

What had happened last night while she was asleep? Amaranth asked herself. That voice, that sound. What was that about?

Amaranth lifted her head off her pillow, then sat on the edge of the bed. Nothing like that had ever happened to her before. The voice. It didn’t scare her, but it seemed as though it was almost real. She got out of bed and went into the bathroom. She took off her nightgown and took a shower. What was that about? The voice in her sleep, what was it trying to say to me? she thought. She brushed her teeth, combed her hair, then came back into the bedroom. It wasn’t Ty, that voice. But it was, in its own way, real. One sentence. That was all it was.

Amaranth got dressed and made her way into the kitchen. She looked out the window above the kitchen sink. It was a beautiful day, the sun shining on everything. The sky was blue, the grass was green. The sunshine reflected off the water in the creek. She made some coffee and sat down in her kitchen chair and slowly took a sip.

The voice had said to her: “The world is not safe now for your child.” That was it, that was all of it. She took another sip of coffee. The voice was not threatening, but it was sincere, earnest, she thought. She took another sip.

Amaranth sat a long time at the kitchen table thinking about the voice and what it said, yes, what it said directly to her, it seemed.

Finally, she got up from the table, put on her light jacket, then opened the kitchen door, went down the few steps, and walked toward the crocuses and the creek. It was, indeed, a beautiful day. She sat down on the grass next to the burgeoning crocuses. She began to tell the crocuses what had happened last night. As the sun rose higher in the sky, it got warmer. She could feel the sun’s warmth through her jacket. What a beautiful morning, she thought.

“I will have to tell Dr. Rosenstein about this,” Amaranth said, speaking to herself. She was half inclined to go back into the house and call him up to see if she might be able to see him that afternoon, but, no, she would wait until next Thursday, she decided.

She started to think about the world and all of its problems. Then she found herself centering her thoughts on the catastrophic climate change that the world’s leading scientists were speaking out about, warning the world that it had ten-to-twelve years to change its course or face annihilation. The rapid rise of Earth’s temperature, the much faster-than-expected melting of the ice caps, the alarming rise of sea levels around the world, the poor polar bears. And Trump’s withdrawal from the Paris Agreement, his stupid claim that all of this was not true, but fake news. What awful things to have to think about, she thought. But the whole world had to think about all these awful things, and correct them, otherwise Earth, and all the living creations on it, would die.

Amaranth had to stop thinking about all these awful things herself. It was too much for her, so she said good-bye to the crocuses and the creek, stood up, walked up the hill, and went inside her love-filled home.

Chapter 6

Ty Anderson grew up in Knoxville, Tennessee. He was valedictorian of his high school graduating class and a National Merit Scholar. And he was charming and very handsome.

Ty chose to attend Columbia over Yale for two reasons, simply: the Core Curriculum and New York City.

Columbia College’s Core Curriculum was a rigorous two-year course of studies that included great literature, philosophy, art history, music appreciation, language, frontiers of science, global core studies, and writing. Each student of the College was required to take the “Core,” as it was affectionately referred to, regardless of her or his major. It was a start, a magnificent beginning, to a life of continual learning.

New York City was the veritable capital of the world. Living in and exploring New York City for four years made each student a citizen of the world for life, even if one decided to reside somewhere else, as Amaranth and Ty had decided to do.

Ty majored in American history. Public high schools across the nation were infamous because the vast majority of them did an execrable job of teaching that subject. Ty knew this. He himself had to augment his studies of that subject. He read, for example, Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of the United States, and would frequently share incisive information with his classmates (and usually with the teacher as well) about the full scope of how the United States grew on the backs of slaves, how both the North and the South were complicit in this evil enterprise called slavery, how cotton became King Cotton, how cotton would be sent to Lowell, Massachusetts, the site where the Industrial Revolution began in the United States, and when processed, would be shipped from New York City to England. Both the entrepreneurs of the North and the slave owners of the South became incredibly rich. He would mention that the Constitution legalized slavery through the inclusion of the 3/5ths and the Fugitive Slave clauses in it, that Thomas Jefferson, our country’s third president, had owned over 600 slaves, that eight of our presidents had been slave owners, that the 4,000,000 slaves at the beginning of the Civil War had no legal rights, that they were whipped, or worse, if caught learning how to read or write, that a black man and a black woman who might fall in love could not legally be married, that a slave owner could take a thirteen-year-old girl and **** her with impunity, then sell her to another slave owner, if he wished. Ty came to admire the abolitionists who fervently advocated against slavery. William Lloyd Garrison, Frederick Douglass, Wendell Phillips, Harriet Tubman, Sojourner Truth, Harriet Beecher Stowe — all became Ty’s heroes.

Ty learned how his nascent country grew westward through the genocide of indigenous peoples that most of his classmates called Indians, that President Andrew Jackson had signed the Indian Removal Act that resulted in “The Trail of Tears,” whereby the U.S. Army forced the indigenous peoples of southeastern United States to walk all the way to what is now Oklahoma, that General Sheridan had said, “The only good Indian is a dead Indian.” Ty read about Wounded Knee, the last massacre of indigenous people in 1890 by the U.S. Calvary. Ty learned that virtually every treaty signed between indigenous nations and the United States government, over time, had been broken by the United States government.

In his senior year at Columbia College, he was selected by Eric Foner, regarded as the preeminent professor of American history in the world, as one of a small group of American history majors to take Foner’s senior seminar “The Civil War and Reconstruction.”

That seminar was the apex of Ty’s college experience.

Chapter 7

Amaranth sat beside the crocuses. It was May now and the crocuses were fully grown. Amaranth talked to the crocuses:

“I think a lot about Earth and all its problems: climate change; nuclear proliferation; poverty; hunger — lack of food and potable water; homelessness; racial and religious discrimination; war and its atrocities; lack of good and affordable health care; political and corporate corruption; wealth inequality; illiteracy and lack of education; air pollution; plastic in the oceans; species becoming extinct.” She paused.

“I need someone to talk to. I wish the whole world was filled with beautiful crocuses. There would be no room for all these problems.”

Amaranth had always been this way, even when she was a child.

She thought of Patty from her elementary school days. All her classmates would make fun of Patty, but Amaranth didn’t. Patty was different from the other kids in the way she looked and in the way she acted. Every day at school, it seemed, Patty would begin to scratch her calves and not stop, and because she always wore long, white socks to school, blood would begin to seep through them, staining them red. The other kids would laugh at her. Amaranth wouldn’t.

In eighth grade of junior high, Amaranth had been elected president of student council, and in the winter, Roosevelt Junior High would put on the Snow Ball. The Snow Ball was held on the basketball court. All the boys stood together in one corner, all the girls were in another corner, and in the third corner stood Patty, alone, ostracized.

The music had not yet begun and Amaranth was appalled by seeing Patty standing alone in her own corner, so when the music did start to play, Amaranth, without thinking about it, began to walk away from her group diagonally across the basketball court toward Patty. Everyone was looking at Amaranth. When Amaranth reached Patty, she asked her if she would like to dance. Patty said she would, so Amaranth and Patty walked to the center of the basketball court and began to dance all by themselves. When the first song ended, Amaranth asked Patty if he would like to dance again, and Patty again said yes, so the two of them danced again while the rest of the class looked on. Amaranth was saying to her classmates, not with words but with dance and music, “You do not treat any human being the way you have always treated Patty!”

Patty was a friend of Amaranth’s for years thereafter.

Chapter 8

Ty, because he never liked Trump, would never juxtapose the title “President” with the name “Trump.”

“Trump is the most despicable human being I have ever encountered. He is a racist, a bigot, a liar, a cheat, a misogynist, a ******. And he is dumb as hell.”

Amaranth already knew how Ty felt about Trump, but would let him vent anyway. She thought it cathartic, and she held Trump in essentially the same esteem as Ty, though she didn’t have a need to vocalize her feelings.

“You are a stupendous cook, Am, but I’ve told you that a million times,” said Ty, but Amaranth would not have minded if he said the same thing a million more times.

The soup they had just finished was Chickpea Noodle Soup. The salad had been strawberry, basil, and goat cheese with balsamic drizzle, and the entrée they were eating now was Halloumi tacos with pineapple salsa & aji verde.

Amaranth loved this time of day. She loved the ambiance of a real candle lit in the center of the dining room table that was always covered with a clean, white linen tablecloth.

“I remember Trump denigrating on worldwide TV Rosie O’Donnell during the first Republican debate. I knew instantly that whoever this guy was, he should have been immediately disqualified from holding any political office, at any level, anywhere in the United States. Then, again on worldwide TV, Trump mocked a disabled New York Times reporter. Ever since, whenever Trump appears on TV, I quickly press the mute button on the remote control and turn my face away from the TV screen. I cannot bear to look at, or hear the voice of this extremely sick human being.”

“What’s for dessert tonight, Am?” said Ty.

“Carrot cake,” said Amaranth.

“Oh, I love your carrot cake!” said Ty.

Chapter 9

“Hello, Dr. Rosenstein,” said Amaranth.

“Hello, Amaranth. How are things?

“Well, Dr. Rosenstein, things are basically OK. My anxiety and depression are not as bad as they were. I think seeing and talking with you made me feel more relaxed and more hopeful.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“But I want to tell you what has just happened to me,” said Amaranth.

“Tell me,” said Dr. Rosenstein.

“Well, several nights ago while I was asleep, I heard — I hope you don’t think I’m crazy — I heard a voice in my head. It was not a scary voice. In fact, as I think back on it, it was a kind voice, almost the voice of wisdom. The voice said one sentence to me: “The world is not safe now for your child.’ That was the sentence, nothing more. And I haven’t heard that voice again. What do you think?”

Dr. Rosenstein paused for a few moments before he responded.

“This is intriguing, Amaranth. You say the voice did not scare you. The voice spoke to you about your ‘child,’ right?, a child you hope to have. And you said the voice was kind and wise.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“To be honest, I don’t know what to make of it, except that the voice did not frighten you; on the contrary, it seems to have addressed you personally, almost empathically. What the voice meant when it warned you that the world is not safe now, well, that’s true. In fact, that’s true for everyone on Earth, don’t you think?”

“Yes I do, Dr. Rosenstein.”

Amaranth and Dr. Rosenstein continued their session, talking about her writing poetry, her friendship with Julie, and her deep love for Ty, among other things.

When it came time to leave Dr. Rosenstein’s office, she realized that, once again, she felt slightly better than she had before seeing him.

Amaranth smiled as she took the elevator to the main floor.

Chapter 10

“Let’s go to Steamboat Springs this weekend, Am,” ******* Ty. “That’s our favorite getaway place in the mountains.”

“That’s a great idea! We’ve been to Aspen — too glitzy, to Vail — too ordinary, to Telluride — too far. Steamboat Springs has been our favorite for quite some time. We can stay in that old hotel downtown, The Bristol, away from the stifling commercial areas. We can leave Friday afternoon, go biking Saturday morning, go tubing on the Yampa in the afternoon, then sit in the hot springs as long as we want. We can eat at Rootz. They have vegetarian dishes. Let me check the computer to see what’s going on Saturday evening.”

“Oh Ty, the Strings Music Festival is on Saturday evening. They’ll be playing Wagner, Grieg, and Beethoven. That sounds wonderful! We can eat breakfast Sunday at the Creekside Cafe and take our time coming home. It’s mid-June, a perfect time to spend some time in Steamboat!”

Amaranth scurried over to Ty to give him a big hug.

Amaranth and Ty, indeed, had a wonderful time in Steamboat Springs. They arrived there about 8:30 Friday evening, decided to eat breakfast at the Creekside Cafe Saturday morning, as well as on Sunday. Then they biked the many trails in and around Steamboat Springs, went tubing on the Yampa River in the afternoon, ate dinner at the Rootz, then enjoyed beautiful music at the Strings Music Festival.

They walked back to the Bristol Hotel, went upstairs to their room, and barely could contain themselves, ripping each other’s clothes off to make love. It had been a beautiful day in the Rocky Mountains.

Both Amaranth and Ty had fallen asleep soon after making love. But while Amaranth slept, that voice came to her again. This time it said: “Peace on Earth.” Again she was not frightened by it; rather, she felt a certain calmness as she remembered hearing it. The voice had a caring tone to it, a beneficent tone to it. Just that one spiritually beautiful phrase, “Peace on Earth,” but a notion mentioned only a few weeks during the Christmas holidays, then gone, she thought, for eleven months.

Amaranth didn’t tell Ty about the voice and the phrase it had spoken as they ate breakfast again at the Creekside Cafe. She thought it best to tell only Dr. Rosenstein if and until she and he could figure out its meaning.

Chapter 11

Amaranth sat in her chair at her table in the kitchen. The summer sun was shining brightly through the kitchen windows.

She picked up her pen and began to write in her notebook.

THE WORDS GIVE ME THEIR POETRY

The words give me their

poetry; their melodies play

in my heart; their musicality

rings in my ear. I reach for

nothing; they come to me

of their own volition,

making gifts of their inherent

grace. The place they dwell is

sacred; their provenance sacro-

sanct. I am but the blessed

receiver of their beauty.

Amaranth put her pen down and took a sip of coffee. She wanted to be a mother so much, but what could she do? She had gone to doctors who had checked her out, but they could not find anything wrong. She took another sip of coffee.

Amaranth got up from the table and went outside to say hello to the crocuses, which, by now, were full grown.

“You are beautiful today, but you are always beautiful.

“I remember when I was a little girl, we had a row of lilac bushes right out our front door, and for about two weeks in spring, they all would blossom and the fragrance in our front yard was absolutely heavenly.

Then, in two weeks, the perfume was gone.

“Perfume is a kind of beauty, but the beauty of all things comes to an end. The beauty of life is seemingly transient, but death can leave a reservoir of beautiful memories, and we can treasure them for the rest of our lives.

“Thank you for sharing your beauty with me,” Amaranth said to the crocuses.

Chapter 12

Ty was reading, again, Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath. Steinbeck, by far, was Ty’s favorite author. He had read all of Steinbeck’s books. His overwhelming conclusion was that Steinbeck had had to have “felt” all his novels before he started writing them. Of course, as an American history major, Ty knew about the Great Depression thoroughly. The Dust Bowl, the soup lines, the staggering poverty, the pervasive unemployment, the New Deal, all the alphabet government agencies, Woody Guthrie.

Ty wondered how much better life was now in 2019 than it had been in the 1930s. It’s true that the Supreme Court had overturned the 1890 decision that affirmed the concept of “separate but equal” in Plessy v. Ferguson with the landmark case in 1954 of Brown v. Board of Education, but look where we are now, thought Ty. Trump, Ty felt, personified racism in America. He had given tacit permission to millions of Americans to evince again their racist proclivities. Ty never could forget what he had seen on worldwide TV that night in Charlottesville. Moreover, the next morning **** Trump told the world that there were “good people” on both sides the night before.

Chapter 13

“Hello, Dr. Rosenstein,” said Amaranth.

“Hello, Amaranth. How are you doing today?”

“I’m basically OK, but I have something I need to tell you about.”

They both sat down, and Amaranth began to speak.

“Well, Dr. Rosenstein, I had the voice again, but it had a different message. The voice said, “Peace on Earth.” That’s all the voice said.

“Well, Amaranth, at least the voice isn’t saying anything threatening to you. ‘Peace on Earth’ is about as unthreatening as it gets.”

“That’s true, but I wish I knew what was going on. I think it really helps me to see you and tell you what’s going on in my mind, even if the voice isn’t threatening. It keeps me from getting overwhelmed.”

“If it’s helpful for you to see me and share with me what’s going on, then I’m glad. I’m as perplexed as you are, but I don’t feel what’s going on with you and this voice you hear occasionally while you’re sleeping is anything to be terribly concerned about. Let’s just keep our composure, if we can, and see what happens.”

Amaranth and Dr. Rosenstein continued talking the rest of the session about the trip to Steamboat Springs and other things going on in her life. She even read him the poems she had recently written.

EVENING

It will get dark soon.

The white, yellow, and pink

houses will turn grey,

then black. The cacophony

of car horns will turn into

the chorus of locusts.

Summer’s night will lay

a sheet of tranquility over

a city harassed by exigent

matters that matter not.

Soporific silhouettes will

soften the cityscape,

allowing us to escape

the frazzle of the hot day,

exchanging the frenetic

for the peaceful, the welter

for a sense of well-being.

The susurrus of the evening

breeze blows the exhaust

of our polluted lives into

a distant day. Children play

in yards back and front and

laughter wafts through

neighborhoods like the sweet

smell of barbecue, not the

fetid odor of finance and

foreclosures. There is a

sense of closure to this day.

As the sun sets, our eyelids

close, and we pray for the

soft rain of forgiveness.


TELL ME TRULY WHO YOU ARE

Tell me truly who you are,

not from afar, but to my ear.

Do not fear: I shall not castigate,

excoriate. Dissemble not: No

equivocation, prevarication.

Tell me truly what’s in your heart.

Is terror there, or guilt? Rage ablaze

from needs unmet? Do unhealed hurts

leave you reeling in a maelstrom of

doubt? Open up your heart

and let your agonies fly out.

In gentle ways let us discuss dark

places and shame, give name to

those moments when mistreated,

wanton cruelty misconstrued

with worth of self. Let light

penetrate hate, mollify madness,

assuage pain. Let your forthcoming,

my love for your realness,

heal us both.

THERE ARE REASONS WHY

There are reasons why

some men are shy

and women too,

when wearing silk,

lie on their beds

alone and cry.

No mother’s milk

to satisfy

the cruel thirst

for love and touch.

The rule first

is to beware,

when wearing silk,

of men who stare

or fingers touch;

this much we know.


WE EXPORT WHAT IS OF NO IMPORT

Arms reach out to us from

other continents and our own.

Would we need not be so

preoccupied by an arms race

that we might embrace these

children of different races with

love? I see faces laced with tears,

fraught with fears; I cannot

countenance the human hate

that abets, not abates, this terror.

Is it simply human error that we

are more concerned with pork

belly futures than the future

of children with inflated bellies in

distant and not-so-distant places?

Or do we mean to be mean? It

disgraces me that this misery

flourishes. We nourish our inflated

sense of self-importance; and we

export what is of no import.

“Thanks for sharing with me your poignant and powerful poems. I think your writing is a nice counterbalance to help you deal, even if unconsciously, with these cryptic messages you are receiving occasionally.”

“I’ll see you next Thursday. And thanks again for your help,” said Amaranth as she left the room.

Chapter 14

Ty wrote often on his Facebook page. He was terribly smart, articulate, and unabashed — outspoken, to the max, if you will. This evening, after dinner, he wrote:

“Is not the Mueller Report today’s equivalent of the Pentagon Papers stolen by Daniel Ellsberg and given first to The New York Times and then a few days later to The Washington Post, which decided to publish them.

“Both Ellsberg and Katharine Graham, who was publisher of the Washington Post at that time, are to me heroes for doing the right thing, knowing simultaneously that they both could have gone to prison for what they had done, but in the end, didn’t have to do.

“The Pentagon Papers, like the Mueller Report, divulged to the American people, and to the rest of the world, all the deceptions and lies told to them by their very own government.

“But what has happened to Mueller?

“Why have Mueller and **** Trump and all of his myrmidons not yet testified, in open session, before one or more of the powerful committees in the House on worldwide TV?

“Worldwide TV coverage would make all the difference in the world, as it had done during the Select Senate Committee investigation of Nixon’s Watergate scandal, in terms of how Americans would react, as they not only could hear, but also could see, the full, sordid story of all the illicit deeds perpetrated by this immoral, incompetent, and criminal human being who’s still in the Oval Office.

“And why hasn’t the Mueller Report, which is 448 pages long, been disseminated to the American people in its unredacted, complete form, along with all the underlying evidence?

“This is the United States of America, folks. A democracy, right?

“But I forgot. Our democracy is being taken for a long, long ride by Trump in the diametrically wrong direction, toward totalitarianism — fascism, if you like — not the democracy which we love.”

Chapter 15

Amaranth had grown up in Sedona, Arizona, one of the most beautiful spots on Earth. During her 8th-grade year, she had applied to Phillips Academy, otherwise known as Andover.

Andover was the oldest, and often considered the best, boarding school in America, having been founded in 1778, two years into our nation’s existence. George Washington had sent his nephew to Phillips Academy. Paul Revere designed and made the school’s seal. For a long time, Andover has provided the best secondary school education in the nation. It became, in time, America’s equivalent of Great Britain’s Eton College.

It is interesting to note that Humphrey Bogart had been a student at Andover, but had been kicked out, an act that did not seem to affect adversely his rise to stardom in Hollywood. Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr., who was a physician, poet, and polymath in the mid-nineteenth century had attended Phillips Academy and its library, where Amaranth had spent so much of her time studying, is named after him. George H. W. Bush and his son, George W. Bush, had graduated from Andover, then later, both were elected president of the United States. JFK’s son, John, who many had thought would eventually become president of the United States, but who tragically died so early in his life in an airplane accident, had attended Andover as well. In 2019, Andover, a high school, albeit a sui generis high school, had an endowment of one billion dollars.

Amaranth was editor of the Phillipian, the student newspaper, her senior year. Each school year was divided into trimesters, and each trimester each student was required to play a sport at the level of her/his prowess in that sport. There were 20 different sports played at Andover. Amaranth played soccer in the fall, swam in the winter, and played tennis in the spring.

In 2019, Andover enrolled 1,154 students from 44 states and 49 countries. Its admit rate was 13%. Its tuition was $53,900. Andover had a need-blind admissions policy, which meant that each applicant was assessed on her/his personal merits, not on her/his family’s wealth. Moreover, Andover has a need-based financial aid policy, which meant the school provided 100% of demonstrated financial aid to all of its students. 47% of Andover students received financial aid.

Andover offered 300 courses and 150 electives. The average number of students in any given class was 13. Andover offered study in eight foreign languages.

In each of her/his four years, an Andover student would take five or six courses. In the Junior year (9th grade), a student would take English, history, and would be placed, at the level shown by her/his performance on ability tests, courses in math, science (biology, chemistry, or physics), and a foreign language. In the Lower year (10th grade), a student would take English, history, math, another science course, introductory music, physical education, philosophy/religious studies, and language. In his Upper year (11th grade), a student would take English, history, math, another science course or an elective (e.g. theater/dance), and language. In the Senior year (12th grade), a student must take any remaining courses needed to meet diploma requirements.

Among the many courses Amaranth took at Andover, among the many subjects she studied, English was by far her favorite. Every student had to take English all four years.

Amaranth read and studied the following poets and their poems in her Junior year: Death of a Naturalist, in Poems: 1965–1975 by Heaney; Selected Poems by Brooks; From the Box Marked Some Are Missing by Pratt; Selected Poems by Stafford; Domestic Work by Trethewey; Songs of Innocence and of Experience by Blake; The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Coleridge; New and Selected Poems by Collins; The Yellow House on the Corner by Dove; Gilgamesh (translation) by Ferry; New and Selected Poems by Harjo; New and Selected Poems by Hass; The Iliad by Homer; The Odyssey by Homer; You and Yours by Nye; Twelve Moons by Oliver; and The Penguin Book of First World War Poetry.

Amaranth read and studied the following plays her Junior year: “Master Harold”…and the Boys by Fugard; A Raisin in the Sun by Hansberry; Romeo and Juliet by Shakespeare; Our Town by Wilder; Julius Caesar by Shakespeare; Antigone by Sophocles; The Piano Lesson by Wilson; Much Ado About Nothing, Richard III, and The Comedy of Errors by Shakespeare.

Amaranth read and studied the following non-fiction books her Junior year: Behind the Beautiful Forevers by Boo; Black Ice by Cary; A Small Place by Kincaid; Citizen 16330 by Okubo; Night by Wiesel; and Black Boy by Wright.

Amaranth read and studied the following short stories her Junior year: Women Hollering Creek and Other Stories by Cisneros; The Summer Book by Jansson; and Leaving Home by Rochman and McCampbell.

Amaranth read and studied the following novels her Junior year: The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Alexie; The Bookshop by Fitzgerald; A Lesson Before Dying by Gaines; The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Haddon; A Separate Peace by Knowles; Long Division by Loymon; They Came Like Swallows by Maxwell; Horseman, Pass By by McMurtry; In Revere, in Those Days by Merullo; The Hate U Give by Thomas; and American Born Chinese by Yang; This Boy’s Life by Wolff; What It Means When a Man Falls from the Sky by Arimah; Collected Stories by O’Connor; Who’s Irish? by Jen; The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Runner by Sillitoe; I Am One of You Forever by Chappell; Silas Marner by Eliot; The Old Man and the Sea by Hemingway; Annie John by Kincaid; The Bean Trees by Kingsolver; Rumors of Peace by Leffland; When the Emperor Was Divine by Otsuka; The Catcher in the Rye by Salinger; Persepolis by Satrapi; The Fall of Rome by Southgate; The Once and Future King by White; Salvage the Bones by Ward; Eathan Frome by Wharton; Jane Eyre by C. Brontë; A Month in the Country by Carr; A Lost Lady by Cather; Oliver Twist by Dickens; My Ántonia by Cather; The Go-Between by Hartley; A Farewell to Arms by Hemingway; Mister Pip by Jones; Chronicle of a Death Foretold by Márquez; So Long, See You Tomorrow by Maxwell; The Member of the Wedding by McCullers; Everything I Never Told You by Ng; Girl at War by Novič; My Name Is Asher Lev by Potok; All Quiet on the Western Front by Remarque; Haroun and the Sea of Stories by Rushdie; One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Solzhenitsyn; Dr. Jekyll and Mr Hyde by Stevenson; Montana 1948 by Watson; and Kitchen by Yoshimoto.

Amaranth read and studied the following poets and their poems in her Lower year: Selected Poems by Clampitt; An Ordinary Woman by Clifton; On These I Stand by Cullen; Motherlove by Dove; Selected and New Poems by Dunn; A Boy’s Will and North of Boston by Frost; A Shropshire Lad by Housman; New and Selected Poems by Justice; The Women of Plums by Kendrick; Rose by Lee; American Primitive by Oliver; The Best of It by Ryan; New and Selected Poems by Salter; New and Selected Poems by Smith; Selected Poems by Millay; Selected Poems by D. Thomas; Selected Poems by E. Thomas; Selected Poems by Williams; Call Me Ishmael Tonight: A Book of Ghazals by Ali; Selected Poems by Arnold; Selected Poems Beowulf by Auden; “My Last Duchess” and Other Poems by R. Browning; Thomas and Beulah Gluck, The Wild Iris by Dove; New and Selected Poems by Grennan; Donkey Gospel or What Narcissism Means to Me by Hoagland; Poems by Kelly; Ariel by Plath: In Memoriam or Selected Poems by Tennyson; Headwaters by Voigt; Collected Poems by Wilbur; Above the River by Wright; Outside History by Boland; Selected Poems by Hayden; What the Living Do by Howe; Selected Poems by Langston Hughes; Hoops or Holding Company by Jackson; Magic City by Komunyakaa; New and Selected Poems by Kumin; Hinge and Sign by McHugh; Selected Poems by O’Hara; Collected Poems by Roethke; Sonnets by Shakespeare; Sir Gawain and the Green Knight translated by W. S. Merwin; and Prelude by Wordsworth.

Amaranth read and studied the following plays her Lower year: American Buffalo by Mamet; The Crucible by Miller; A Midsummer Night’s Dream by Shakespeare; The Taming of the Shrew by Shakespeare; Joe Turner’s Come and Gone by Wilson; Richard II by Shakespeare; The Merchant of Venice by Shakespeare; Othello by Shakespeare; The Glass Menagerie by Williams; Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom by Wilson; Six Degrees of Separation by Guare; Henry IV, Parts 1 and 2 by Shakespeare; and Macbeth by Shakespeare.

Amaranth read and studied the following non-fiction books her Lower year: Into the Wild by Krakauer; Dust Tracks on a Road by Hurston; and Essays by White.

Amaranth read and studied the following short stories her Lower year: The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven by Alexie;

Drown by Díaz; The Thing Around Your Neck by Adichie; The Metamorphosis and Other Stories by Kafka; Winesburg, Ohio by Anderson; The Things They Carried by O’Brien; and How To Breathe Underwater by Orringer; and The Secret Sharer by Conrad.

Amaranth read and studied the following novels her Lower year: Go Tell It on the Mountain by Baldwin; The Sweet Hereafter by Banks; Great Expectations by Dickens; All the Light We Cannot See by Doerr; The Girl Who Fell from the Sky by Durrow; Tess of the d’Urbervilles by Hardy; Animal Dreams by Kingsolver; Black Swan Green by Mitchell; The Grapes of Wrath by Steinbeck; Cat’s Cradle by Vonnegut; The Picture of Dorian Gray by Wilde; My Antonia by Cather; The Awakening by Chopin; Silas Marner by Eliot; Grendel by Gardner; Exit West by Hamid; For Whom the Bell Tolls by Hemingway; The Bluest Eye by Morrison; We the Animals by Torres; Sense and Sensibility by Austen; Ragtime by Doctorow; The Round House by Erdrich; Herland by Gilman; The Mayor of Casterbridge by Hardy; The Scarlet Letter by Hawthorne; Their Eyes Were Watching God by Hurston; As I Lay Dying by Faulkner; Loving Day by Johnson; One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest by Kesey; The Woman Warrior by Kingston; The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter by McCullers; Frankenstein by M. Shelley; and Maus by Spiegelman.

Amaranth read and studied the following poets and their poems in her Upper year: Final Harvest by Dickinson; The Hollow Men by Eliot; The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by Eliot; Selected Poems by Jeffers; The Complete Poems by D. H. Lawrence; For the Union Dead/Life Studies by Lowell; The Boys at Twilight by Maxwell; Time’s Fool by Maxwell; Collected Poems by Merrill; Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair by Neruda; Dark Fields of the Republic: Poems 1991–95 by Rich; Selected Early Poems by Simic; Selected Late and New Poems by Simic; Native Guard by Trethewey; Selected Poems by Whitman; The Singing by C. K. Williams; The Leroi Jones/Amiri Baraka Reader by Baraka; Collected Poems by Bishop; Brutal Imagination by Eady; The Four Quartets by Eliot; The Art of the Lathe by Fairchild; Selected Poems by Herbert; Selected Poems by Hopkins; Odes by Keats; New and Selected Poems by Kinnell; Whitsun Weddings by Larkin; Collected Poems by Larkin; What Work Is by Levine; Flower & Hand by Merwin; The Shadow of Sirius by Merwin; Paradise Lost by Milton; Selected Poems by Moore; Collected Poems by Paz; Diving into the Wreck by Rich; Kyrie by Voigt; Divine Comedy by Dante; Selected Poems by Donne; Selected Poems by Fenton; The Angel of History by Forche; The Country Between Us by Forche; Collected Poems by Nemerov; Selected Poems by Phillips; Selected Poems by Pound; Blood Dazzler by Smith; The Gary Snyder Reader by Synder; Collected Poems by Stevens; and Selected Poems by Strand.

Amaranth read and studied the following plays her Upper year: Lysistrata by Aristophanes; Glengarry Glen Ross by Mamet; Equus by Shaffer; A Doll’s House by Ibsen; Twelfth Night by Shakespeare; As You Like It by Shakespeare; Seven Guitars by Wilson; A Man for All Seasons by Bolt; Death of a Salesman by Miller; Long Day’s Journey into Night by O’Neill; Henry V by Shakespeare; A Streetcar Named Desire by Williams; Fences by Wilson; Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? by Albee; Translations by Friel; Measure for Measure by Shakespeare; and The Tempest by Shakespeare.

Amaranth read and studied these non-fiction works her Upper year: Slouching Towards Bethlehem by Didion; Selected Essays by Emerson; A Long Way Gone by Beah; A Collection of Essays by Orwell; John McPhee Reader by McPhee; The Paradise of Bombs by Sanders; Selected Essays by Lawrence; Medusa and the Snail by Thomas; and Walden by Thoreau.

Amaranth read and studied the following short stories her Upper year: The Collected Stories by Cheever; In Our Time by Hemingway; The Nick Adams Stories by Hemingway; Interpreter of Maladies by Lahiri; In the Bedroom by Dubus; Selected Short Stories by Hawthorne; Dubliners by Joyce; Islands by McLeod; In Other Rooms, Other Wonders by Mueenuddin; After the Quake by Murakami; and St. Lucy’s Home for Girls Raised by Wolves by Russell.

Amaranth read and studied the following novels her Upper year: The Sense of an Ending by Barnes; Wuthering Heights by E. Bronte; Intruder in the Dust by Faulkner; The Great Gatsby by Fitzgerald; All the Pretty Horses by McCarthy; Wise Blood by O’Connor; No One Is Coming to Save Us by Watts; Mrs Dalloway by Woolf; Things Fall Apart by Achebe; Pride and Prejudice by Austen; Little Bee by Cleave; Heart of Darkness by Conrad; Middlemarch by Eliot; The Unvanquished by Faulkner; Catch-22 by Heller; The Turn of the ***** by James; Benito Cereno by Melville; Song of Solomon by Morrison; The Wheel of Love by Oates; Anna Karenina by Tolstoy; Rabbit, Run by Updike; All the King’s Men by Warren; Native Son by Wright; Go Down, Moses by Faulkner; The Return of the Native by Hardy; The Sun Also Rises by Hemingway; Paradise by Morrison; Billy Budd, Sailor by Melville; The God of Small Things by Roy; Ceremony by Silko; and The Age of Innocence by Wharton.

Amaranth read and studied the following poets and their poems her Senior year: The Waste Land by Eliot; Omeros by Walcott; and Selected Poems by Yeats.

Amaranth read and studied the following plays in her Senior year:

Humble Boy by Jones; Hamlet by Shakespeare; King Lear by Shakespeare; and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead by Stoppard.

Amaranth read and studied the following non-fiction works her Senior year: Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza by Anzaldua; Book of Meditations (all volumes); Between the World and Me by Coates; Where I Was From by Didion; Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, an American Slave by Douglass; Meditations from a Movable Chair by Dubus; and In Search of Our Mothers’ Gardens by Walker.

Amaranth read and studied the following short stories her Senior year: Collected Fictions by Borges; and A Good Man Is Hard to Find by O’Connor.

Amaranth read and studied the following novels her Senior year: On the Road by Kerouac; Disgrace by Coetzee; Crime and Punishment by Dostoevsky; Invisible Man by Ellison; A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by Joyce; Sula by Morrison; Austerlitz by Sebald; and To the Lighthouse by Woolf.

Andover had an arts museum on campus, the Addison Gallery of Arts. This art museum had one of the most important collections of American art. The museum contained works by John Singleton Copely, Thomas Eakins, Winslow Homer, Maurice Prendergast, John Singer Sargent, John Henry Twachtman, James McNeill Whistler, Alexander Calder, Stuart Davis, Arthur Dove, Marsden Hartley, Hans Hofmann, Edward Hopper, Georgia O’Keeffe, Jackson *******, Charles Sheeler, John Sloan, Frank Stella (a graduate of Andover), Mark Bradford, and Kara Walker. Addison Gallery had 8,700 photographs by such luminaries as Lewis Baltz, Walker Evans (another Andover graduate), Robert Frank, and Eadweard Muybridge. The Addison Gallery had more than 20,000 works in all media — painting, sculpture, photography, drawings, prints, and decorative arts — from the 18th century to the present.

Also on the Andover campus was the Peabody Institute of Archaeology founded in 1901 by Robert S. Peabody, an Andover graduate, Class of 1857. It contained more than 600,000 artifacts, photographs, and documents. Peabody founded the eponymous institution “to introduce the students of Phillips Academy to the world of archaeology, to promote archaeological research, and to provide a place for students to gather.”

Amaranth received a world-class education at Andover, then matriculated to Columbia College, Columbia University where she received another.

Chapter 16

Amaranth sat down beside the beautiful crocuses.

“When I was a little girl, I loved to hike in and around Sedona. I loved walking among the red rocks, through the canyons, along the rivers and streams. One of my favorite hikes was Doe Mountain Trail.

The trail was a slow and gradual ascent up to the top of a mesa where you could see Mescal Mountain, Courthouse Butte, Fay Canyon, and Bear Mountain. Some days I would sit atop the mesa for several hours taking in all the beauty around me. I would see deer and rabbits. In time, I would feel I was a part of the red rocks and streams. I even felt I could talk to the deer and rabbits, if only they would stay with me for a while, which, of course, they didn’t. I had a backpack, and most often would bring a sandwich to eat, some green grapes, and always some water. I was alone often on top of the mesa, but at the same time, I was part of everything I saw and heard, so I never felt lonely. Often I would bring a book to read. I remember reading ‘Charlotte’s Web’ by E. B. White and ‘The Tale of Peter Rabbit’ by Beatrix Potter.”

Amaranth turned around a bit to look at the creek.

“This creek reminds me of the creeks and streams around Sedona. Sometimes I would take off my shoes and step into the creek. The water was ice-cold, of course, but I could feel the rushing water powering its way downstream. I wondered how the fish could keep from hitting the rocks in the creek. I felt, too, that the creek was alive, was having a wonderful time coursing through the red rocks. The creek I had my feet in was alive too.”

Amaranth turned back around toward the crocuses and sat quietly for a long time. She was thinking of her parents and how much they had loved each other. She had been, she thought, the recipient of their love, and, of course, she was. Now 32, Amaranth realized now that that love was still in her, and would always be. That love she had received as a child, that love was the source of all her sensibilities and intuition. It was also the source of her poetry and her deep caring of others and all things living, of Earth itself and all the living creations on it. No wonder she was so happy most of the time, and Ty — he was just a precious piece of her world of love. Bless him, she thought.

She stood up then and spoke to the crocuses.

“You enjoy your day, too,” she said and walked up the hill and went into her home.

Chapter 17

Ty was also a writer, but not of poetry. He wrote aphorisms. So when Amaranth saw sheets of paper with aphorisms on them lying on the computer desk, she knew they were his, so she picked them up, sat down on the blue sofa and read them.

We are more concerned with goods than goodness.

May we be a servant to all others and masters of ourselves.

If a man doesn’t keep his word, he soon finds out he has a
limited vocabulary.

Casinos abet gambling.

The mountain is deeper than it is high.

In the finite, we are relative. In infinity, we are relatives.

Repentagon.

If you are going to err, err on the side of generosity.

I knew a narrow-minded woman who did clerical work. She
stereotyped.

Evil” is the word “live’ twisted.

I open my heart so I may enter yours….

The poem is the sound, publication the echo. The sound is more important than the echo.

Are you shocked to find out that I am human and therefore imperfect, or are you embarrassed to realize you are the same…?

One cannot impose what’s right. One can only evoke it.

The Second Coming will be the coming to the realization
that each of us is sacred, that all things are divine.

The only thing our country really cycles well is pain.

Take the high road. There’s less traffic up there.

It is easier to find a publisher than to find your heart.

To save Earth, you have to planet.

Joy is hard for most people to enjoy.

“Intrinsic worth” is redundant. “Extrinsic worth” is oxymoronic.

Beliefs expressed anonymously are coward’s clothes.

I hate smoke because it will **** you. I hate smoke and mirrors because they will **** you, too.

“I’ve been around the writer’s block a few times,” the author remarked.

Out on a limbo…

Bigotry is one of the worst forms of mental illness.

We used just to waste human lives. Now we turn lives into human waste.

POPE FOR PRESIDENT: feed the poor, wash their feet, shelter them.

Labels are for ketchup bottles.

In our nation’s capital, we have more probes than probity.

An avalanche, a mountain’s revanche.

All people live downstream.

Gogh Van Lines

The John F. Kennedy and Marilyn Monroe School of National, International and Personal Affairs

Edgar Allan Poet

The new global politician: 1) I have a new agenda — humanity. 2) I have a new platform — Earth.

Map of the world: caption: “Love it or leave it.”

Adobe abode

Gold Rush Hour

NRA or NEA?

Danger has anger in it, and tragedy rage.

The siren has become our national anthem.

Do not confuse your pain with your worth.

One man’s cult is another man’s culture.

Truce<>traduce

Ire<>irenic

Cosmos or cosmetics?

Anonymity vitiates worth.

There is still one more mega-merger to occur. It will be called “Humanity.”

First, do no harm.

Second, do no harm.

Third, do no harm.

Fourth,….


There is a support group. It is called “Humanity.”

Zen-zenith

Political unrest=societal insomnia

If we could change harm into harmony….

Perception or projection?

L ots

O f

V ital

E nergy

V oices

O f

T he

E arth


Statute of Lamentations

Pills are our pillows.

The problem with the USA, Mexicans say, is that it has a
borderline personality.

Fortune 500<>Misfortune 7,500,000,000

Several years before Rodney Dangerfield died, he was in the hospital. He got a card. The card said: “Get well sooner or later.”

People want what they want.

Might might, but will will.

Be all you can be: Be yourself.

All human beings are poets. Their poetry is whatever they’re doing when being true to themselves.

I was charged with distributing the peace.

We reserve the right to be of service to anyone.

An Archie Bunker mentality….

If you were truly my superior, you would sit beneath me.

All works are autobiographical.

Knowledge sees that all are different. Wisdom sees that all
are one.

Every time you are true to yourself, you have written a poem.

Taking a bathos….

If soon we don’t get it, it will get us.

Always be willing to criticize yourself first, and first to forgive yourself.

If a man speaks the truth, hear him.

MBAs are a three-piece pursuit.

Nothing is never lost in the giving.

The three most romantic places on Earth are above you, beside you, and beneath you.

Chapter 18

“Julie, it’s so good to see you again. How have you been and how is Ed doing at Google?” asked Amaranth.

“Oh, Am! It’s so good to see you again. Ed is doing fine. He just got a raise.”

Ed was Julie’s husband, a veritable computer guru. He had been at Google a little over a year. Amaranth and Julie were eating lunch at Thrive, one of the best vegetarian restaurants in Boulder.

“How are Timmy and Mary and Kristin doing?” asked Amaranth.

Julie and Ed had three children, Timmy, who was six, and Mary, who was three. Kristin was only 11 months old.

“They’re all doing well. Timmy and Mary are in a summer camp and having lots of fun and making new friends,” replied Julie.

Amaranth couldn’t help it. Julie was her dear friend, had been for several years. Yet hearing about her children made her feel both happy for Julie and more than a bit sad for herself, even though she felt guilty for feeling that way.

“I’m going to have the Inner Flame salad,” said Julie. That salad consisted of mixed greens, avocados, tomatoes, green and red onions, cucumber slices, bell peppers, cilantro, sunflower seeds, sprouted garbanzo beans, and chipotle lime dressing.

“I’m going to have a salad also,” said Amaranth. “I’m going to get the Pad Thai salad.” That salad consisted of spiralized zucchini, marinated broccoli and mushrooms, carrots, red bell peppers, purple cabbage, green onions, cilantro, sesame seeds, and kim chi.

“To drink, I’m going to get the Green Gaia smoothie,” said Julie.

“And I’m going to get the Tropical Sunshine smoothie,” said Amaranth.

“So, do you and Ed have any special plans for the rest of summer?” asked Amaranth.

“Well, we’re planning to drive to Minnesota to see my parents the first two weeks in August. We haven’t seen them in quite some time. Mom and Dad want to see Timmy, Mary, and Kristin really bad, plus being in St. Paul will be pleasant in early August,” said Julie. “What about you and Ty?”

“We spent a wonderful weekend in Steamboat Springs a few weeks ago. You know, we’re both kind of homebodies. So I think we’ll just hang out in Niwot,” said Amaranth.

“You know the experts are saying we on Earth have only about 10 years to correct the many mistakes we’ve made in regard to climate change, no thanks to Trump and the Republicans. Pulling out unilaterally and impulsively from the Paris Agreement was not just wrong, it was the height of stupidity,” said Amaranth.

“I know, Am,” said Julie. “It’s hard not to think about the imminent consequences of such an ignorant and dangerous decision.”

The waitress brought them their meals, and both Amaranth and Julie enjoyed them with gusto. Afterwards, the two of them talked about more pleasant topics.

“If I don’t see you again before you leave for Minnesota, have a wonderful time,” said Amaranth. “Say hello to Ed for me, please.”

The two paid their bills and walked outside. Boulder, even in July, can be pretty pleasant, even at midday.

Chapter 19

Amaranth had been in deep sleep when the voice had spoken to her for the third time. The voice had said, “Campaign for Earth.”

“‘Campaign for Earth.’” Now what does that mean?” Amaranth had asked herself. Of course, she didn’t know what it had meant, though again the voice had not been threatening. Indeed, if it had been anything, it had been more urgent in tone than anything else, but certainly not threatening. She would talk with Dr. Rosenstein about it. She now looked forward to seeing Dr. Rosenstein she realized. Yes, he was a psychiatrist, but now he was more like a wise friend to her, an ally, if you will.

It was early September now. Amaranth could feel the beginning of fall in the air. Fall was one of her favorite seasons. Fall comes earlier in the mountains, but while Niwot wasn’t in the mountains, it was the doorway to them nonetheless.

Amaranth had awakened earlier this morning, earlier than she normally did. Ty was still sound asleep, so Amaranth slowly and carefully got out of bed, put on her robe, and made her way to the kitchen. She could feel another poem welling up in her, so she poured herself a cup of coffee, sat down in her chair, took into her hand the pen that she now felt was part of her body, and began recording in her notebook:

I WRITE WHEN THE RIVER’S DOWN

I write when the river’s down,

when the ground’s as hard as

a banker’s disposition and as

cracked as an old woman’s face.

I write when the air is still

and the tired leaves of the

dying elm tree are a mosaic

against the bird-blue sky.

I write when the old bird dog,

Sam, is too tired to chase

rabbits, which is his habit

on temperate days. I write

when horses lie on burnt grass,

when the sun is always high

noon, when hope melts like

yellow butter near the kitchen

window. I write when there

are no cherry pies in the

oven, when heartache comes

like a dust storm in early

morning. I write when the

river’s down, and sadness

grows like cockleburs in

my heart.

Amaranth sat in her chair and reread her poem several times.She liked this poem a lot. Finally, she got up from her chair, left the kitchen, and walked into the den where the computer was. She put her coffee cup on the computer desk, then sat in the chair in front of the computer. Ty had not yet awakened, so there was silence throughout the house. She looked at the computer screen. After a few minutes, she began to type on the keyboard.

“Peace on Earth,” she typed, then pressed Enter. Up came what seemed like hundreds of articles related to Peace on Earth. She started reading the first article, then the second one, then several more. All talked about Peace on Earth, but none mentioned any real plan on how to achieve it. She stopped reading any more articles. “Everybody talks about Peace on Earth, but nobody seems to have a viable plan on how to make it happen,” Amaranth said to herself. For over 3,400 years of recorded history, people had talked and written about Peace on Earth, and look where we are today. Earth, and all the people living on it right now, are farther from achieving it than at any time in the past. If the adverse effects of climate change don’t do us in, then a nuclear holocaust will. We are on the brink of extinction and nobody, but nobody, has a plan to save Earth and all the living creations on it. Yet, 7.5 billion people on Earth keep whistling and going about their daily lives. This is insanity!

“Good morning, my love,” said Ty who had awakened, then had come into the den. Ty walked over to where Amaranth was sitting and gave her a kiss on the nape.

“Why don’t we go out for breakfast this morning?” said Ty.

“OK,” said Amaranth. “Let’s go to the Walnut Cafe in Boulder. It’s on Walnut Street, just off 30th.

They each took a shower, got dressed, an, in just a few minutes, were ready to go. They got to the Walnut Cafe in quick order and went inside and grabbed a booth. Then they perused the menu.

A waitress came over bringing glasses of water.

“What would each of you like this morning?” asked the waitress.

Amaranth said, “I would like the vegetarian omelette please, with coffee.” Ty said he’d like the same.

The vegetarian omelette had in it cheddar cheese, mushrooms, onions, tomatoes, and red peppers.

“We get two sides with the omelette, right? Asked Amaranth.

“Yes, that right,” said the waitress.

“Well, I would like the blueberry cornbread and the fresh fruit,” said Amaranth.

“And I would like the banana nut bread and breakfast potatoes, please,” said Ty.

Amaranth had not yet told Ty about the voice, but she did want to talk about Peace on Earth with him. She knew his feelings were like hers.

Amaranth started talking. “Before you came into the den this morning, I had typed in the phrase “Peace on Earth” to see if I could find mention of any plans to realize it. Everybody in the articles talked about Peace on Earth, but nobody spoke about any plan to achieve it,” said Amaranth.

“Well, the United Nations was formed after World War II and Peace on Earth was their ultimate goal, and they’ve had over 70 years to try to achieve it. I’m sure they’ve tried like hell to make it happen, but look at the shape the world is in now. In my opinion, Earth is farther away from universal peace in 2019 than it has been at any other time in over a century. The UN has tried, but you’d have to be blind not to see how unsuccessful their collective attempts have been. There are over 200 nations on Earth right now. How do you expect over 200 nations to come together permanently to achieve Peace on Earth? It’s just not going to happen. And the truth is that five nations — USA, Russia, China, the United Kingdom, and France — the permanent members of the UN Security Council — Individually can thwart any proposal that might possibly effect peace, because all five of them have a veto power they can use unilaterally to undermine any plan of another country, and that’s what they do. It’s a rigged game, that’s what it is,” said Ty.

Ty took a sip of coffee.

“I have an idea,” said Amaranth. “Why don’t we drive up to the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation? School just started, and I’m sure some of the schools need supplies, which we can bring them.”

“That’s a geat idea!” said Ty. “We could drive up on Wednesday, the day that schools open, and give them our donations.”

“But I will have to find out what they need. I can do that this afternoon. We can buy tomorrow what they need. Great!” exclaimed Amaranth.

They drove back to Niwot feeling very happy and excited.

Chapter 20

Pine Ridge, SD, was a tiny town on the reservation. The Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, on the other hand, was the second largest in the country. Its population was about 28,000. It was also the poorest place in America with many concomitant problems. Many families that lived on the reservation had no electricity, no telephones, no running water, no sewage systems. Life expectancy was 47. The adolescent suicide rate was four times greater than the national average. The infant mortality rate was five times greater. The rate of unemployment stood between 80% to 85%. The people of the Oglala Nation lived on the reservation, but clinical depression, rampant alcoholism, drug abuse, malnutrition, and diabetes pervaded it. The teenage suidide rate was five times greater than the national average.

Crazy Horse, who had been chief of the Oglala Sioux, was one of Ty’s heroes, because Crazy Horse was courageous in battle and generous in peace. After a successful buffalo hunt, for example, Crazy Horse would take only what he needed and give the rest of the buffalo to the poorest of his people. He was most kind to the elderly, to the children, and, of course, to the poor. A great leader, Crazy Horse was known to be unassuming, somewhat shy, and modest. He wore simple clothing and never wore face paint, He wore his hair down with only a single feather in it and a small, brown stone behind his ear. When he was younger, Crazy Horse had gone on a vision quest during which, it was said, he realized in himself a kind of invincibility that did not make him conceited or supercilious, but gave him an obdurate feeling that he would never be injured by a gun shot in battle. That prophetic notion turned out to be true. Crazy Horse was never injured by a bullet, but he died only when a military guard stabbed him in the back with a bayonet.

The Wounded Knee massacre occurred in 1890. It was to be the last slaughter of Native Americans by the U.S. military. It happened on December 29 of that year near the Wounded Knee Creek, about ten miles to the east of what is now the tiny town of Pine Ridge.

The U.S. 7th Cavalry rounded up around three hundred Oglala women, children, and mostly old men. One old man was doing what was called a Ghost Dance. The 7th Cavalry took the guns from the Oglala Sioux, but a few resisted. In any event, a shot was fired by someone, which prompted the 7th Calvary to train their four Hotchkiss mountain guns on essentially the defenseless 300 Oglala Sioux and mowed them down as they fell into a ditch.

The Wounded Knee Incident occurred in 1975. There was a 71 day standoff between members of the American Indian Movement (AIM) and members of the FBI. A firefight occurred and several people on both sides were killed. But the only person tried and convicted was an Oglala Sioux named Leonard Peltier, and he was sentenced to two consecutive terms of life in prison in Leavenworth, KS.

Chapter 21

Amaranth and Ty took off about 7 am Wednesday morning for Pine Ridge. It was going to be about a five-and-a-half hour drive.

Amaranth had contacted two schools on the reservation. One was Our Lady of Lourdes Elementary School. The other was Lorman Day School (Wica Owayawa).

Our Lady of Lourdes Elementary School needed the following supplies: crayons, markers, glue sticks, school glue, staplers, staples, spiral bound notebooks, invisible tape with a dispenser, blunt children’s scissors, young adult scissors, electric pencil sharpeners, construction paper, Band-Aids, cotton swabs, bee sting relief pads, #2 pencils, and cotton *****.

Lorman Day School wanted books, specifically the following books: Nowere Boy; The Complete Summer I Turned Pretty Trilogy; The Lightning Thief; The Nebula Secret; P.S. I Still Love You; Warriors Box Set 1–6; Warriors Power of Three Box Set 1–6, Warriors Omen of the Stars Box Set 1–6; Willa of the Wood; Serafina and the Black Coat; To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before; and Always and Forever, Lara Jean.

Amaranth and Ty drove straight through Nebraska to Manderson, SD, about 20 miles from Pine Ridge. Thee only place nearer to Pine Ridge was the casino, which also provided lodging, but neither Amaranth not Ty liked casinos, so they would be staying at Super 8 in Manderson.

Both Amaranth and Ty were dead tired from the long drive, so they both hit the bed fast.

Chapter 22

In the morning, now considerably rested, Amaranth and Ty ate vegetarian sandwiches that she had made in Niwot. Both were eager to get to the two schools. Amaranth had told the administrator at Lorman Day School, Ms. Thatcher, that she had found all the books the teacher had requested on the Amazon website and that Amazon would be sending them to the school ℅ the teacher. They were looking forward to meeting the administrator at Lorman Day School and the principal, Sister Rae, at Our Lady of Lourdes ElementarySchool. They decided to see Sister Rae first.

“It is so kind of you to come here to give us these supplies we dearly need,” said Sister Rae. ”Most people wouldn’t do what the two of you are doing, but you know that already.”

“You’re most welcome. You know as well that most human beings would not do what you decided to do many years ago; devote your life to God and humanity,” said Amaranth.

Sister Rae gave Amaranth and Ty a tour of the school, introducing them to the teachers, saying hello to the students, and chatting with them briefly.

“It was so nice to meet you and your staff and chat with your students,” said Amaranth. “I hope we shall see you again.”

Amaranth and Ty then drove to Lorman Day School.

“Ms. Thatcher, it is so nice to meet you,” said Amaranth. “This my husband, Ty.”

“It is so generous of both of you to donate all the books listed on our website. Not many people would do that,” said Ms. Thatcher.

“Our pleasure,” said Ty.

“Let me show you around the school and introduce the two of you to our teachers,” said Ms. Thatcher.

Amaranth and Ty spent about a half hour with Ms. Thatcher, touring the school, meeting the teachers, and speaking with some of the students.

“Before we leave the reservation, we both want to visit the Wounded Knee cemetery and give our respects before we return home,” said Amaranth.

“That’s very thoughtful of you both,” replied Ms.Thatcher. “Thank you again for your generosity.”

Amaranth and Ty got into their car and headed toward the Wounded Knee cemetery. When they got there, they got out and walked up a small hill where the cemetery was.

They were silent for a long time. Finally, Ty spoke.

“Things in the world haven’t changed much, have they?” Ty asked rhetorically. “The Revolutionary War was the first one in our country. You know that Thomas Jefferson was the primary author of the Declaration of Independence, right? He also wound up owning over 600 slaves; eight of our presidents were slave owners. Then came the Mexican-American War that Lincoln voted against during his one term in Congress. Then the Civil War during which 650,000 to 700,000 American men were killed. Can you even fathom that? Then WW I, then WW II, then the Korean War, then the VietNam War, then the War in Afghanistan that still is going on, then the two wars against Iraq, and then all the other “conflicts” our government keeps secret from us, like Yemen, for example.”

Ty couldn’t help himself.

“I’m sorry, Am. I have just learned too much about how the world really works. I’m sorry,” said Ty.

Chapter 23

“You know Columbia’s Homecoming is right around the corner,” said Ty. “I think we should go back to New York City, see the Homecoming game, see our old — well, not that old, yet — classmates, check out our old haunts, explore the city again, eat at fabulous vegetarian restaurants, have a hell of a great time. What do you think?”

“Wherever I’m with you, I have a great time! Columbia is where I met you, and I’m eternally grateful for that,“ exclaimed Amaranth.

“So even before we get back to New York City, we can start having fun right now planning our trip,” added Ty.

Amaranth gave Ty another big hug.

Chapter 24

Amaranth could feel another poem welling up in her, so she went into the kitchen, sat down in her chair, and picked up her pen off her notebook that lay on the kitchen table, and began to record.

IS THAT NOT A DOVE COMING THROUGH THE CLOUDS?

Is that not a dove coming through the clouds,

sweeping down to bless our crown with love,

gentle wings to caress our forehead, soft strokes

to remind us of our innate kindness, a blindness

no man has in his heart? Is that not a dove

coming through the clouds, its provenance

above the sun, though cool with the countenance

of caring, a daring feat of a celestial being?

Give thanks for this tender gift that reminds us

of our eternal tie to a sky that brushes different

facets of our face. Is that not a dove coming

through the clouds?


Amaranth put the pen back on her closed notebook.

She felt also that she wanted to make another lovely dinner for Ty and herself, so she picked back up her pen again, turned the page on which she had just written her poem, and on the new page, began to write a list of vegetables she would be turning into a delicious meal that afternoon.

Before she started writing, she brewed a *** of coffee, and when it was ready, poured herself a cup, returned to the table, and sat down on her chair.

She enjoyed taking time to think of all her possibilities, then slowly began writing down on the sheet the ones she had chosen to buy at King Soopers, her favorite grocery store in Boulder. Amaranth did not rush this process, because for her it was not only fun to do, but also, in a sense, was a somewhat spiritual endeavor.

Amaranth sipped her last bit of coffee, tore the list of vegetables from the legal pad, headed outside, got into her car, and started driving from Niwot to Boulder to shop in King Soopers. It was a beautiful day to be outside, this day that felt like the coming of fall.

Chapter 25

Amaranth had already started Mahler’s 2nd Symphony on the computer, lit the yellow candle at the center of the table covered, as always, with a clean, white linen tablecloth and was now ready to present what she thought would be a delectable dinner.

“Tonight, we have for a salad, smoked aubergine, red peppers, walnuts, and pomegranates,” said Amaranth, looking at Ty sitting at the table as she spoke. “For soup, we have chilled English pea soup with crab and Meyer lemon. For an entree, we have speedy ratatouille with goat cheese. For dessert, we have dark chocolate mousse with cardamom, candied ginger, and hazelnuts. Enjoy!”

The dinner was delicious.

“Wow!” exclaimed Ty. “Are you sure you don’t want to open up a vegetarian restaurant in Boulder?” remarked Ty.

“I happen to serve only one customer at a time, and you just happen to be that customer, for the rest of my life,” said Amaranth.

“That’s sweet, Am,” said Ty.

“I’m just about finished with W.E.B. Du Bois’s The Souls of Black Folk”, added Ty. “Du Bois and Frederick Douglass were both intellectuals. There were 4,000,000 black slaves in the Deep South when the Civil War began in 1861, and when Reconstruction ended in 1877 and the white supremacists replaced the federal troops with growing numbers of KKK members and Black Codes and Jim Crow and lynchings and various forms of voter suppression, blacks remained essentially hopeless and fearful and dirt-poor. Can you imagine how many more black lives continued to live in horror and servitude, how many more minds were wasted, how many more hearts remained broken, how many more souls remained darkened for decades? Du Bois and Douglass were just two out of 4,000,000 blacks who found some sunlight.”

Chapter 26

“I am so excited, Am!” said Ty. “I have just completed what I think are contingencies and plans about our trip to New York City and the Columbia Homecoming and I’d like to share them with you. Do you have time now?”

“Sure I do!” said Amaranth. The two sat down on the blue sofa in the living room.

“Well, first, we depart from DIA (Denver International Airport) Thursday, the 17th, on a Delta nonstop flight to New York City, leaving at 11:20 am and and arriving at JFK at 5:10 pm. I booked a room at International House for our entire stay. That night, we have reservations to eat at The Original Buddha Bodai Kosher Vegetarian Restaurant (5 Mott Street). Sounds like fun, doesn’t it? Then we go back to the International House and flop into bed. I’m guessing we will be pretty tired by then.

“Then the next morning, we will walk down to Tom’s Restaurant, our old haunt, and have breakfast. Then I thought we could walk around campus, visit Hartley Hall, Butler Library, Lerner, and go see the new Manhattanville campus. I’ve already contacted Bill and Debbie Roach, and Herb Hochman and his girlfriend, Leni. They will be at the alumni reception to be held in the basketball gymnasium in Dodge Fitness Center.

“Saturday, of course, is Homecoming Day. We’ll have breakfast every morning at Tom’s, just as we used to do, if that’s OK with you. We’ll be playing Penn. We’ll be eating at Massawa, a vegetarian restaurant in Harlem, the oldest African eatery in New York City. Then I managed to get tickets to Hamilton, so that’s what we will be doing Saturday night.”

“How did you manage to get tickets to Hamilton on such short notice?” asked Amaranth.

“You forgot that I was head of NSOP (New Student Orientation Program) our senior year, and I got tapped by Nacom’s (Columbia’s oldest senior society) toward the end of our junior year, because that was when I was chosen to be head of NSOP. I’ve got connections,” said Ty, somewhat facetiously.

“Sunday afternoon, I thought we’d have a leisurely walk through Chinatown, if you like. Then I’ve made reservations to have dinner at Daniel (56th Street at Park Avenue) that evening. Then back to International House for more sleep.

“Monday, I thought we’d visit the Museum of Modern Art in the afternoon, eat at Le Bernardin — yes, I was able to make reservations there — then attend The New York City Ballet at Lincoln Center. The program that night is called ‘Stravinsky and Balanchine’ and will consist of three famous ballets: Allegro Brillante, La Source, and Firebird.

Amaranth couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“Then Tuesday, I thought it would be interesting to explore the American Museum of Natural History. That’s where Margaret Mead worked while she continued to teach at Columbia. You know she graduated from Barnard and got her PhD in anthropology at Columbia studying under the founder of that field, Professor Franz Boas. I have reservations for us to eat at Blue Hill, a highly rated vegetarian restaurant. I was also able to get tickets to To **** A Mockingbird, the hottest show on Broadway right now, so that’s where we’ll be going after dinner.

“Wednesday, I thought we’d visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art, eat at Fournos Theophios, another highly rated vegetarian restaurant, then go back to Lincoln Center to listen to the New York Philharmonic. Jaap van Zweden will be conducting Mozart’s Symphony №40, Sibelius’s Symphony №2, and Beethoven’s 3rd symphony, Eroica.

“Thursday, we fly back to Niwot, via DIA.”

Amaranth just sat there, stunned. Then, finally, she gave Ty another big and long, long hug.

Chapter 27

Amaranth had been an English and comparative literature major at Columbia College. She had studied under Andrew Delbanco, who had been named by Time Magazine in 2001 as “America’s best social critic.”

Growing up, Amaranth had been a voracious reader. She had read Albert’s Impossible Toothache, Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day, AreYou My Mother? The Story of Babar, Barnyard Dance!, Bread and Jam for Frances, Charlotte’s Web, Chica, Chica, Boom, Boom, Corduroy, Dear Zoo, Doctor De Soto, Winnie the Pooh, The Tale of Peter Rabbit, and many others.

As Amaranth got older, she read Bone Crier’s Moon, Heart of Flames, Harley in the Sky, How To Speak Boy, Don’t Read the Comments, Hotel Dare, Lifeformed: Hearts and Minds, The Catcher in the Rye, A Wrinkle in Time, and many others.

At Andover, she had read a number of Dicken’s novels, including David Cooperfield, Oliver Twist, Great Expectations, The Pickwick Papers, Bleak House, and The Mystery of Edwin Drood. Other novels she had read were Thomas Hardy’s The Mayor Casterbridge, Tess of the d’Urbervilles, and Far from the Madding Crowd.

At Columbia, when majoring in English and comparative literature, Amaranth took many different courses and read hundreds of novels, plays, and poems, including, but not limited to, the following: Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales, and virtually all of Shakespeare’s plays and sonnets.

To begin with, Amaranth had to learn and study many literary devices: among others were ad hominem, anaphora, antimetabole, assonance, double entendre, portmanteau, synesthesia, aposiopesis, consonance, doopelgänger, hyperbaton, meiosis, parataxis, and synecdoche.

Amaranth read other prominent dramatists and authors of Renaissance literature, including Christopher Marlowe, a contemporary of Shakespeare, whose plays included Doctor Faustus, Edward II, Tamburlaine (part one and two), and The Jew of Malta; Edmund Spenser’s epic poem, The Fairie Queene; as well as English prose by John Lilly and Thomas Nashe.

Amaranth read many works by authors of the Romantic era: Victor Hugo’s novels Les Misérables and The Hunchback of Notre-Dame; his poetry collections Les Contemplations and La Légende des Siecles; and his plays Cromwell and Hernani. She read Alexandre Dumas’s novels The Count of Monte Cristo, The Three Musketeers, Twenty Years After, The Vicomte of Bragelonne, Ten Years Later, and The Man in the Iron Mask. She also read his play Henry III et sa cour.

Sturm und Drang, literally storm and stress in English, was a German movement in literature and music between the late 1760s and the early 1780s that favored immense emotion over the preceding rationalism of the Enlightenment. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, otherwise known simply as Goethe, and Friedrich von Schiller were the two most prominent figures of the movement. Amaranth read Goethe’s epistolary novel The Sorrows of Young Werther, Wilhelm Meister’s Apprenticeship, Willhem Meister’s Journeyman Years, The Idyll of Hermann and Dorothea, his autobiography From My Life: Poetry and Truth, and Italian Journey. She also read his plays Iphigenia in Tauris, Egmont, Torquato Tasso, his verse dramas The Natural Daughter, Faust, Clavigo, and Der Burgergeneral. She also read his collection of poems West-Eastern Diwan.

Geothe and Schiller, it should be noted, were very close friends. These two were pivotal figures in the literary movement called Weimar Classicism. Amaranth read Schiller’s plays: The Robbers; Fiesco; Intrigue and Love; Don Carlos; The Wallenstein trilogy; Mary Stuart; The Maid of Orleans; The Bride of Messina; and William Tell.

Amaranth read authors of colonial America: William Bradford, John Winthrop, Cotton Mather, and Jonathan Edwards.

Amaranth read early African-American authors: Frederick Douglass and Sojourner Truth, both former slaves.

Amaranth read examples of Bildungsroman novelists: Henry Fielding, James Joyce, and Kazuo Ishiguro,

Amaranth read the poems of the most famous Russian poet of the Romantic era, Alexander Pushkin. She also read Pushkin’s novel in verse Eugene Onegin.

Amaranth read the poems of these British literary luminaries of the 19th century: William Wordsworth; Samuel Taylor Coleridge; Percy Bysshe Shelley; John Keats; Lord Byron; Rudyard Kipling; Robert Browning; Elizabeth Barrett Browning; Matthew Arnold; Thomas Gray; and Robert Southey.

And Amaranth didn’t forget about the poetry of John Donne, who lived from 1572 to 1631. Nor did she forget about William Blake, who lived from 1757 to 1827, and had to wait almost two hundred years to be discovered and then revered as one of England’s most brilliant poets and artists.

Amaranth read many Victorian novelists, but because she had already read so many of Dicken’s novels at Andover, she skipped reading them at Columbia College. The same was true for Thomas Hardy’s novels. But she did read William Thackeray’s Vanity Fair; Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre; Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights; Anne Brontë’s The Tenant of Wildfell Hall; Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility; and George Eliot’s Middlemarch.

Amaranth read the plays of George Bernard Shaw: The Philanderer; Mrs. Warren’s Profession; Arms and the Man; Candida; The Man of Destiny; You Never Can Tell; and Captain Brassbound’s Conversion. She also read Oscar Wilde’s novel The Picture of Dorian Gray and his play The Importance of Being Earnest.

Amaranth read 19th century American novelists: Washington Irving; James Fenimore Cooper; Ralph Waldo Emerson; Herman Melville; Harriet Beecher Stowe; Henry David Thoreau; Mark Twain; and Henry James.

Amaranth read the 20th century poems of W. B. Yeats, the famous Irish poet, and the novels of Virginia Woolf, one of the early members of the Bloomsbury Group: The Voyage Out; To the Lighthouse; Orlando: A Biography; The Waves; Flush: A Biography; and Between the Acts. Having been so moved by the beauty of Virginia Woolf’s writings, Amaranth had been deeply touched by her learning about the author’s personal life, her many battles with mental illness that culminated tragically in her suicide.

Amaranth also read the poems of 20th century British poets, W. H. Auden and Dylan Thomas.

Amaranth also read 20th century American novelists: Dashiell Hammett; Pearl Buck; Gertrude Stein; Aldous Huxley; Zora Neale Hurston; William Faulkner; Willa Cather; F. Scott Fitzgeralf; Earnest Hemingway; Sherwood Anderson; J. D. Salinger; Edith Wharton; Eudora Welty; John Dos Passos; Harper Lee; Kurt Vonnegut; Ralph Ellison; Jack London; Carson McCullers; John Updike; Thomas Pynchon; Philip Roth; Jack Kerouac; Joseph Heller; Richard Wright; Upton Sinclair; Theodore Dreiser; James Baldwin; Herman Wouk, Djuna Barnes; Sinclair Lewis; and Toni Morrison.

Amaranth also read 20th century American poets: Robert Frost; Carl Sandburg; Wallace Stevens; William Carlos Williams; Ezra Pound; e.e cummings; Marianne Moore; Langston Hughes; Rainer Maria Rilke; Guillaume Apollinaire; John Berryman; Frank O’Hara; James Merrill; John Ashbery; Gwendolyn Brooks; Robert Lowell; W. S. Merwin; Allen Ginsberg; Anne Sexton; and Sylvia Plath.

Amaranth was particularly moved by Martin Luther King’s Letter from Birmingham Jail.

By the time Amaranth received her BA from Columbia College, she had read and studied a lot of novels and poems and plays.

Chapter 28

Many people collected rocks, coins, or stamps. Amaranth collected words.

It began in 4th grade, Amaranth remembered. Among the many books she had been reading in grade school, she happened on a biography of Webster — not Daniel, but Noah Webster. In 1806, Noah Webster published the first dictionary of American English. For some unknown reason, reading about his life and his relentless pursuit of an intellectual goal — in this case, words — made an unconscious, indelible impression upon her.

During her first year at Andover — in public school called 9th grade, in prep-school talk, called “Junior” year — Amaranth’s English teacher was Dr. Gillingham, on whom she would have, in time, a crush. Dr. Gillingham was the first really learned person she had ever met. He had his PhD from Oxford, yet he was teaching 9th graders. He could, whenever the occasion merited it, quote from any of Shakespeare’s plays or sonnets. What was more, he gave everyone in his class a copy of the Harbrace Vocabulary Workbook, which, in short, contained the prefixes, suffixes, and roots of the Greek, Latin, and Anglo-Saxon languages that, over time, came to make up the vast majority of English words. Amaranth was transfixed by these processes. For example, if one took the English word anachronistic and knew what the prefix, suffix, and root were to that word, and knew what they meant, even if one had never seen that word before, which was the case for Amaranth, one could figure out what that word meant. “Amazing!” Amaranth thought. The most important part of the process was to recognize the root of the word. The root word of anachronistic was, of course, chron. If one had studied well, one would know that chron was derived from the Greek word chronos, which meant time. If one also knew that the prefix ana meant without, one could quite easily figure out the meaning of anachronistic, which means, quoting from Merriam-Webster, “a chronological misplacing of persons, events, objects, or customs in regard to each other.” Got it? Amaranth sure had, and that edification was indeed the foundation of, and the catalyst for, her incipient love affairs with words.

It should be underscored that Amaranth did not love etymology to be pedantic; rather, as a burgeoning poet, she always wanted to use not a pretentious word, but the precise word, as she called it, a process wherein a poet would unconsciously be imbued deeply in one’s mind the precise word among thousands of others, ready to be accessed effortlessly when a poet wanted to convey a specific feeling, insight, or emotion, let’s say, precisely.

Every new word Amaranth learned was exciting for her, even transcendent. Every new word would have its own heft, its own color, its own timbre, its qualities of lightness or heaviness. Amaranth never used a thesaurus. She didn’t need one. She had one in the deep recesses of her brain ready to use unconsciously and effortlessly whenever she felt a poem welling up inside of her.

Amaranth had written this epigram a number of years ago: “Poetry is like the ocean wind: It blows only for those sails that are open.” She also had come to believe that writing poetry was like making love. “If you have to try making love, stop.”

Chapter 29

Finally, Thursday, 17 October 2019, had arrived. The wait was over, and Amaranth and Ty could barely contain their synergistic excitement. That morning at 11:20 am MT, their nonstop Delta flight 1806 would take off from Denver’s DIA and would arrive at 5:10 pm ET at JFK airport in New York City.

“I can’t believe it!” shouted Amaranth. “We’re going to New York City for a week, a whole week!”

“And Columbia’s going to beat Penn and we are going to eat at some of the finest vegetarian restaurants in the world and we’re going to see Bill and Debbie and Herb and Leni and we’re going to see many of the most beautiful paintings and sculptures in the world and listen to some of the most beautiful music ever played live by one of the greatest orchestras in the world and watch some of the greatest ballet dancers in the world perform and walk around the city that is the capital of the world and make love in New York City as many times as we want!” an almost exhausted Ty exclaimed.

Both had to sit down on the blue sofa in the living room for a few minutes. Then they started loading the car with their pieces of luggage and finally began their drive to DIA. Once there, they got in line and went through the ritual that all Americans have to go through before they can board the plane.

“You take the window seat, Am. You like to look at the clouds and the land below,” said Ty. Amaranth had brought her copy of Toni Morrison’s book Song of Solomon with her and thought she’d read it for a while. Morrison had won the 1993 Nobel Prize in literature.

The plane took off smoothly, and before long, had ascended to its cruising altitude of 33,000 feet. Ty had asked Amaranth if she wanted a pillow, and she said she didn’t. But Ty did, so he asked a stewardess to bring him one, which she did, and within minutes, he had fallen asleep, his head lying softly on the pillow.

In due course, the plane landed without incident at JFK. By the time Amaranth and Ty had retrieved their luggage, it was approaching 6 pm. They hailed a cab and asked the driver, after giving him directions, to take them to International House, just several blocks from Columbia’s campus.

International House was founded in 1924. John D. Rockefeller, Jr. and the Cleveland H. Dodge family paid for its construction. It had been designated a New York City landmark. To quote its brochure: “International House was the first global community of its kind, predating the United Nations by 21 years. For more than 96 years it has transformed the lives of more than 65,000 alumni, which include not only Nobel Prize winners, heads of state, award-winning authors, singers, actors, musicians, and CEOs, but teachers, doctors, small business owners, community leaders and volunteers throughout the world. We achieve our mission of preparing leaders of the global community by building core values of Respect, Empathy, and Moral Courage through a lived experience that consists of organic encounters and a series of unparalleled programs offered within our Morningside Heights facilities. I-House has welcomed bright young people from all over the world to live, learn, and grow together through a transformative experience that prepares them to join and lead the conversations that will change the world. I-House is home to approximately 700 resident members from more than 100 countries.”

The cab pulled up to the entrance of International House and Amaranth and Ty got out with their luggage, paid the driver, and thanked him. Then they went inside.

“Hi, I’m Ty Anderson and this is my wife, Amaranth. We have reservations for a room,” said Ty.

“Oh yes, Mr. Anderson. Please fill out this card for me, and here’s two keys to your room,” replied the clerk. Ty filled out the card and took the keys.

“Thank you so much,” said Ty, then he and Amaranth walked to the elevator, took it to the 7th floor, found their room, opened the door, and entered it.

“This is a nice room,” said Amaranth and lay on the double bed.

It was approaching 7:00 pm now, and understandably both Amaranth and Ty were beat. Ty lay down next to Amaranth. They had reservations for dinner at The Original Buddha Bodai Kosher Vegetarian Restaurant (5 Mott Street) at 8:00 pm.

“Let’s rest awhile, then we’ll take a cab to the restaurant,” said Ty.

About 7:20, they got up, used the bathroom, and changed into their more “formal” clothes for dinner. They then found their way out of the International House, walked up to Broadway, and hailed a cab that took them to The Original Buddha Bodai Kosher Vegetarian Restaurant. It was a few minutes before 8 when they arrived.

Chapter 30

“Good evening,” said the maitre d’.

“Good evening,” replied Ty. “We are the Anderson party, and we have reservations for dinner at 8,” replied Ty.

“Very good, sir,” said the maitre d’, who then escorted Amaranth and Ty to their table.

“Wow! I can’t believe we’re really here,” said Amaranth. Their waiter brought them two menus.

“Let’s have fun perusing the menus, Am. We’re in no hurry,” said Ty.

Amaranth and Ty did have fun perusing their menus.

“I’ve decided what I want. How about you?” said Amaranth.

“I’m ready, too,” said Ty.

Ty motioned to their waiter who immediately came to their table.

“You go first,” said Ty to Amaranth.

“OK, Ty. I’d like to order as an appetizer the fried crispy stuffed bread and barbecue vegetarian meat. For soup, I’d like the vegetarian chicken and corn soup. For my entrée, I’d like the shredded shiitake mushroom with broccoli. For dessert, I’d like the small mango pudding.”

Now it was Ty’s turn. “For an appetizer, I’d like the fried cumin vegetarian lamb. For soup, I’d like the pumpkin mushroom seafood soup. For my entrée, I’d like the vegetarian lobster in black bean sauce. For dessert, I’d like the tofu cheese cake.”

The waiter nodded his head, then left their table.

“This is a beautiful little restaurant,” said Amaranth.

“I bet the food is as good as the restaurant is beautiful,” replied Ty.

The two didn’t have to wait long before the waiter brought their appetizers, which they both enjoyed. The same was true for their soups, and then their entrées. Their desserts were delicious also. Amaranth and Ty were both pleasantly stuffed, and after a long day of travel and then a large meal, they were ready to sleep. So they returned to the International House, got to their room, and without hesitation, fell into bed and slept peacefully through the night.

Chapter 31

They awakened well rested. Friday was the day Ty had set aside for the two of them to revisit their alma mater, Columbia College. But first, they had to have breakfast at one of their old haunts, Tom’s Restaurant, made famous by Suzanne Vega, a Barnard student at the time, who had written and sung about the restaurant in her hit song that she called, surprisingly, “Tom’s Diner.” Notwithstanding, that song, even though it was a misnomer, helped launch her career.

Later, Tom’s Restaurant became even more famous, because it was used as the exterior shot of the restaurant where Seinfeld and his friends would gather to chat and eat on that famous TV series. Moreover, Tom’s Restaurant was located on the corner of Broadway and 112th Street, and if one looked eastward down 112th Street, one could see, just a block away, the incredibly beautiful Cathedral of St. John the Divine.

Amaranth and Ty made their way leisurely to Tom’s Restaurant, and when they got there, entered it for the first time in almost ten years. Their favorite booth in which they had sat and ate so many breakfasts happened to be free, so they grabbed it.

“Just like old times,” said Ty.

“Just like old times,” Amaranth echoed.

Their waitress came to their booth immediately and handed them both menus.

“Oh, thank you, but we don’t need them. We already know what we want,” said Ty.

“Fine. What would you like?” said the waitress.

Amaranth went first. “I’d like two eggs scrambled and pancakes, please,” said Amaranth. “And please, may I have the syrup on the side?”

“Of course,” said the waitress. “What would you like, sir?”

“I’d like two eggs sunny-side up with potatoes and two pieces of rye toast, please,” said Ty.

“Anything to drink?” asked the waitress.

“Each of us would like a cup of coffee, please,” said Ty.

Their breakfast orders came fast, and both Amaranth and Ty dug in. They were hungry and excited to walk back up Broadway to the 116th main entrance to the Columbia campus and begin to explore all the places they had shared a decade ago.

Chapter 32

Columbia College was founded in 1754 as King’s College. Alexander Hamilton and John Jay were students there. When the American Revolution began, Hamilton left school before graduating, first to serve under George Washington and later to hold a number of high posts in our nascent nation. He was one of the authors of The Federalist Papers. John Jay became the United States’ first chief justice of the Supreme Court. When the war was over, the Columbia trustees decided it would be prudent to change the name of the college from King’s College to Columbia College, which they did.

Columbia College moved several times up the island of Manhattan. When Columbia College moved to its present location, Morningside Heights, it changed its name to Columbia University. Its main entrance today is at 116th Street and Broadway. An earlier location had been in what is now midtown Manhattan; consequently, Columbia still owned the land underneath Rockefeller Plaza, but decided to sell it in the 1980s for $400,000,000.

Columbia University had won 84 Nobel Prizes, more than any of the other Ivy universities. Its graduate school of journalism awarded the Pulitzer Prizes.

The 2019 admit rate for Columbia College, the traditional, coed, liberal arts school of Columbia University, was 5.1%, making it the second most selective school in the Ivy League. Columbia College admitted slightly more than 2,000 applicants out of slightly more than 42,000 worldwide. That’s about one out of twenty.

In 2019, Columbia College would celebrate the 100th anniversary of the Core Curriculum. Columbia College was the only school in the Ivy League that had the Core Curriculum, which every student had to take, regardless of her/his major. The “Core,” which was how virtually every student affectionately referred to it, was a rigorous two-year course of studies that include the following: Literature Humanities was a year-long study of great books that included Luke/John by unknown, Confessions by Augustine, The Divine Comedy by Dante, Essays by Michel de Montaigne, Macbeth by Shakespeare, Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes, Paradise Lost by John Milton, Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen, Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky, To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf, Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison, The Iliad by Homer, If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho by Anne Carson, The Odyssey by Homer, Genesis by unknown, Job by unknown, The Histories by Herodotus, Oresteia by Aeschylus, Antigone by Sophocles, The Clouds by Aristophanes, The Symposium by Plato, The Aeneid by Virgil, Metamorphoses by Ovid, Gilgamesh by unknown, Isaiah by Isaiah, Hymn to Demeter by unknown, Oedipus Rex by Sophocles, Lysistrata by Aristophanes, Bacchae by Euripides, Medea by Euripides, History of the Peloponnesian War by Thucydides, The Decameron by Boccaccio, and King Lear by Shakespeare.

Contemporary Civilization was “a year-long study introducing students to a range of issues concerning the kinds of communities — political, social, moral, and religious — that human beings construct for themselves and the values that inform and define such communities.” Examples of books read and studied were The Wealth of Nations by Adam Smith, Groundwork of the Metaphysic of Morals by Immanuel Kant, A Vindication of the Rights of Woman by Mary Wollstonecraft, Democracy in America by Alexis de Tocqueville, On Liberty, Utilitarianism, and Other Essays by John Stuart Mill, On the Genealogy of Morality by Friedrick Nietzsche, The Souls of Black Folk by W. E. B. Du Bois, Hind Swaraj by Gandhi, Origins of Totalitarianism by Hannah Arendt, The Wretched of the Earth by Frantz Fanon, Republic by Plato, Nicomachean Ethics by Aristotle, The City of God by Augustine, The Prince by Machiavelli, Leviathan by Hobbes, Second Treatise & Letter on Toleration by Locke, and Discourse on Inequality and The Social Contract by Rousseau.

Art Humanities was a semester-long “analytical study of a limited number of monuments and artists, and taught students how to look at, think about, and engage in critical discussion of the visual arts.”

Music Humanities was a semester-long study that “awakened in students an appreciation of music in the western world and helped them respond intelligently to a variety of musical idioms, and it engaged them in the debates about the character and purposes of music that had occupied composers and musical thinkers since the ancient times.”

Frontiers of Science had “integrated modern science into the Core Curriculum to challenge students to think about the world around them and the different ways in which science could help them answer questions about nature and themselves.”

The Science requirement was a study whose “objective was identical to that of its humanities and social science counterparts, namely to help students understand the civilization of their own day and to participate effectively in it. The science component was intended specifically to provide students with the opportunity to learn what kinds of questions were asked about nature, how hypotheses were tested against experimental or observational evidence, how results of tests were evaluated, and what knowledge has been accumulated about the workings of the natural world.”

The Global Core requirement “asked students to engage directly with the variety of civilizations and the diversity of traditions that, along with the west, had formed the world and continued to interact in it today. Courses in the Global Core typically explored the cultures of Africa, Asia, the Americas, and the Middle East in an historical context.”

The Foreign Language requirement was “part of Columbia College’s mission to prepare students to be tomorrow’s conscientious and informed citizens. Knowledge of another’s language and literature was the most important way to begin to know a country and its people.”

Both Amaranth and Ty felt that taking the Columbia College’s Core Curriculum, which made one learned for life, and living in and exploring New York City, the veritable capital of the world, for four years made one a citizen of the world, regardless of where one chose to reside after graduating, even if that place was Niwot, Colorado.

In short, Amaranth and Ty both felt the synergistic combination of the Core Curriculum and New York City made for the best undergraduate experience to be found anywhere on Earth.

Chapter 33

When they left Tom’s Restaurant, Amaranth and Ty decided to walk down 112th Street to Riverside Drive, take a right, and walk north along side the lovely Riverside Park, which, in turn, ran along side the Hudson River. They wanted and needed to drop by the Columbia Alumni Office on W 113th Street to pick up special cards that would allow them to enter buildings such as Low Library, Butler Library, and Hartley Hall where Amaranth and Ty both lived their first year and fell in love.

It had turned fall in New York City, and the leaves of the trees in Riverside Park were a mosaic then of red and yellow and orange. They had often come as undergraduates to this park to walk and sit and chat, all the while enjoying the crisp feel of incipient fall, complemented by the Hudson River that flowed sinuously by them. Children were often at play in the park that time of year that enhanced the ambiance of the place.

Amaranth and Ty strolled hand in hand as they headed north on the sidewalk beside Riverside Park. When they got to 116th Street, they turned right and headed up the hill to Broadway and the main entrance to Columbia’s beautiful campus, They crossed Broadway and entered the campus on College Walk that used to have been 116th Street when Dwight D. Eisenhower was president of Columbia University, just before he was elected president of the United States, got the City in the early 1950s to close it off from traffic and turn that segment into a promenade through campus from Broadway to Amsterdam Avenue.

The famous architectural firm of McKim, Mead & White had designed in the 1890s the campus of Columbia University. It was said McKim wanted the new campus to be modeled after the Athenian agora, to be the new American Acropolis. As one walked a third of the way eastward up College Walk, one would walk into the center of the campus and would initially be overwhelmed by its splendor. To the left sat Low Memorial Library high on a hill. There were many steps to climb to reach the entrance of the Library. It was grand. While it was indeed originally used as a library, it was eventually transformed into the administrative center of the University, including the Office of the President of the University, among others. In the center of the library was a breathtaking, large marble room with statues all around it with a high, majestic dome atop it, where important social affairs would take place. In fact, Ty had given an introductory speech in that glorious space when he had been head of HSOP.

If one turned right on College Walk, one would see the rest of the main campus, which included Butler Library built in the 1930s. While Butler was the largest — indeed, the major — library on campus, there were, in fact, 20 other libraries on campus as well that contained collectively 12,000,000 books. These libraries had a free public digital repository for research, collections in more than 450 different languages, more than 1,500 databases including JSTOR, access to a Oculus Rift, more than 220 research guides for topics like African-American studies, Human Rights, and New York City history, as well as special collections, such as the Frank Lloyd Wright and Tennessee Williams archives. Moreover, Butler had free access to online tutorials like Lynda.com that a student could take home including a Raspberry Pi and Arduino, primary source collections that spanned more than 4,000 years of human thought, current magazines and periodicals, specialty software in chemistry, graphic design, and more, and nearly 50 expert staff ready to help students with research and scholarly projects.

Amaranth and Ty ambled over to Hartley Hall. They went inside, took the elevator to the 9th floor, got out, and went to suite #909 where they lived, studied, and laughed, often eating Chinese take-out food, listening to Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, making love, and falling in love.

“It seems like only yesterday,” said Amaranth.

“This room, those memories, will be eternal,” replied Ty.

They stood in the hallway for quite some time, recalling other indelible memories and happenings. Finally, they took the elevator down to the main lobby of Hartley and took a seat on a sofa in the well-paneled lounge.

“This is where we spent so much time with Bill and Debbie and Herb and Leni,” said Ty.

“We shared so many stories, so many discussions, with them,” said Amaranth. “We discussed everything in the world, it seemed — thoughts, feelings, ideas, speculations. We argued sometimes about what Hegel really meant, and Spinoza,” said Amaranth. The two sat on that sofa in silence for a long time, awash in an endless stream of memories.

FInally, they left Hartley Hall and got some vegetarian food at the John Jay dining room and ate it. Then they continued their nostalgic walk around campus. Ty had wanted to revisit his “office” that he had had in Lerner, Columbia’s student union, when he was head of NSOP, so they did. Then they continued their tour, going by Alma Mater, the large sculpture in the middle of campus that Daniel Chester French had created, the same Daniel Chester French who had created the huge sculpture of Abraham Lincoln at the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C.

Amaranth and Ty wanted to visit Columbia’s new campus, just a few blocks north of the main campus. It was called the Manhattanville Campus. Both had graduated from Columbia College shortly after this massive project had gotten underway. Ty had emailed Columbia from Niwot as he was planning this trip and asked for information about the Manhattanville campus and had received a brochure about it that he did not fail to bring with him. Ty suggested that before they walked to it that he and Amaranth find a shady spot where they could sit while he read to Amaranth, and to himself, from the brochure.

“A century ago, Manhattanville was a bustling port and rail cargo hub developed into a local center for dairy products, automobile finishing, meatpacking and other light industries. But the stock market crash of 1929 and the Great Depression signaled the end of strong manufacturing growth in Manhattanville. As industries died out, and the jobs they created disappeared, Manhattanville lost its promise as one of New York City’s manufacturing centers.

“Starting in 2003, Columbia began working with leaders of West Harlem to develop a long-term campus plan. Columbia engaged in New York City’s rigorous land use review process known as ULURP to rezone the project area to a mixed-use special district that would accommodate the construction of academic classrooms, as well as research and residential spaces, among other uses. In December, 2007, the New York City Council voted 35 to 3 in favor of the proposal.

“The Manhattanville campus designed by Renzo Piano Building Workshop and Skidmore, Owings & Merrill was the first such plan in the nation to win the Greene Building Council’s highest distinction for sustainability — the Leed-ND Platinum.”

“Interesting,” said Ty. “Now let’s go see it.”

Amaranth and Ty left the main campus via College Walk, turned right, and walked several blocks down Broadway to the Manhattanville campus. It was striking. The first building they saw was the Jerome L. Greene Science Center, which is home to the Mortimer B. Zuckerman Mind Brain Behavior Institute. At the Greene Science Center, hundreds of the world’s leading researchers tackled the most exciting scientific research of our time: understanding how the brain works and gives rise to the interrelatedness of the mind and behavior. The Zuckerman Institute, lead by Nobel laureates, brings together a constellation of neuroscientists, engineers, statisticians, psychologists, and other scholars from across Columbia who collaborate on research, teaching, and public programming. Columbia’s scholars will transform human health and society, from effective treatments for disorders like Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s, depression and autism, to advances in fields as fundamental as computer science, economics, law, the arts, and social policy. The Greene Science Center is a nine-story, 450,000 square foot structure, the largest Columbia has ever built, and the biggest science building in New York City. Stairways pair floors, common spaces have communal facilities, and a quadrant system per floor that groups the labs of scientists with similar areas of inquiry that foster idea-sharing and problem-solving among fellow researchers. The Greene Science Center is a model of stable urban design. It sets a new standard for sustainable technology.

Amaranth and Ty moved on. The next new building was the Lenfest Center for the Arts. It provides a dynamic new space for Columbia’s School for the Arts. It hosts exhibitions, performances, screenings, symposia, readings and lectures that present new, global voices and perspectives. It also houses the Wallach Art Gallery.

The next new building Amaranth and Ty saw was the Forum. It is a multipurpose venue on the corner of 125th Street and Broadway and features a 430-seat auditorium. The new building boasts meeting rooms, faculty offices, and open gathering spaces.

The last new building Amaranth and Ty had to read about, because it had not yet been built. It was to be the new Columbia Business School, whose most famous graduate is Warren Buffett. It will be designed by Diller Scofidio + Renfro in collaboration with FXFOWLE Architects. The new building will span 492,000 square feet and have an open space of approximately 42,000 square feet that will be called The Square.

Amaranth and Ty had enjoyed seeing and learning about the Manhattanville campus, but were tired.

“Let’s go back to International House and take a nap,” said Ty. Amaranth agreed, so off they went.

After their nap, they again changed into their evening wear and again took a cab, this time to a restaurant called Sola Lab.

“I have abridged and emended Shakespeare,” said Ty immediately after Amaranth and he had been seated at a table.

“What?” exclaimed Amaranth.

“I am not the gifted poet you are and Shakespeare was,” said Ty. “But I want to share this with you now anyway.”

Ty pulled from a pocket in his pants a piece of folded paper and un- folded it. “Except for one word, this is from Troilus and Cressida. This is from Shakespeare, but more importantly, this is from my heart.”

Ty began reading.

“I am mad/In Amaranth’s love/…Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice;/…her hand/In whose comparison all whites are ink,/…to whose soft seizure/The cygnet’s down is harsh’ ‘…I am gitty, expectations whirl me round./The imaginary relish is so sweet/That it enchants my senses./Even such a passion doth embrace my *****;/My heart beats thicker than a fev’rous pulse…’”

Tears began to flow from Amaranth’s eyes.

After a long, silent pause, they ate another wonderful meal.

When Amaranth and Ty returned to International House, they made mad, passionate love more than once, then fell peacefully to sleep, even as they continued to hold each other in embrace.

Chapter 34

Amaranth and Ty stood near the entrance of Dodge Fitness Center waiting for Bill and Debbie and Herb and Leni to show up. The gymnasium was crowded. In a short time, first Bill and Debbie showed up, then Herb and Leni.

“Wild Bill, God bless you! How in the hell are you?” cried Ty. Ty had always called Bill “Wild Bill.” They gave each other a hug. “Wild Bill,” by the way, was from Memphis, though Ty had never met Bill until they both came to Columbia College.

“And Debbie, how are you, and Herb and Leni, how are you?” asked Ty all around.

Amaranth jumped right in, saying hello to everyone, giving hugs to both Debbie and Leni.

It was wonderful for Amaranth and Ty to see their friends again. “Wild Bill” and Debbie lived in Chicago, on Elm Street, as it happened, that ran perpendicular to North Lake Shore Drive that bordered Lake Michigan. Bill and Debbie had bought a large apartment that “Wild Bill” had refurbished himself. “Wild Bill,” even as a kid, had enjoyed woodworking, and had always been gifted when it came to tools, all kinds of tools. He was now a practicing attorney specializing in health law. Debbie, who had gone to Barnard, was an interior director. Herb was now a practicing dermatologist with a Park Avenue practice. Leni Bergstrom held a high position with the Bloomberg Foundation. Herb and Leni lived together in the Upper East Side of Manhattan.

“Do you remember our trip to Sarah Lawrence, Ty?” laughed Herb.

Ty sure did remember that car trip to Sarah Lawrence. “And how you eventually gave those snooty Sarah Lawrence girls hell for behaving in such an untoward manner toward the two of us. But you were always unabashed, Ty, and, no doubt, you still are.” said Herb admiringly.

The four of them managed to find seats on the bleachers where they could sit and reminisce. And reminisce they did, for a long time. Oh, the memories, the laughter, the good times! A great education was so important to all of them, but friendships, these friendships that would last a lifetime were, in their own way, as important as their Columbia education.

A couple of hours went by in a second. Finally, as the crowd began to vacate the gymnasium, Amaranth and Ty and Bill and Debbie and Herb and Leni said their good-byes and left, too.

It had been a wonderful evening.

Chapter 35

Homecoming Day!

Ty had been a Columbia football fan ever since he arrived on campus. But the last time Columbia football had won even half of an Ivy League championship was in 1961 when Columbia had tied Harvard for it. But four years ago, thanks to some loud and assertive and influential alumni, Columbia had hired a new athletic director who, in turn, hired Al Bagnoli, who had had a remarkable career as head football coach for over two decades at Penn, the very team Bagnoli and his new incredibly talented squad was going to do battle with this afternoon at Baker Field.

After finishing breakfast at Tom’s, Amaranth and Ty headed up on the subway to Baker Field, which was located on the northern tip of Manhattan. Ty had purchased two of the best seats in Wein Stadium, at the 50-yard-line up high. Amaranth was not a great football fan, but because she knew how much Ty enjoyed Columbia football, she was a good sport.

This was Ivy League football — not Ohio State vs. Michigan, not Alabama vs. Mississippi, not USC vs. UCLA. Ivy football was not “big-time” college football, but it was nonetheless as competitive as hell. The Ivy League had been founded in 1954 as a new athletic conference for these exact reasons. The eight schools that constituted the Ivy League — Brown, Columbia, Cornell. Dartmouth, Harvard, Penn, Princeton, and Yale — saw the writing on the wall; that is to say, in 1954, college football games were beginning to be broadcast with greater frequency on national TV, which meant then, and for decades to come, the universities that could successfully entice, often with under-the-table offers of different kinds, the best high school football players across the land to come play football at their schools, and would stand to make millions and millions — now in the billions nationwide — never mind that most of their players they “recruited” were not very smart, and what was the worst, the universities didn’t care if their players got educated before or after they scored touchdowns. The eight Ivy League schools chose to forego “big-time” college football, because they wanted to give all their students, even athletes, the best education possible.

The game was exciting. Columbia jumped out to a 10-point lead. Then Penn countered with seven points of their own. In the second half, Columbia scored two more touchdowns, taking a 17 point lead into their locker room at halftime. In the third quarter, Penn scored another seven points, but so did Columbia. In the fourth quarter, with a sizable lead, Columbia only ran the ball, instead of ever passing it, to run down the clock, a strategy that worked, leaving Columbia a winner over Penn, 34 to 14. Ty was happy, and Amaranth was glad Ty was happy. After the game, they made it back to International House. After cleaning up a bit and putting on their evening wear, Amaranth and Ty took a cab to the Franchia Vegan Cafe, another superb vegetarian restaurant.

Amaranth told the waiter “For an appetizer, I would like the Franchia Vegan Shish Kebab,” said Amaranth said. That shish kebab was made of barbecued soy meat, with peppers and onions on sticks with teriyaki sauce. “Instead of having soup tonight, I would like to try your porridge of the day,” Amaranth said. The porridge was made of sweet corn, spinach, pumpkin, and black sesame. “For my salad, I would like the avocado asparagus salad. For my entrée, I would like the Thai basil soy chicken. I will skip dessert tonight,” said Amaranth.

Ty began to order. “For my appetizer, I would like the Manchurian cauliflower sticks,” said Ty. “Instead of soup, I would also like your porridge. For my salad, I would like your pumpkin noodles salad. And for my entrée, I would like your Mediterranean Bibimbap and Stone Bowl. I will skip dessert tonight as well,” said Ty.

Amaranth and Ty were once again in heaven. The victory over Penn that afternoon was sweet, but nothing compared to the dishes they were now devouring.

“I try my best at home,” said Amaranth. “But I cannot compete with these New York City vegetarian restaurants.”

“Your meals at home are the best in the world,” countered Ty. “We have to get to Richard Rodgers Theater now,”

Richard Rodgers, Oscar Hammerstein II, and Lorenz Hart, all had been schoolmates and musical collaborators at Columbia College almost ninety years ago. They had, in differing combinations, written the music and lyrics for the “Varsity Show,” an annual Columbia College tradition, even to this day.


Chapter 36

The Richard Rodgers Theater, obviously, was packed, but Ty, through his “connections,” was able to get the best seats in the house.

It was interesting to see how today’s theater-goers dressed to go see Broadway productions. Though the price one had to pay for a ticket to these Broadway blockbuster plays today was exorbitant, many of those who were able to pay showed up in the most casual clothing, even in jeans, no less.

Amaranth and Ty looked through the programs they were given as they entered the theater.

“Thank you for getting us tickets to see Hamilton, Ty,“ said Amaranth.

“But it would be a long time before Hamilton would make it to Niwot,” said Ty.

The musical was even better than advertised, thought both Amaranth and Ty.

As Amaranth and Ty were taking a cab home, Ty said, “Rodgers and Hammerstein were both musical geniuses. You knew they were both graduates of Columbia College, right Am?” Amaranth nodded. “They collaborated on so many great musicals: Oklahoma!; Carousel; State Fair; the great South Pacific; The King and I; Cinderella; Flower Drum Song; The Sound of Music.

As the cab approached International House, Ty remarked quietly, “Rodgers and Hammerstein. Jesus, what a legacy!”

Chapter 37

Amaranth and Ty had decided to sleep in Sunday morning. They were having a wonderful time on their trip to New York City, but both of them knew their days had been, and were going to continue to be, packed with activities, creating a daily schedule, while fun and exciting, that they were not used to. In short, they both were exhausted.

When they both woke up, it was almost 11 am. They took a shower together, which they liked to do sometimes, then got dressed, and finally headed to Tom’s.

After breakfast, they decided to head to Chinatown, which they did. This time, they decided to take the subway, the way they usually had traveled around New York City when they had been students. On Sundays, the subways, were, of course, usually less crowded.

As Amaranth sat on the subway, she remembered the powerful scene in Steinbeck’s epic novel, East of Eden, when Lee, Adam Trask’s Chinese servant, who was always stereotyped as dumb and complaisant, but, in fact, was extremely intelligent and wise, explained to Samuel and Adam the real meaning of the Hebrew word “timshel” that was found in the Bible in Genesis, but was often mistranslated in different versions of it. This profound scene was one of the watershed moments of the novel. In brief, Lee explained that the real meaning of the word was that there was always a chance of redemption, no matter how badly one had previously sinned.

The subway rattled on. Finally, it got to Chinatown.

The Chinatown Amaranth and Ty were going to visit was now one of nine Chinese communities in New York City, and when added to the other eight in greater New York City, had a population of close to 800,000, making these combined communities the largest outside of Asia.

The subway rattled on. Finally, it got to Chinatown.

Chinatown began when a man named Ah Ken showed up in New York City in the 1850s. It is told he opened a cigar store on Park Row and later operated a boarding house on Mott Street. In 1882 the Chinese Exclusion Act was passed. In 1900 the U.S. census reported that 7,028 Chinese males lived in New York City, but only 142 Chinese women, a huge gender gap. The Chinese Exclusion Act was finally repealed in 1943, but Manhattan’s Chinatown had remained essentially a bachelors’s community until 1965. The early days of Chinatown were controlled by “tongs” (associations), which were a mix of clans, landsmen, political, and crime syndicates that provided protection to people and businesses because of anti-Chinese sentiment. These associations eventually formed the Chinese Consolidated Benevolent Association. Street gangs popped up. Gangs like the “Ghost Shadows” and the “Flying Dragons” were fighting each other until the 1990s. Chinatown’s population increased dramatically after the Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965 was passed. Cantonese-speaking Chinese dominated Manhattan’s Chinatown. The huge influx of other Chinese (e.g. the Fuzhou) resulted in other neighborhoods springing up in other areas of greater New York City. The 2010 US Census showed a population of 47,844 in Manhattan’s Chinatown. Now population estimates range between 90,000 and 100,000. It continues to be a major tourist attraction, especially due to its many restaurants. Incipient gentrification is a growing threat to Manhattan’s Chinatown.

Amaranth and Ty started their walking tour at the Visitor’s Kiosk where they were able to pick informative brochures. They walked down Baxter Street, passing the Manhattan House of Detention (but still referred to as the “Tombs,” the original name of the first detention center that had been razed and replaced by a new facility) and the Manhattan Criminal Court Building. Then they came upon Columbus Park where they could see and hear Chinese residents playing cards (mahjong), singing traditional Chinese songs, playing their lutes, some groups practicing tai-chi. At the corner of Mosco and Mott Streets, they found the Church of the Transfiguration, originally a Lutheran church built in 1801, but now Roman Catholic. At 32 Mott Street, they saw the site of Quong Yuen Shing General Store that was, from 1891 to 2003, the longest continuously family-operated store in Chinatown. It had served not only as a place to buy goods, but also as a social center where denizens could come to talk, socialize, and help illiterate immigrants learn how to write and even offered them a bed to rent by the night in the back of the store. At 37 Mott Street, they came upon the Aji Ichiban Candy Store. Though the name of this store is Japanese, this store sells hundreds of kinds of Asian and Western and dried fruit, nuts, jerky, seafood — all things gummy. Amaranth and Ty sampled the preserved rose petal, a wasabi peanut, and the candied baby crab.

They continued on their walking tour, encountering the narrow Pell Street with 100-year-old tenement buildings made of bricks on both sides of it, as well as awnings and flags with Chinese writings on them. A hundred years before, Pell Street had been lined with brothels, gambling houses, gang hideouts, and ***** dens. They then came across the curved Doyer Street, named after Hendrik Doyer, an 18th century Dutch immigrant who had owned the land upon which the street sat. Doyer Street also had seen its share of violence. The two tongs gangs, the On Leong and the Hip Sing, had numerous shoot-outs, ambushes, and murders as they battled each other for dominance of Doyers Street and the criminal enterprises located on it. Doyer Street had come to be known as the “****** Angle.” But now, the most famous spot on that street was the Nom Wah Tea Parlor, Chinatown’s first, opened in 1920. Also on Doyer Street was the site of the former Chinese Opera House opened in 1893, but closed in 1901 because of the unchecked violence in the area. Amaranth and Ty then reached Chatham Square, which had been an open market before the burgeoning of Chinatown and later became run-down, an area of flophouses and tattoo parlors. They saw the Kimlau Memorial Arch named after Benjamin Ralph Kimlau who had served as an Allied pilot during World War II, but was killed in 1944 when his plane was shot down. Then came the statue of Lin Zexu who had been a politician in China during the 1830s and 40s and had fought to keep the ***** trade out of China. They saw the Shearith Israel Cemetery, the oldest cemetery in New York City, dating back to 1683. The Spanish and Portuguese Jews founded the Shearith Israel congregation, the only one in New York City for 200 years, lasting until 1825. At the corner of Bowery and Pell Street was the Edward Mooney House, a two-story red brick building that was the oldest townhouse in New York City, built in 1785.

When Amaranth and Ty came to the Bowery, they read it early on had been the main street of New York City, then known as New Amsterdam, but surrendered that distinction in time to Broadway. Once an entertainment center, it had become in the 1900s the “skid row” of the City where the down-and-out tried to survive among seedy hotels and soup kitchens. Finally, at 215 Centre Street was the Museum of Chinese in America. It was one of the most important national archives of Chinese history in America.

“I don’t think either of us took a walking tour of Chinatown when we were students. Is that right, Ty?” said Amaranth.

“I think you’re right, Am,” said Ty. “I remember reading Oscar Handlin’s The Uprooted as a student, a trenchant account of the Lower East Side where immigrant Jews who had entered the United States through Ellis Island and began to settle there. I remember wishing that that neighborhood had not undergone such a demographic change, so that I could have taken a walking tour through it to get a real feel of what they were up against. There is Ellis Island today, but only as a museum. The Statue of Liberty must feel lonely out there, thanks to Trump’s immigration policies, which, as you know, are anathema to me.”

“I know how you feel about Trump and all his other policies,” said Amaranth. “I feel the same way.”

Amaranth and Ty sat on a bench outside the Museum of Chinese in America, resting from their long but interesting and informative walking tour through Chinatown.

“Well, are you ready to go have dinner? We have reservations at Daniel tonight,” said Ty.

“Let’s go. I’m hungry,” replied Amaranth. They found a cab to take them to Daniel, and off they went.

Daniel was a new French restaurant located in the Upper East Side owned and operated by Daniel Boulud, New York City’s longest-reining four-star chef.

After they were seated, Amaranth began to order.

“For my first course, I would like the Mais (chilled corn veloute, avocados, sweet peppers, chive oil, and nasturtium flowers). For my second course, I would like the Couscous (douroum couscous fricassee, basquaise peppers, Thai basil salad). For my main course, I would like the Epinard (braised spinach, 1924 blue cheese cream, and St-Florentin potatoes). For my dessert, I would like the Cerise (thyme-scented Morello cherry pie and Timiz Chantilly). Thank you,” said Amaranth.

Ty ordered. “I would like for my first course the Haricot Plat (runner bean fricassee, fiddlehead ferns, spruce tips, buttermilk emulsion). For my second course, I would like the Oca (glazed oca, wild rose marmalade, radishes, yellow chicory). For my dessert, I would like the Sakanti (Balinese cacao, chocolate sable, gavotte, banana batak sorbet).”

“What an incredible meal!” cried Amaranth. Ty concurred.

“For my first course, I would like the Mais (chilled corn veloute, avocados, sweet peppers, chive oil, and nasturtium flowers). For my second course, I would like the Couscous (douroum couscous fricassee, basquaise peppers, Thai basil salad). For my main course, I would like the Epinard (braised spinach, 1924 blue cheese cream, and St-Florentin potatoes). For my dessert, I would like the Cerise (thyme-scented Morello cherry pie and Timiz Chantilly). Thank you,” said Amaranth.

Ty ordered. “I would like for my first course the Haricot Plat (runner bean fricassee, fiddlehead ferns, spruce tips, buttermilk emulsion). For my second course, I would like the Oca (glazed oca, wild rose marmalade, radishes, yellow chicory). For my dessert, I would like the Sakanti (Balinese cacao, chocolate sable, gavotte, banana batak sorbet).”

“What an incredible meal!” cried Amaranth. Ty concurred.

As they had spent almost half the day walking, Amaranth and Ty decided to call it a day and took a cab back to the International House where they immediately fell into bed in their room.

“Pleasant dreams,” whispered Amaranth. Ty leaned over and kissed her goodnight.

Chapter 38

Today was Monday, 28 October 2019.

After breakfast at Tom’s, Amaranth and Ty took a cab to the Museum of Modern Art and wound up spending virtually the entire afternoon there.

Their favorite paintings, among many others, were Toyin Ojih Odutola’s Projection Enclave, Rirkrit Tiravanija’s FEAR EATS THE SOUL, Sky Hopinka’s Anti-Objects, or Space Without Path or Boundary, Philipp Schaerer’s V22–02, from the Chicago series, Lisa Yuskavage’s Merlot, Kim Beom’s Untitled (Nose of a Pig Smells Accelerator), Lionel Maunz’s Obligation 1, Nicholas Nixon’s The Brown Sisters, Ibrahim El-Salahi’s The Group, Stephanie Syjuco’s Cargo Cults: Basket Woman, Tomma Abts’s Untitled (big circle), Andrea Büttner’s Piano Stool, Martin Barr’s Be Bold with Bananas, Lawrence ******’s Wir sind keine Enten auf dem Teich, wir sind Schiffe auf dem Meer from 25 years of FUN, Irma Boom’s Elements, Lyle Ashton Harris’s Untitled (triptych), Barbara Kasten’s Transposition 3, Bruce LaBruce’s Pierrot Lunaire, Tala Madani’s Wrong House, Ed Atkins’s Warm, Warm, Warm Spring Mouths, Tauba Auerbach’s Three Wire (SRS) from Type Specimen Portfolio 2013, Leonardo Finotti, Juan Sordo Madaleno’s Palmas 555, Mexico City, Mexico.

There were still, of course, the most famous paintings and sculptures of modern art at MoMa, which both Amaranth and Ty had seen when they were at Columbia. The works of Paul Cézanne, Vincent van Gogh, Paul Gauguin, Henri Matisse, Edward Hopper, Paul Klee, Ad Reinhardt (who had become close friends with both Robert Lax and Thomas Merton when all were students at Columbia College in the 1930s), Alexander Calder, Roy Lichtenstein, Willem de Kooning, Joan Miró, Georgia O’Keeffe, Jackson *******, Auguste Rodin, Mark Rothko, Frank Stella, and many others.

Moreover, it should not be forgotten that MoMA also had a world-renowned art photography collection. Ty, whom you might remember was an American history major at Columbia College, remembered well his spending a full afternoon more than a decade ago looking through MoMA’s art photography collection, especially those photographs taken by members of the famous group of American photographers chosen in the 1930s by the Farm Security Administration to spread out over parts of America that had been most seriously affected by the Great Depression. Ty’s three favorites of that group were Dorothea Lange (who had studied photography at Columbia), Gordon Parks, and Walker Evans (an Andover graduate). Lange’s iconic photograph entitled Migrant Mother had left an indelible impression on Ty, as it had done, and was still doing, to millions and millions of others around the world.

That evening, Amaranth and Ty had dinner at Le Bernardin, one of the world’s most famous restaurants. It served a variety of vegetarian dishes from which both Amaranth and Ty could construct, if you will, a vegetarian dinner.

Amaranth, as usual, began first. “I would like please the poached green asparagus, vegetable caviar, with white balsamic-herb seaweed vinaigrette; the warm artichoke panache, vegetable risotto, and barigoule emulsion; and the slowly cooked Mediterranean bouillabaisse, and anise-saffron infused broth.”

Ty was next. “I would like the black truffle tagliatelle; the cauliflower couscous, romanesco, okra, and seasonal vegetables in a Madras curry stew; the sauteed pea shoot-filled morels with green peppercorn sauce; and for dessert, the candied ginger parfait with roasted pineapple sorbet.”

“Excuse me, sir. I would also like the dessert,” added Amaranth.

They enjoyed their meals immensely, but had to make sure they had enough time to reach Lincoln Center to watch the New York City Ballet’s corps de ballet perform.

The New York City Ballet was founded in 1948 by the famous choreographers, George Balanchine and Jerome Robbins. Tonight’s performance was going to be “Stravinsky & Balanchine: Allegro Brillante; La Source; and Firebird.”

Both Amaranth and Ty found the performances sensational. Only in New York City, and a small number of other major cities around the world, could one see such absolutely stellar performances.

“Well,” said Amaranth, “I’ll never forget this night — LeBernardin and the New York City Ballet in the same evening!”

“This is what I wanted to give you tonight, Am. The only greater thing I can give you always is my love, which I offer you every nanosecond of my life,” said Ty, who then kissed his wife on the cheek.

Chapter 39

It was Tuesday.

After another satisfying breakfast at Tom’s, Amaranth and Ty hailed a cab on Broadway and traveled to the American Museum of Natural History.

The Museum has had a storied history. Ty read to Amaranth from his brochure about the Museum: “Since its founding in 1869, the Museum has advanced its global mission to discover, interpret, and disseminate information about human cultures, the natural world, and the universe through a wide-ranging program of scientific research, education, and exhibition.

“The Museum is renowned for its exhibitions and scientific collections, which serve as a field guide to the entire planet and present a panorama of the world’s cultures.”

In 2019, the American Museum of Natural History was celebrating its 150th anniversary. Amaranth and Ty thought they would first tour the permanent exhibitions. Ty continued to read from his brochure: “The Hall of Biodiversity presents a vivid portrait of the beauty and abundance of life on Earth, highlighting both diversity and the factors that threaten it.

“Ecological biodiversity is illustrated by a 2,500 square foot walk-through diorama that depicts part of the Dzanga-Sangha rain forest, one of Earth’s most diverse ecosystems. Featuring more than 160 species of flora and fauna, the diorama uses video and sound to recreate the ecosystem at dawn, at an elephant clearing, and degraded by human intervention along a road.”

Amaranth and Ty slowly walked through the Hall of Diversity, looking at and reading about all the other exhibitions within it: the Spectrum of Life; the Siberian Tiger; the Dodo Bird; the Endangered Species; and the Protists.

There was, of course, a gargantuan amount of interesting and fascinating information to be gleaned from all the exhibitions, both permanent and special. Amaranth and Ty paced their walking and reading, so they would not be overwhelmed by the magnitude of what they were exploring and ingesting.

They walked through the rest of the permanent exhibitions: the Hall of North American Forests; the Irma and Paul Milstein Family Hall of Ocean Life; the Hall of Birds of the World; the Hall of New York City Birds; the Leonard C. Sanford Hall of North American Birds; the Hall of Reptiles and Amphibians; the Arthur Ross Hall of Meteorites; the Morgan Memorial Hall of Gems; the Harry Frank Guggenheim Hall of Minerals; the Paul and Irma Milstein Hall of Advanced Mammals; the Hall of Ornithischian Dinosaurs; the Hall of Primitive Mammals; the Hall of Saurischian Dinosaurs; the Hall of Vertebrate Origins; the Miriam and Ira D. Wallach Orientation Center; the Grand Gallery; the Northwest Coast Hall; the Hall of Central and South America; the Hall of African Peoples; the Gardner D. Stout Hall of Asian Peoples; the Hall of Eastern Woodlands; the Anne and Bernard Spitzer Hall of Human Origins; the Margaret Mead Hall of Pacific Peoples; the Hall of Plains Indians; the Hall of South American Peoples; the Bernard Family Hall of North American Mammals; the Akeley Hall of African Mammals; the Hall of Asian Mammals; the Hall of Primates; the Hall of Small Primates; the Rose Center for Earth and Space; the Hayden Planetarium; the Harriet and Robert Heilbrunn Cosmic Pathway; the Scales of the Universe; the Dorothy and Lewis B. Cullman Hall of the Universe; the David S. and Ruth L. Gottesman Hall of Planet Earth; the Hayden Big Bang Theater; the Theodore Roosevelt Memorial Hall; the Theodore Roosevelt Rotunda; and the Discovery Room.

“That was a long, long, but most interesting tour we just completed,” said Amaranth. “How about us taking a break, maybe getting a soda?”

“You bet,” said Ty.

After their break, they went to view the special exhibits. They included “Oceans: Our Blue Planet;” “T. rex: The Ultimate Predator;”

“Unseen Oceans;” and “Dark Universe.’

“I liked ‘Unseen Oceans’ the best,” said Amaranth. “You could spend two lifetimes absorbing all that’s in this museum.”

“Maybe three,” added Ty.

Chapter 40

When Amaranth and Ty got back to the International House, they lay down to rest, understandably, for a while. Ty had brought along Frederick Douglass’s autobiography to read and Amaranth had brought Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar. They enjoyed their books for an hour or so. But again, they had to get ready to go eat at the Blue Hill, 75 Washington Place, so they would arrive at the Shubert Theatre on time to see the Broadway smash hit, To **** A Mocking Bird.

When the two were seated at Blue Hill, the waiter took their orders.

“I would like the Castelfranco Radicchio (Blue Hill farm yogurt, cherries, and preserved ramps) please,” said Amaranth, “and I would like the Montauk Skate (cucumbers and dill), and I would like the Summer Vegetable Lasagna (fava beans, summer squash, and farmer’s cheese).”

And Ty said, “I would like the Snap Peas (rhubarb, strawberries, and curry), and I would like the Sprouted Row 7 Barley (chanterelles, apricots, and a pullet egg), and I would like the Blue Hill Farm Chicken (celtuce, blueberries, and horseradish). Thank you.”

Again, as one would imagine, the food was wonderful.

Amaranth and Ty took a cab to the Shubert Theatre and got there with time to spare. Both had heard that this play was, in a number of ways, different from the movie, but had nonetheless received rave reviews. And both of them had seen the movie a number of times. It was, in fact, one of Amaranth’s all-time favorites. Indeed, when she was a teenager in Sedona, she had had a crush on Gregory Peck, not only because he was so handsome, but also because he projected a kindness, an empathy, that she really felt emanated from his own center as a human being, not just as an actor. The two went in to watch the play.

When they came out, Amaranth said, “ I really liked the play. I liked the subtle and not-so-subtle changes made. Jeff Daniels, about whom I had my doubts, pulled it off. The actress who played Calpurnia deserves to win a Tony Award, as does Daniels. Whoever wrote the screenplay took a lot of chances, but in the end, the play was effective, at once at times caustic, at other times evocative and electric.”

“This play, the movie, the book, all are about racism, which is the legacy of slavery, the brutal, ugly, immoral, death-dealing slavery that began to ravage North America some 400 years ago. The triangle of trade, the Atlantic Slave Trade, is what first made the thirteen colonies prosperous, both in the North and in the South. And then, after 1776, slavery made the United States of America, over time, into the new, roaring, economic engine of the world. Our nation was built on the backs of black slaves, 4,000,000 by 1861, and despite the ratification of the 13th Amendment in 1865 that ‘legally’ abolished slavery in our ‘democracy,’ our nation morphed into a pernicious, evil, racist country. Racism today pervades every county, every town and city, every state in our so-called democracy. If Martin Luther King, Jr. had not been murdered by a single rifle shot to the head on April 4th, 1968 on a Lorraine Motel balcony in Memphis, Tennessee, you could ask him if I’m not right, but you can’t, because he’s dead. So you can ask instead Trump, the humanist that he is, if I’m not right,” concluded Ty, obviously heated.

Amaranth knew well where Ty was coming from, and why. Ty had never been able to brook even an iota of racism, and undaunted as he had always been, would never hesitate a moment to tell you emphatically how he felt and in what he believed. This singular attribute of his was perhaps the overriding reason why she respected him so, and loved him so much.

Chapter 41

Amaranth had felt a poem welling up inside of her. She could tell what was welling up inside of her was unusually intense, even bellicose perhaps. And perhaps it was welling up in part because of what Ty had to say, and the way he said it, last night after the play. Regardless, what was happening now felt markedly different to her, but Amaranth had always trusted, respected, what welled up inside of her because this silent and sacred process had always proven, in a spiritual way, to be her truth. It had always come intuitively, never forced.

She awakened while Ty was still asleep. She carefully got out of bed so as not to wake Ty up. She picked up her purse and pulled the notebook and her pen she always carried with her. Then she went over to the desk and sat down, putting her notebook on the desktop and opening it up to a clear page. Then she began recording what was beginning to come out of her.

THOSE WHO RULE

We shall keep the poor poor.

We shall be on them like

a master’s whip on the backs

of slaves; but they will not

know us: we are too far, and

too close. We shall use the

patois of patriotism to patronize

them. We shall hide behind our

flags while we hold only one pole.

We shall have the poor fight our

wars for us, and die for us; and

before they die, they will **** for

us, we hope, enough. In peace,

we shall piecemeal them and serve

them meals made of toxins and tallow.

For their labor, we shall pay them

slave wages; and all that we give

we shall take back, and more, by

monumental scandals that subside

like day’s sun at eventide. We shall

be clever, as ever, circumspect and

surreptitious at all times. We shall

keep them deluded with the verisimilitude

of hope, but undermine always its

being. We shall infuse their lives

with fear and hate, playing one

race against another, one religion

against a brother’s. Disaffection is

our key; but we must modulate our

efforts deftly, so the poor remain

frightened and angered, but always

blind and deaf and divided. And if,

perchance, one foments, we shall

seize the moment and drop his head

into his hands, even as he speaks.

This internecine brew we pour, there-

fore, into the poor to keep them drunk

with enmity and incapacitation. Ah,

eternal anticipation! Bottoms up,

old chaps. We, those who rule,

shall have them always in our laps.

We are, as it were, their salvation.


Amaranth had never before written a poem like this one. She lay her pen diagonally across her poem, got up from the desk, and quietly, so quietly, got back into bed to lie beside her Ty.

Amaranth lay beside Ty until he awoke, and then the two made love. What a beautiful way to start a new day.

Chapter 42

“Tomorrow, we go home, back to Niwot,” said Ty. “ You would think one might be sad to leave all that we have seen and eaten and heard in this incomparable metropolis, but I’m not. We will take all that we have experienced and enjoyed here back home with us, not in our suitcases, but in our hearts and minds.”

Amaranth sat on the edge of the bed, listening.

“There are many that live here who think they have a monopoly on success, but they don’t, because success is not the clothes one wears, not the car one drives, not the house one lives in, not the job one has, not the title one holds, not the money one makes. Success is being and becoming. Success is always being true to yourself,” concluded Ty.

“Today, our penultimate day, we travel to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The museum, as you know, is gigantic. I remember once I simply walked through the entire museum, walking but never stopping, to see how long it would take. It took me three hours. Therefore, I respectfully suggest we go only to the Impressionist wing. I know we both love the Impressionists. Is that OK with you, Am?”

Amaranth nodded in the affirmative.

“Great,” said Ty. “Let’s go have breakfast at Tom’s, then we’ll go to the Met.”

After finishing breakfast, Amaranth and Ty took a cab to the museum. When they got there, they headed directly to the Impressionist wing.

Ty had been standing in front of Renoir’s “Still Life with Peaches” for about a half hour. He was transfixed, mesmerized. Amaranth, who had been roaming around the wing, came over to Ty.

“Am, I think this is the most beautiful painting I have ever seen,” said Ty.

“I think it is gorgeous, yes,” said Amaranth.

Pierre-Auguste Renoir was born in Limoges, Haute-Vienne, France on 25 February 1841. He was inspired by the works of Pissarro and Manet. With Sisley, Pissarro, and Monet and several other artists, Renoir mounted the first Impressionist exhibition in April, 1874. Subsequently, he traveled around Europe to see the works of other famous painters, including Delacroix and Velazquez. He also met the famous composer, Wagner. Renoir’s most famous paintings included Bal du Moulin de la Galette, Le Déjeuner des canotiers, Les Grandes Baigneuses, La Loge, Bal a Bougival, Madame Georges Charpentier et Ses Enfants, Jeunes Filles au Piano, La Parisienne, Les Parapluies, and Les Deux Soeurs.

“I have two favorites,” said Amaranth. “They are van Gogh and one of yours, Renoir.”

Vincent van Gogh was born on 30 March 1853 in Groot-Zundert, Holland. He created more than 2,000 artworks during his life — landscapes, still lifes, portraits, and self-portraits. He didn’t start painting until 1881. The vast majority of his paintings were done in the last two years of his life. He suffered psychotic episodes such as delusions and hallucinations throughout his life and sought help several times by being admitted to different psychiatric hospitals. His mental illness, ineluctably and unconsciously, imbued his paintings with extraordinary qualities that made them unique. He was extremely close to his brother, Theo, who had tried to help Vincent sell his paintings. Only one painting was sold during his lifetime. Today, each of his paintings is worth millions and millions of dollars. On 29 July 1890, Vincent committed suicide by shooting himself in the chest.

“Vincent van Gogh is the artistic equivalent of the poetic William Blake and Emily Dickinson in that all three were never recognized in their lifetimes as the geniuses they were,” said Amaranth.

Other artists represented through their paintings and sculptures in the Impressionist wing were Degas, Monet, Bonnard, Vuillard, Derain, Cassatt, Whistler, Weir, Pissarro, Morisot, Seurat, Harper, Metcalf, Matisse, Sargent, Vonnoh, Twachtman, Sisley, Rodin, Bracquemond, Bastien-Lepage, Hassam, Cézanne, Robinson, Manet, Cuvelier, Caillebotte, Delacroix, Inness, Balthus, Toulouse-Lautrec, van Rysselberhge, Rosso, Courbet, Yong, Tian, Bazille, Gauguin, and others.

Amaranth and Ty went directly to Fournos Theophilos, a highly rated Greek vegetarian restaurant, because again they didn’t want to be late arriving at Lincoln Center where they would be listening to the New York Philharmonic.

Amaranth began. “For an appetizer, I would like please to get the Tzatziki (Greek yogurt, cucumbers, dill, garlic, and Greek olive oil, served with pita bread). I would like the soup of the day. For a salad, I would like the Greek salad (pleated filo crust, tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, onions, Greek feta cheese, whole wheat rusks, Greek extra ****** olive oil, and red wine vinegar). For my entree, I would like the traditional Mediterranean pie (pleated filo crust, tomatoes, olives, and cheese). And for dessert, I’m going to have to have your baklava.”

Ty said, “I’m going to have the Fava (yellow split pea spread from Santorini, Greece served with pita bread). I too will have the soup of the day. For my salad, I would like your baby kale salad (mandarans, almonds, with carrot turmeric vinaigrette). For my entree, I would like your traditional cheese and spinach pie (pleated filo crust, spinach, sweet leeks, dill and parsley mixed with sheep and goat’s mizithra, and feta cheese). And for dessert, I would like your Mosaic (a fridge cake with buttery, creamy chocolate, crunchy cookies, and a hint of aromatic brandy).

“I have not had Greek food often, but tonight’s dinner was tasty, wonderful,” said Amaranth.

“I’m glad you liked it, Am,” said Ty. “This was your last New York City vegetarian dinner, at least for a while.”

Amaranth and Ty rushed over to Lincoln Center and found their seats in David Geffen Hall.

Tonight’s program would be Mozart’s Symphony №40, Sibelius’s Second Symphony, and Beethoven’s 3rd Symphony, the “Eroica.” Jaap van Zweden, conducting.

Amaranth and Ty knew all three symphonies, and liked each one.

“Am, did you ever see the movie Amadeus?” Ty asked.

“Yes, I did,” replied Amaranth. She and Ty, she thought, were among the luckiest people in the world to be able to hear in person these objects of virtu played by one the best symphony orchestras on Earth.

“Miloš Forman, who was the director for Amadeus, won an Oscar for the job he did. He was teaching at Columbia’s School of the Arts at that time. Amadeus also won an Oscar as Best Picture. Forman also directed One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest and won another Oscar for that job well done,” added Ty.

Wolfgang Amadeas Mozart was born on 27 January 1756 in Salzburg, then part of the Holy Roman Empire. A child prodigy, Mozart wrote his first symphony when he was eight years old. He traveled extensively when he was young through Europe with his sister, Nannerl, and their father and performed before European nobility. Later, only Mozart and his father toured. He met Haydn and Beethoven. Eventually, he settled in Vienna. Mozart experienced financial difficulties throughout his adult life. As well, he composed over 600 works during his life, including symphonies, concertos, operas, sonatas, and choral music. Mozart was only 35 when he died on 5 December 1791.

Jean Sibelius was born on 8 December 1865 in Hämeenlinna in the Grand Duchy of Finland. Initially he had dreamed of becoming a violin virtuoso, but ultimately became a composer instead. Sibelius unfortunately was both an epicure and a heavy drinker, which caused him financial stress from time to time. He is best known for his seven symphonies and his nationalistic tone poem, Finlandia. Sibelius was 91 when died on 20 September 1957.

Ludwig van Beethoven was baptised on 17 December 1770 in Bonn, the capital of the Electorate of Cologne. When he was 21, he moved to Vienna and studied composition under Haydn. By 1811, Beethoven was virtually completely deaf. Nevertheless, he kept composing great works. Beethoven composed nine symphonies, five piano concertos, one violin concerto, 32 piano sonatas, 16 string quartets, two masses, and an opera, Fidelio. He is considered to be one of the greatest composers of all time. Beethoven was 56 when he died in Vienna on 26 March 1827.

“Why can’t our world be as beautiful and uplifting as the three symphonies we listened to tonight?” asked Amaranth.

Ty had no answer.

Chapter 43

Back to Niwot.

It was Thursday, 24 October 2019, and it was time to go home. Their flight was scheduled to leave at 11:20 am and they knew, of course, they had to be at the airport at least a couple of hours before takeoff, so they had set the alarm for an early rise time in order to give them time to eat breakfast at Tom’s and still have plenty of time to get to JFK.

They took a cab to JFK, went through the protracted “shake-down,” sat for awhile, then finally boarded their non-stop Delta flight to DIA. Ty had finished reading Frederick Douglass’s autobiography and had started reading a biography of William Lloyd Garrison, the famous abolitionist who had founded and edited the newspaper, The Liberator.

Amaranth, in turn, had a bit more to read of Toni Morrison’s Song of Solomon. Both got pillows before take-off. They were on their way.

This time, they both fell asleep during the flight home, which was probably a good thing in that both of them had expended a lot of energy during their week in New York City, plus their sleep made the trip seem a lot faster than it actually was. They landed at DIA a little after 5:00 pm Denver time.

“It feels both good and strange at the same time being in Colorado rather than frenetic New York City,” said Ty as he drove Amaranth and himself back to Niwot. “But, bottom line, it will be good to get home,” he added.

Ty pulled into their driveway, unloaded the suitcases from the trunk of the car, and carried them into the house. Amaranth followed.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to hit the sack,” said Ty.

“Thank you for a most wonderful week in New York City, Ty. I will never forget it,” said Amaranth.

“Thank you, Am, for being my wife and making each day of mine a vacation par excellence,” said Ty.

The two hugged and kissed, then went to bed, happy to be in their home once again.

Chapter 44

Amaranth sat in her chair at the kitchen table sipping tea. Morning sunlight poured through the kitchen windows.

Society is like the individual, Amaranth thought. What it does not like, it neglects, ignores. The individual represses, society oppresses. Helicopters hover, but do not help. Urban renewal is a societal lobotomy.

We need a new technology, she thought, an emotional technology. Before we bus our children from one part of town to another, we must first crisscross out hearts and souls, know every street and alley of our feelings, every suburb and ghetto of our guts. Before we integrate our races, we must integrate our emotions. The boundaries that divide us are not on maps, but in our minds and hearts.

Old technologies have built institutions into which society dumps its misfits and misgivings. Prisons, jails, reform schools, mental hospitals, institutes for the mentally *******, nursing homes for the aged. Confined, compartmentalized, compact, concealed.

These institutions are society’s pockets of unconsciousness. They are there not just to treat and rehabilitate our people with problems, but to keep them away from us and us away from them. Institutions we place at the peripheries of our existence help us to feel safe, to differentiate artificially ourselves from others, to substantiate falsely are own physical, mental, and moral well-being, as if to say ipso facto, we on the outside are better off than those on the inside.

Rather than work through our own conflicts and anxieties, we use vicariously these people and places to cleanse ourselves of our own aberrations. It is as if we hide — nay, exorcise — those painful parts of ourselves: the criminal, the insane, the crippled, the blind and deaf, the socially disgraced parts of all of us, by placing these afflicted souls into institutions , then forgetting them, as we forget the humanness we share with them. Symbolically we sacrifice them to societal gods of rectitude and propriety to allay our self-doubts, to atone for our guilts.

Our concern is perfunctory: we simply pay our taxes and give to the United Way, making the sick and disturbed mercenary soldiers to fight emotional wars for us in distant places. As we put people into brutal buildings, our feelings turn to steel and stone. When we banish them to institutional oblivion, we abdicate our own humanness, failing to touch the parts of us that make us real.

Amaranth took another sip of tea, then got up from her chair and went to the bedroom to lie down.

Chapter 45

Amaranth met Julie at the Parkway Cafe in Boulder for breakfast.

“Julie, it’s so good to see you,” said Amaranth.

“And it’s so good to see you, too. How was your trip to New York City?” asked Julie.

“Frankly, it was spectacular, I’m pleased to say. It was a whirlwind week of nostalgia, sightseeing, cultural experiences, and some of the best vegetarian meals served in the world. We had a great time, Ty and I,” replied Amaranth.

“That’s great,” said Julie.

“And how are you and Ed doing?” asked Amaranth.

“We took the Peak to Peak Highway to see all the colors of the trees changing. It never gets boring to see such beauty,” said Julie.

The two ordered their meals and continued to chat as they were eating.

“You remember the Robertsons? They just got divorced two weeks ago. What a shame,” said Julie.

Amaranth took a bite of avocado, then asked “They have two children, don’t they?”

“That’s right, Am. And pity the children. You know the kids are going to have a hard time with this, even if they’re not conscious of it, right? said Julie.

“You’re right, Julie. Children of any age, even through their teenage years, will necessarily have to struggle with a situation like that — their parents split, maybe one or both of them remarried. It will take an emotional toll on the kids, anyway you slice it,” said Amaranth.

It was, indeed, wonderful to see Julie again. Julie had been her best friend since she and Ty had moved to Colorado. Amaranth again remembered that Chinese proverb: “One can do without people, but one has need of a friend.”

The two continued talking for more than a half hour. Finally, they got up from the booth and paid their bills.

“Give Ed my best,” said Amaranth.

“And you do the same for me with Ty,” responded Julie.

Chapter 46

October soon became November, and November meant Thanksgiving. And after Thanksgiving came Christmas.

Amaranth and Ty had two annual rituals. The first was to visit the Colorado Mental Health Institute in Fort Collins on Thanksgiving Day. The second was to visit the Colorado Mental Health Institute in Pueblo on the evening of Christmas Eve.

Every year on Thanksgiving Day, for as long as they had lived in Niwot, they drove there and brought with them a slice of pumpkin pie for each person in that facility. Amaranth would find out how many people were going to be in the facility on Thanksgiving Day, then cook enough pumpkin pies so everyone would get a slice. She and Ty loved not only the handing out of these slices of pie to every person who wanted one, but also, and more importantly, taking all the time needed to chat with any and all the people who wanted to chat with them for a bit. Not every person there would not want to talk with them and, of course, Amaranth and Ty would not bother anyone who did not want to participate in the chatting. But there were always many who really wanted to talk with them. These people did not have many visitors throughout the year, so those who were receptive to chatting and visiting really enjoyed it when Amaranth and Ty came to see them. Of course, the pumpkin pie was nice, too.

The other ritual was similar to the first. On Christmas Eve day, they would travel to Pueblo, but this time bring with them homemade Christmas cookies that Amaranth had baked, along with a sufficient number of gallons of Christmas punch. Again, both Amaranth and Ty would hand out the cookies on paper plates with paper napkins and pour the punch into paper cups and hand those out, too. Again, anyone who did not want to participate would not be bothered. But again, there were so many people who did want to chat and visit with Amaranth and Ty that they might wind up spending a couple of hours doing this.

The people whom they greeted on each of these two holidays were basically the people whom society had forgotten, and moreover, never wanted to remember. They were outcasts, ostracized for life. That’s why these two visits meant so much to these people, and also meant so much to Amaranth and Ty. These visits made the holidays so special to Amaranth and Ty, better than a big Thanksgiving dinner, better than a lot of presents under a Christmas tree.

Thanksgiving was coming soon, so Amaranth had to get busy finding out how many people would be spending Thanksgiving Day at the Colorado Mental Health Institute in Fort Logan, then baking enough pumpkin pies to offer a slice to everyone who wanted one.

This was a joyous time of year for both Amaranth and Ty. Both felt blessed this time of year, and for good reasons.

Chapter 47

The voice had not spoken to her during her sleep for a long time. But last night, it did.

“Earth and all its living creations will face the most dangerous times in the near future. Don’t be frightened. I will help you save Earth.”

Amaranth sat on the blue sofa in the living room for a long time. She wasn’t frightened, but saving Earth? What was the voice trying to tell her? What the hell did it mean? She couldn’t wait to see Dr. Rosenstein and tell him about this. Fortunately, she was scheduled to see the doctor in two days. That gave her some solace.

Two days didn’t come fast enough for Amaranth.

“Dr. Rosenstein, it’s so nice to see you. I have something very important to tell you,” said Amaranth.

She sat down in the chair and instantly began to tell him what the voice had said.

“Well, Amaranth, first tell me how you are doing after this incredible experience,” said Dr. Rosenstein.

“I think I’m OK, but what a shock, hearing that I was going to help save Earth,” said Amaranth.

“I am not surprised by your reaction. I would feel the same way as you if that had happened to me,” said Dr. Rosenstein.

“The voice said, ‘Don’t be frightened.’ Well I’m not exactly frightened — the voice’s tone was the same as it’s always been, calm, almost soothing, but what a message, gigantic and enigmatic at the same time,” said Amaranth.

“Well, of course, Amaranth, I have no idea what all of this means, but let me assure you, I will be here to help you deal with this, if that’s what you wish,” said Dr. Rosenstein.

“Oh yes, Dr. Rosenstein, I would appreciate your help. Just having someone like you to tell about what’s happening to me, even if neither of us knows what it means, would be most helpful to me. Thank you so much,” said Amaranth.

“And let me add, Amaranth, that if you find yourself getting emotionally wrought over this, you should know that I would be more than willing to prescribe a sedative that would help you get through this,” said Dr. Rosenstein.

“Thank you, doctor. That’s very reassuring, but right now I don’t think I need anything like that. I’ll tell you if and when I feel differently. By the way, you should know that you are the only person who knows about the voice besides me. Not even Ty knows, yet,” said Amaranth.

Amaranth felt somewhat relieved after sharing with Dr. Rosenstein about what the voice had said. The doctor, Amaranth thought, was very good at what he did, helping people help themselves. Amaranth did share with the doctor the highlights of the New York City week, which took up essentially the rest of her session.

“Thank you, again, Dr. Rosenstein. I’ll see you next week,” said Amaranth, and then left his office.

Chapter 48

It was soon to be Thanksgiving Day. Amaranth had called the Colorado Mental Health Institute in Fort Logan and had spoken the the head nurse who had been her official contact for all these past years. She had found out that 46 of the people at the Institute would be there on Thanksgiving Day, so, by dividing 46 by 6 — the latter being the number of slices a pumpkin pie could be cut into — meant she would have to bake 8 pies. So Amaranth began to make and bake the first one.

She already had made the first pie shell, so she began to mix the sugar, cinnamon, salt, ginger, and cloves in a small bowl. Then she beat the eggs in a large bowl. Then she stirred in the pumpkin and sugar-spiced mixture into the large bowl, along with what was in the small bowl, and then stirred and poured everything in the large bowl into the pie shell. Then she put the unbaked pie into the oven, which she had preheated to 425 degrees F, let the pie bake for 15 minutes, then reduce the temperature to 350 degrees F and let it bake for 40 to 50 minutes or until she could insert a knife into the center of the pie and be able to pull it out clean.

Amaranth loved to do this — bake pumpkin pies for people who probably hadn’t tasted a bite of pumpkin pie for at least a year. It would take her quite a while to make all eight of the pumpkin pies she needed, but every pie she made was a labor of love.

Chapter 49

Today was Thanksgiving Day.

Ty helped Amaranth carefully load the eight pumpkin pies into the car. Then they headed out for Fort Logan. It was about 45 miles from Niwot, about a one-hour drive. Amaranth put a CD of Beethoven’s 7th Symphony, one of her favorites, into the slot in the dashboard. It was a bright, sunny day, if a bit cool.

“This should be a most pleasant afternoon for us, Am,” said Ty, who was driving.

“It always has been,” replied Amaranth.

Beethoven’s 7th Symphony had concluded some time ago as Amaranth and Ty pulled up in front of the entrance to the Colorado Mental Health Institute. They got out of the car and walked up to the front door and opened it, went inside, and almost immediately encountered the head nurse whose first name was Carolyn.

“Carolyn, it’s so nice to see you again. It’s been exactly a year ago since Ty and I had the pleasure of your company,” said Amaranth. Ty said hello as well.

“It is so nice that you two do this every year, every Thanksgiving. It means so much to the people who have to stay here on Thanksgiving Day, because they either have no family or friends to invite them to their homes. They’re stuck here, forgotten, often, it’s sad to say, on purpose,” declared Carolyn.

“I know,” declared Amaranth.

“Let me get some aids to help you bring the pies in your car into the day room,” said Carolyn.

“Thank you,” said Amaranth.

Several aids brought the pies from the car into the day room and placed them on a long table. They also brought in the grocery sack that had in it the paper plates, plastic forks, and paper napkins Amaranth and Ty would be needing.

“Thanks for your help,” Amaranth said to the aids.

Amaranth began cutting each pie into six pieces. As she was doing so, a middle-aged woman came up to her and said, “You’re Amaranth, aren’t you? I remember you from last year. I’m Bernadette,” the woman said.

“It’s so nice of you to remember me, Bernadette,” said Amaranth. “I’ll soon have a piece of pumpkin pie to give you.”

Amaranth finished cutting all the pies into six pieces.

“We have pieces of pumpkin pie to give you, if you’d like one,” said Amaranth to the small crowd forming in front of the table. “If you will just form a line, it will be easier for us to give each of you a piece.”

People began to form a line. Amaranth put a piece of pie on a plate, then handed it to Ty, who added a fork and a napkin.

Amaranth and Ty always introduced themselves by their first names to everyone in line who came to get a piece of pie.

“Hi, I’m Amaranth, and this is my husband, Ty,” she would say.

Most, but not all, would give Amaranth and Ty their first names, but one could tell, even without words, the people loved to get their pieces of pumpkin pie, and no doubt, deep in their hearts, appreciated more than they could express, this wife and husband who had remembered them on this Thanksgiving Day.

After most of the people had finished their pieces of pumpkin pie, a number of them came up to Amaranth and Ty, giving them their first names and thanking them for what they had done. Some of them even wanted to talk to them, chat with them, and, of course, Amaranth and Ty obliged. Both these people, as well as Amaranth and Ty, enjoyed this social ******* immensely. Those who didn’t want this kind of interaction, or, in fact, simply couldn’t interact at all, Amaranth and Ty did not bother.

Amaranth and Ty stayed in that large room as long as any of the people wanted to talk. They were never in a rush to leave. This, after all, was their Thanksgiving Day, too, and this was how they had wished to celebrate it for a number of years now.

“I have to be honest with you, Am,” said Ty as he pulled out of the parking lot.

“About what?” Amaranth asked quizziically.

“I put aside one piece of your pumpkin pie for myself and then ate it,” confessed Ty. “It was delicious!”

“Oh Ty!” said Amaranth, laughingly.

They got back home safely.

Chapter 50

Snow covered the ground. It had been falling for quite some time. The crocuses were now sleeping.

Amaranth stood at the back door in the kitchen, looking through its windows.

Winter was a time for slumber, she thought. It was a time to enter her heart with the brown bear to keep her warm.

When she was a child, she used to crawl into bed when she got cold and snuggle up under the blankets making, she thought now, almost a second womb where she could be safe and warm. She thought, too, of the baby she never had had, never was capable of having. She tried never to think about that hole in her otherwise joyous life, but sometimes she couldn’t help it. This was one of those times.

Winter was a metaphor for this cold emptiness she sometimes felt, like right now. She imagined having a baby, nursing her baby, keeping her baby warm with soft pieces of cloth wrapped around the baby. She would sing lullabies to her baby as she carried it in her arms through the different rooms of her home. In fact, Amaranth began singing a lullaby she had written and memorized.

A LULLABY FOR MY BABY

Tell me why, oh butterfly,
do you fly so high?
Tell me why, oh butterfly,
high up in blue sky?

Tell me, pretty butterfly,
with your wings of gold,
are you as kind and gentle
as I’m always told?

Tell me, golden butterfly,
will you come to me
and light upon my shoulder
to keep me company?

And when night falls, my butterfly,
please let your golden wings
illuminate the darkness
until the bluebird sings.

Amaranth kept stroking her baby’s forehead with her gentle fingertips. She would lie down on her bed with her baby, softly singing her songs until her baby fell asleep. And she would lie there with her baby on her chest, sometimes it felt like forever, but Amaranth didn’t mind at all. She was with her baby, and that was all that mattered. She was enveloped in love….

When Amaranth felt this way, she would begin to cry, sometimes for a long time. Ty was not at home, so she knew he would not suddenly come into the kitchen. If she cried for too long a time, she would go to the bedroom, pull the blankets down, get into bed, then pull the blankets up around her, just as she had done when she had been a child. Eventually, she would fall asleep.

The snow kept falling.

Chapter 51

Amaranth and Ty always celebrated Christmas, but in a different way.

While growing up in Sedona, she had once come across an ad in the Phoenix Republic a few weeks before Christmas. The ad, which had been placed in the newspaper by an Episcopal church, read “Whose birthday is this anyway?” Amaranth never forgot that ad and the message it had so trenchantly conveyed.

Neither Amaranth nor Ty had ever belonged to an organized religion, but had always celebrated what they felt was the simple but profound message of Jesus, which was love. They never had had a Christmas tree, either real or plastic, in their home--real, because that would have meant killing a live tree; plastic, because the world was full of plastic, including the oceans. They were vehemently opposed to the commercialization of Christmas. Amaranth had felt for a long time that the weeks preceding Christmas should be spiritual, not commercial, that this time should be spent in relative silence, and if not in prayer, at least in deep introspection. Then, in mid-January, when it was usually very cold, often gloomy, and always, it seemed, a time when most people experienced an emotional letdown after the frenetic holidays, then have a day when one could give and receive presents, commercial gifts, to one another, thus elevating everyone’s mood. But, of course, this scenario had never come to pass, but it never kept Amaranth and Ty from following their own desires.

This coming Christmas was just a few days away, and on Christmas Eve Day, Amaranth and Ty would be taking Christmas cookies and red punch to the people who spent their lives in the other Colorado Mental Health Institute, this one in Pueblo, more than four times larger than the one in Fort Logan, about 160 miles from Niwot, and about a 2 ½ hour drive.

Of course, Amaranth was happy again to be in the kitchen doing one of the things she most enjoyed doing, making Christmas cookies specifically for this occasion. She had already phoned and spoken to her contact at the hospital whose name was Bev, and confirmed the number of people who would be there on the evening of Christmas Eve Day.

Amaranth began by getting a large bowl for her blender and whisking together 2 cups of flour, 1 ¼ tsp of baking powder, ¼ tsp of salt. Then she added about 14 tbs of unsalted butter at room temperature. Next, she added ¾ of a cup of sugar at medium speed and let mix for one minute total. Then Amaranth got a small bowl and one room-temperature egg that she mixed with ½ tsp of vanilla extract, then added the egg mixture to the large bowl and let it mix for about thirty seconds. Then Amaranth turned the speed of the blender to low and slowly added the flour mixture and let it mix for about one minute. Then Amaranth got a piece of plastic wrap and scraped the dough onto it, then folded it up, making a one-inch flat disc, which she then put into the fridge for at least two hours. When the dough was chilled, Amaranth got out a small bowl of flour, a rolling pin, a flat, metal spatula, and two parchment-lined baking sheets. Then she floured her counter and unwrapped her dough. She floured the dough on both sides and also the rolling pin. She then began to roll out the dough, starting from the center. When the dough got to about the thickness of a pencil, Amaranth stopped rolling. Then she started cutting the cookies, putting each one at a time on one of the baking sheets. Once she had filled both baking sheets, she put each of the sheets, one on one rack, one on the other, into the oven set at 375 degrees. After about five minutes, Amaranth rotated the sheets from front to back and top to bottom and let the cookies bake for five-to-six minutes more. Then she transferred the cookies to a wire sheet to let them cool.

To make the icing, Amaranth got out another bowl and put four cups of powdered sugar, two large egg whites, and two tbs of lemon juice. She then whisked that mixture on medium speed until it became glossy and a bit stiff. She added a number of different colorings to her icing, as well as different sparkles. Amaranth had fun decorating her Christmas cookies.

To make enough cookies to be able to put two to three of them on each paper plate for a hundred or more people took her a long time, but she didn’t mind. After all, while making all these cookies, she had listened to a variety of her most favorite pieces of music: Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata; Barber’s Adagio for Strings; Vivaldi’s Four Seasons; and many others.

Chapter 52

It wasn’t Le Bernardin or Daniel, but it was her kitchen.

Amaranth was going to prepare Pinto Posole.

Posole was a Mexican stew that typically featured shredded pork, dried chilis, hominy, and cumin. Of course, Amaranth was going to use pinto beans in lieu of pork. Lots of fiber and protein, she thought. Hominy was a variety of dried corn (maize) kernels that had been treated with an alkali, such as lye, to improve digestibility. She was going to use three guajillo chilis to create a spicy, but-not-too spicy, stew. She would cook the stew with the chilis, then discard them.

Other ingredients would include 2 tbs of extra ****** olive oil, one large, finely chopped white onion, four cloves of pressed or minced garlic, one cup of tomato paste, one tbs of ground cumin, one bay leaf, three cans of rinsed and drained pinto beans, one can of rinsed and drained hominy, four cups of vegetable broth, two cups of water, ½ teaspoon of fine sea salt, ¼ cup of chopped cilantro, one halved lime, slices of avocado, shredded green cabbage, and chopped radishes.

Amaranth first cut off the stem ends of the chilis and flicked them to remove as many seeds as possible. She then rinsed them and patted them dry. She then put a Dutch oven over medium heat. Next, she toasted the chilis in a dry pan, pressing them flat with her spatula for a few seconds until fragrant, then flipping them over and pressing them again for a few more seconds, then putting them aside for the time being. In the same Dutch oven, she warmed the olive oil until it shimmered. She then added slowly the chopped onions and a pinch of the sea salt and cooked the onions until they became translucent. Next, she added the garlic and cumin while stirring for about one minute. Then she added the tomato paste, which she stirred for another minute or so.

Amaranth then added the toasted chili peppers, the bay leaf, the hominy, the pinto beans, the vegetable broth, and the water into the Dutch oven and raised the heat to medium-high. She brought the mixture to a simmer, then gradually reduced the heat as necessary, stirring all the while, and cooked it for 25 minutes.

As always, Amaranth enjoyed preparing the dining room for dinner, spreading the clean, white linen tablecloth over the dining room table, placing the long, slender, yellow candle at its center, lighting it, setting the table, choosing Prokofiev’s Piano Concerto №2 to listen to as Ty and she ate.

Her timing was impeccable. As soon as Amaranth had completed these delightful tasks, she heard Ty opening the back door and coming through the kitchen.

“I smell something delicious,” said Ty as he entered the dining room and gave Amaranth a hug and a kiss.

“It’s for you, and for me. It’s for us,” said Amaranth.

Chapter 53

It was now Christmas Eve Day.

Both Amaranth and Ty were looking forward to the drive to Pueblo this afternoon. They had plenty of time to get there. They would be in no rush. They would listen to beautiful music in the car. They would enjoy the solitude of the day. They would appreciate fully the spirit of their mission, the smiles on the faces of many people, most of whom they had met many times before, some for the first time. If the Christmas cookies and punch were sweet, so would be the exchanges they would have with their friends at Colorado Mental Health Institute in Pueblo.

Both Amaranth and Ty had been meliorists for as long as they could remember. Amaranth remembered going into the not-so-affluent parts of Phoenix when she was a teenager and being with the homeless, sharing meals, and conversation, with them at soup kitchens, bringing them clothing and other supplies essential to survival, but which they simply didn’t have. Ty, from Knoxville, Tennessee, had said he was sorry he had missed the Civil Rights Movement (1955–1968). He was sorry he never had a chance to meet Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., to thank him for what he and thousands of others had been doing, first throughout the Deep South, then up into the North, to Chicago and Cicero, for example, which he found just as racist, if not more so, than Montgomery and Selma.

“If you have the courage to right a societal wrong without violence, and tens of thousands — if not many, many more — are inspired to join you in this moral quest, and if you and your followers find increasing success in your collective efforts to ameliorate these unconscionable, immoral, deleterious conditions, and you sufficiently threaten the illuminati’s grip that chokes the freedoms of all others — if your threat is real, if it is viable — then they will **** you. This fight between right and wrong, this struggle between good and evil, is a moral election, if you will, and the invisible, dark forces will always cast the deciding vote: assassination,” Ty concluded.

Amaranth and Ty kept driving toward Pueblo, but in silence for quite some time. Finally, Amaranth put Bach’s “Air on the G String” into the slot on the dashboard. The music was soothing. ”

“We’re here,” said Amaranth.

The routine was the same every year. Amaranth found Bev, her contact, and Bev got help from some staff carrying in the many boxes of homemade Christmas cookies and gallons of red Christmas punch.

Again, Amaranth laid out the paper plates on a long table in the day room and put three cookies on each plate. Ty again put a paper napkin on every paper plate and poured red Christmas punch into a long line of paper cups. A line of people began to form, which got longer with every minute. Both Amaranth and Ty began to recognize and remember the first names of many of their friends. Thus began the joy for Amaranth and Ty, the gift of kindness, of love.

It took quite a long time for all of those in line to get their cookies and punch, but once they did and ate and drank their treats, the people did what they had done for so many years now, flock toward Amaranth and Ty, began to say hello, tell Amaranth and Ty their first names, many of which Amaranth and Ty remembered from meeting them so many years on Christmas Eve evening, and chatted with their friends, sometimes singly, other times in small groups. When one is enveloped in joy, as Amaranth and Ty were, there is no time, just joy, and more joy.

This was the real Christmas, and everyone in that big day room soaked it up.

Finally, it was time to leave. Amaranth and Ty thanked Bev and her staff for helping out, and said good-bye just once, then walked out to the car.

“What a wonderful time I had!” exclaimed Amaranth.

“There’s nothing plastic about being with real friends,” added Ty.

Chapter 54

It was New Year’s Day, 2020.

“Ty, I have a great idea!” Amaranth said excitedly.

“What’s that?” asked Ty.

“To celebrate the new year, I want to make a chapbook of my poems to give away to my friends, Amaranth responded.

“That’s a great idea, Am. You have a cardboard full of notebooks that are full of poems you’ve written since I met you, and even before. They will make a beautiful chapbook and a beautiful gift,” said Ty.

It was true. Amaranth did have a cardboard box full of notebooks that were full of all the poems she had ever written, and every one of those notebooks had at one time welled up inside her and she had “recorded” it. All those poems were precious, sacred. She had never tried to get any of them published. Getting published was not her goal. When she would feel a poem welling up inside her, she “recorded” it immediately. That was what gave her an immense feeling of satisfaction. In fact, she remembered writing once the adage: “The poem is the prize. The poem is the sound, publication but an echo.” It was easier to find a publisher, she thought, than to find your heart.

Amaranth had kept the cardboard box in the closet of the bedroom, so she went into the bedroom, opened the closet, and dragged the cardboard box into the kitchen. She sat in her chair at the kitchen table with the box beside her, picked up one of the notebooks, and slowly began to read her poems.

Amaranth knew it would take a long time for her both to read all of her poems and to select the ones she wanted to put in her chapbook. But to her, it would be like seeing old friends, a joy to meet each one again.

Chapter 55

It was bitterly cold outside, but it was toasty in the kitchen.

Amaranth had read through several of her notebooks and had selected a number of her poems to include in her chapbook.

Here were a few of them.

SILVER SPOONS

Some people love their silver spoons,

China closets in velvet rooms,

hand-rubbed walnut round pearls of glass,

antique notions to preserve the past,

while others

love their silver moons,

orange sunsets, October’s tune

of bluebirds sighing through sunburnt skies,

green fields soft where lovers lie.


IN THE EARLIEST OF MORNINGS

In the earliest of mornings

when the Earth gives birth

to the orange, yellow sun,

when the stars begin to

disappear in deference to

the golden god, when

moon lingers in the sky in

awe of what’s unfolding,

when the bluebirds and

blackbirds and robins

swirl in jubilation, colorful

creations we call wild flowers

in mountain meadows begin

their diurnal ritual of stretching

their stems and showing their

colors reflected in the placid

pond nearby — green and brown wild

ginger, blue and purple basil

mountain-mint, yellow-sweet

clover, red and orange beech

drops and pinesap, pink goat’s

rue, white fringed orchids, a

panoply of iridescence and

irenic scope that pleases the

raccoon and the deer, the

elk and the antelopes, in the

earliest of mornings of this

burgeoning day.


WOUNDED KNEE, YOU ARE TO ME

Wounded Knee, you are to me

a sacred spot. A cavalry,

a Calvary, we ought not

forget the thousand screams,

the streams of blood that

flooded prairie grass.

Babi Yar, you’re not so far

from Wounded Knee. I’d

have to be without eyes

or ears not to hear or see

the enormity: the mangled

bodies, the twisted forms,

that speak, that wreak

of evil and of seeing and

not saying no. My Lai,

our lie, women and children

dying, lying on our lies,

covering culpability, a quilt

of carnage, but where is guilt?

Cambodia, your killing fields

now flower with blood and

bones of beings fleeing tyranny,

thousands falling near you

and me as we sip our tea

and munch on sweetcakes of

propriety. El Playón, los

paisanos pobres know no

place but death. No dearth

of death squads here, no

fear of duplicity, my

country’s complicity in

these atrocities — my country

’tis of thee, sweet land of

liberty — El Salvador no está

aqui, porque, like Wounded Knee,

the savior is you and me.


NIGHT INSIGHT

Had I but an endless eve,

if darkness were my friend

and sleep my enemy,

I might have stayed awake a while

and found the answer true.

But summer sunsets silent fall.

I heard it not at all.

and my soft bed

like a siren called.

I could not think it through.


Chapter 56

“Happy New Year! Dr. Rosenstein,” said Amaranth.

“And Happy New Year to you, Amaranth,” replied Dr. Rosenstein.

“I have some good news to tell you. I am now selecting poems I have written over the years for the chapbook I shall be making,” said Amaranth.

“That’s wonderful,” said Dr. Rosenstein.

“I’d like to share with you several of my poems I have selected to be part of my chapbook, but first I would like to tell you how Ty and I spent Christmas Eve evening. Is that OK with you?” asked Amaranth.

“Of course it is,” said Dr. Rosenstein.

Amaranth had told Dr. Rosenstein about how Ty and she had spent Thanksgiving Day in a previous session, and frankly, he had told Amaranth how pleased and proud he was of hearing about what he considered to be a most munificent act, a most “magnanimous gesture” as he had put it, of Amaranth and Ty.

Dr. Rosenstein was obviously deeply empathic with what Amaranth had shared with him, probably because he had been trained to be a psychiatrist at the famous Menninger Foundation, then located in Topeka, Kansas, and had spent a number of years in the early 1970s as an in-house psychiatrist after completing his training at Menninger’s, as it was often simply referred to. Moreover, he later was made head of the Topeka State Hospital, so he knew intimately what Amaranth had previously shared with him. The doctor had gotten to know Dr. Karl Menninger, affectionately called only “Dr. Karl” by virtually everyone, during those years and held him in the highest regard. He had read all the books Dr. Karl had written in his lifetime: The Human Mind; Man Against Himself; Love Against Hate; The Vital Balance; The Crime of Punishment; Whatever Became of Sin?

Dr. Rosenstein had never been a fan of Ronald Reagen, probably because Reagen had cut drastically the funding for mental health services nationwide in the early 1980s, resulting in the closing of many mental hospitals, as well as community-based day hospitals across the country, making those who had been in them homeless and forsaken.

Dr. Rosenstein didn’t just not like Reagen, he held great antipathy toward him. Reagen had swelled the number of human beings who came to live on the sidewalks of our cities, under bridges, beneath bushes, wherever they could find some semblance of safety, in short, a societal tragedy we live with to this day.

“On Christmas Eve day, Ty and I drove to Pueblo to be with our friends, most of whom, as you already know, had spent many years of their lives there at the Colorado Mental Health Institute. I had baked many Christmas cookies and Ty had bought a large number of gallons of red Christmas punch, which we handed out to all of our friends. The best part of the evening was, and always has been, the opportunity to interact with those who wanted to, to introduce themselves, to say hello, to chat with us, whatever. Ty and I felt there was absolutely no time limit, real or imagined, imposed upon us that would cut short the time we could stay there, and I think our friends could sense the same, so we were in no rush quickly to say a perfunctory “hello and good-bye” and then leave. There was joy all around,” said Amaranth.

“Well, to be honest with you, Amaranth, I wish I could have been with you and Ty. I know I would have had a wonderful time, as you and Ty, and all your friends, did. Thanks to both of you for doing what you did. I know it meant a lot to those there whom the world has forgotten, and to you and Ty, and to me as well, “ said Dr. Rosenstein. “Now share with me some of your poems.

WHAT DOES IT MEAN TO SUFFER?

What does it mean to suffer?

Is it better to buffer ourselves

from turmoil, or does the oil

of hate and hurt serve some purpose?

Are we animals in some circus,

parading like some elephants inelegantly,

passing through some wire hoops?

We tire, we droop.

Are we poor men in soup lines,

hoping for salvation,

fed with propitiation?

Our faces show no elation:

They grow ashen.

Shall we cash in the bonds

our mothers never gave us?

Love’s dearth has thus enslaved us.

Just put us in our graves and

let us live in Mother Earth.


AND IF OUR CRYINGS BE HEARD

The way we cry, and

if our cryings be heard,

the way they are attended to,

will set the walk. The way we

are treated as toddlers, the way

punishment is meted out,

will further the course. Kind-

nesses, magnanimity of spirit,

love — all will determine not only

the paths we are led down, but

also the paths we shall set for

ourselves and travel ourselves —

pathos, bathos, ethos — until

death deals an end to our

earthly peregrinations. These

spoors — the lives, the lanes,

the passages we shall be

spooring — will tell us and

others about who we are

and were, and if we were

befriended ever by others,

and by ourselves.


THE IBEX

I see ibicies on alpine slopes,

large curved horns coming almost

full circle. I descry mountain

hawks on the wing that descry

more than I. Bears I don’t

see, for they are lost in their

own sleep, not on slopes, but

in slumber. The number of deer

is in actuality many, but I

have not earned the right to

discern more than a few.

Vision is a funny thing: we

tend to infer from the many

we can see reality, but this

is illusory. Our sight we feel

can be enhanced by glasses,

microscopic or telescopic,

but sight is not insight; seeing

is not knowing. The intellect

sees that all are different,

wisdom that all are one. The

ibex knows the mountain is

deeper than it is high.


CHRYSANTHEMUMS

Speak in tears when you lie

next to me and your heart is

troubled so. Let sorrow pour

from your eyes and wet the

sheets. Meet your heart and

greet it openly, though it be

filled with sadness. Let your

body shake against mine, as

I know what it is to hurt.

Let empathy soak up your

sorrow. Let your catharsis

become chrysanthemums.


“Those are powerful and evocative poems, Amaranth. Thank you for sharing them with me,” said Dr. Rosenstein.

“You are welcome, Dr. Rosenstein. “I shall give you one of my chapbooks when I finish making them,” said Amaranth.

As she drove back to Niwot, Amaranth thought more about Dr. Rosenstein. Not only was he skillful as a therapist, but also he was a kind, sensitive human being. The latter notion, she thought, was as important, perhaps even more important, than the former.

Chapter 57

Amaranth was sitting in her chair at the kitchen table sipping coffee.

It was now late January. This had been an unusually cold winter, not conducive to taking even a short walk outside. The crocuses were smart. They knew when to take cover and stay there.

Amaranth could feel again something welling up inside of her, but it was not a poem this time. It was something similar to a poem, but different. She instinctively reached for her notebook in her purse, and as she was doing so, she slowly began to feel what was welling up. It was some kind of remembrance of a man at the Colorado Mental Health Institute in Pueblo with whom she had had a longer than usual conversation. She remembered the man’s name. His name was Randolph.

Amaranth opened her notebook and began writing.

RANDOLPH

Randolph would sit in the east wing, the men’s wing, each night. He would sit in the same chair, the one beside the broken lamp, the one upholstered with hard foam rubber, covered with red plastic leather on an aluminum frame. The seat of the chair had a big tear in it,which had been taped over with some kind of wide, translucent tape. But, in truth, you usually could not see the tear, because Randolph sat there each night.

Slight of build, in his mid-thirties, he sat there in almost total silence, rarely speaking if not spoken to, or unless he wanted to *** a smoke off of you, which he usually wanted to do. He sat there with a rather pleasant smile on his face, for he was, in fact, a kind man. His eyes, though, were tired, very tired, a mixture of watery red and grey. His hair, though he combed it every morning in the men’s john, looked flat and depressed, probably because he spent a good deal of the day lying in bed. And he would sit there each night, sometimes a king upon his throne, sometimes a fetus ensconced in its womb, listening to scratchy melodies over the intercom, sometimes dreaming of the chocolate cake his mother never brought him Sunday afternoons.

“Got a smoke?” he would say.

“No, I don’t smoke,” I would say. “Maybe Arthur’s got some tobacco.”

The truth is that Randolph knew every night that I didn’t have a smoke, that I didn’t smoke, and that Arthur, his roommate, did have tobacco, had tobacco every night. But this litany of question and response, though ostensibly meaningless due to pre-knowledge and repetition, was important nonetheless. It was his way, our way, of communicating, of breaking the cold isolation that surrounded each of us, of reaching out and touching another human being.

“Oh yeah, Arthur,” Randolph would say, and he would get out of his plastic seat and go find Arthur, as he did each night. He would bring back the tobacco and a piece of paper, spread the brown tobacco evenly on the white paper, and then carefully, cautiously, roll this blend of brown and white into a near-perfect cigarette. Then he would light it against the lighter in the wall. And the smoke would curl over his yellow-stained finger and thumb, as it had been doing over the past ten years, and Randolph would stand silently on the grey linoleum floor and gaze through the large plate-glass window, seeing both the reflection of his own image and the darkness of winter’s night.

At ten o’clock, when they started to turn out the lights, Randolph would ask for one last cigarette, complete the ritual, and say, “Maybe I should go down to the hardware store tomorrow and see if I can get a job. I got to get a job. I just can’t keep staying here day after day. I’ll go crazy.”

And he would get up out of his torn chair, smile at me quietly, and without saying a word, tell me good night. Then he would turn and walk down the pale yellow concrete-block corridor, turn into his room, and as he had done so many nights before, would lie down on his bed and close his eyes.


Amaranth put her pen down on the kitchen table, took another sip of coffee, then looked out of the frosted windows for a long time at winter’s inhospitality.

Chapter 58

Amaranth and Ty were sitting on the blue sofa in the living room. They were listening to Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor.

“Am, did I ever tell you about the strange conversation I had many years ago one evening at the West End?” asked Ty. West End, which was sold after both had graduated from Columbia College, had been the drinking equivalent of Tom’s Restaurant. It had been the place where many Columbia students went if they wanted to have a beer and to chat. Columbia folklore had it that the West End was where Kerouac and Ginsberg and friends met to hold forth.

“You and I have shared many stories, but I don’t off-hand remember your telling me one took place at the West End. But please, go ahead,” said Amaranth.

“Well, it occurred one spring evening in our sophomore year. I wanted to get out of Butler Library, enjoy for a bit the pleasant spring evening, and I was in the mood to drink a beer. So I walked across Broadway, then walked down to the West End.

“I decided to sit at the counter. Next to me was a fellow I did not know. I ordered a beer and began drinking it. After a few minutes, the guy sitting next to me said hello and introduced himself. His first name was Don, I remember. He was a Columbia graduate student studying for his PhD in psychology. A nice guy. I think he told me he had gotten his BA from Princeton. I think he said he was from Kittery Point, Maine.

“So we started chatting while we were enjoying our beers. At some point, he began to talk about Piaget, the Swiss psychologist famous for his work on childhood development. He talked quite some time about Piaget’s theory of cognitive development and epistemological views. I remember his saying that a child was ‘animistic,’ that the child thought the sun and moon followed him when he walked, that dreams were made of wind and came through the window when he slept.

“I remember taking several minutes thinking about what he had shared with me about Piaget and his theories. Then I said to Don that I thought Piaget had missed the mark, that his clinical observations were unknowing, that his words, while descriptive, did not explain. I said the child does not think, he knows. Dreams are fanciful and fleeting, made of whimsy of the wind. The child is at one with the universe, I said. He is at the center. The child is wisdom. He feels, he knows. The child is a poet and a priest, and he knows.

“Just as I was finishing my riposte, I heard some rumbling from directly behind Don and me. There were three guys sitting at a small round table also drinking beers. I had seen them when I had first come in. I remember I was wearing that night a round-necked, dark green sweater under a sports coat. Also, I had on a white shirt, the collar of which rose a half inch or so above the sweater. I had heard what I thought was some kind of muted laughter coming from that table just as I was finishing my remarks to Don, so I swiveled around and looked directly at these three guys. As I stared at them in silence for a few moments, they seemed to get a bit nervous. I think they mistook my shirt and sweater for clerical garb. Finally, one of them said to me, “Man, are you a priest? You sure look like a priest.”

“At that point, I reached back to the counter, grabbed my beer, took a swig, and then turned around again, facing these three guys again. I paused a few moments, then said to them slowly, “Every man’s a priest.” The three of them laughed, kind of nervously.

“It’s true, though. Every man’s a child, every child’s a poet, every poet’s a priest.”

Chapter 59

“Julie, give me a hug!” said Amaranth. The two had met in Boulder at Le Peep for breakfast.

“How are you, Ed, and the kids getting along?”

“They are all fine. How are you and Ty doing? I hope well.” replied Julie. “You know Valentine’s Day is the day after tomorrow. Do you think spring will ever get here?”

“The sooner, the better,” replied Amaranth.

Ed’s full name was Edward Borgoman. He was a computer guru and had just received a promotion. He worked for Google in Boulder.

“Please offer Ed my congratulations on his promotion, will you?” said Amaranth.

“Of course I will,” said Julie. “It’s been a rough winter, hasn’t it? The good news is that Ed and I get up to Aspen almost every weekend to ski, usually finding new snow every time we go. How is your chapbook of poems coming along, Am?”

“I’ve just about finished my selection of poems that will be part of my chapbook,” said Amaranth. “I’ve decided on the title I’ll be giving it. Its title will be I WRITE WHEN THE RIVER’S DOWN. Actually, I brought with me a few poems that will be in the chapbook, and I’d like to share them with you, if you like.”

“You know I would love to hear your poems,” said Julie. “You write so beautifully.”

“Thank you, Julie. I appreciate that,” said Amaranth.

Amaranth reached into her purse and pulled out the poems she wished to read to Julie.

ANGELS AND ARCHANGELS

We wonder where love comes from,

where it flies, through clouds and skies,

ferns and forests, where will it lie?

Curtains of sadness cloud our view,

grey hues we hope will turn to blue

and brightness. Angels and archangels

light on our hearts, evoking the lotion of

love that spreads through our beings,

bringing blue hope to our spirits,

elevating our souls to zeniths of well-being

and sweet tones that assuage our many

hurts. Angels and archangels, beneficent

intercessors, ******* our sorrows,

peeling away the anguish that visits us in the

middle of morning or night, sweet music

that atones for our transgressions, a

progression of expiation that leaves us

higher than the clouds, closer to God.


THERE WILL COME A TIME

There will come a time

when time doesn’t matter,

when all minutes and

millennia are but moments

when I look into your eyes.

There will come a time

when clinging things

will fall like desiccated

leaves, leaving us with

but one another. There

will come a time when

the external becomes eternal,

when holding you is to

embrace the universe.

There will come a time

when to be will no longer

be infinitive, but infinity,

and you and I are one.


ARE WE ALL NOT IDIOMS

Are we all not idioms,

peculiar to ourselves

in construct and meaning?

Are not all of us

syntactical anomalies?

Do we not all have ellipses,

lacunae, egregious gaps

in our beings? Lack of

parallel construction in

our lives, dangling like

participles, a pronoun

without its antecedent?

Are not our lives run-

on sentences handed

up by unconscious wishes

and unmet needs? Too

bad we could not be

more declarative and

less rhetorical or

imperative.


THE BEGINNING OF GOOD-BYE

We sense it because it comes inexorably,

this is the beginning of good-bye.

Her eyes avert his, a touch with no

feeling, a caress more cautious than

caring, a kiss when lips do not meet,

this is the beginning of good-bye.

A perfunctory placement of the hand,

a conversation moribund, sipping

scotch and sodas in silence, a call that

never comes, memories that have grown opaque,

this the beginning of good-bye.


“Wow!” exclaimed Julie. “These poems that you’ve just shared with me are incredible! Have you ever submitted them to The New Yorker?”

“No, I never have,” said Amaranth. “They just come to me from time to time, and I write what’s welling up inside of me. That’s my satisfaction.”

“But think of all the people who love poetry. Think of how much pleasure they would derive from reading your poems, if they had a chance to, Am,” implored Julie.

“It took 200 years for William Blake to be discovered. And Emily Dickinson wrote 1,800 poems during her lifetime, most all of which she wrote in her bedroom in Amherst, and it was only until the 1950s that an academic got his hands on her original poems and published them that way. Then Emily Dickinson was universally declared a great poet. Maybe someday my chapbook will be discovered, but the most important thing about poetry, about writing poetry, is always to be true to yourself. That’s true not only about poetry, but even more so about living your life,” said Amaranth.

Julie nodded in agreement.

Chapter 60

Amaranth thought about one of Simon and Garfunkel’s famous songs, April Come She Will. That was a beautiful song, she thought, but they had left out all the other months, especially the month of March, her favorite month, because that was the month, usually around the last week of it, when the crocuses began to appear, even if there were still snow on the ground.

Amaranth loved crocuses in general, but the crocuses in her back yard were her friends, her confidants. She loved to sit on the grass beside them and talk to them when they first appeared, and for many other times long thereafter. She was looking forward to the last week of March when she could begin anew her special friendship with them. That wait would seem like a long time to Amaranth, but it was only a little over two weeks away.

If that day in early March had been a day in the last week of that same month, Amaranth would have gone out the kitchen door, walked down the few steps, then down the gently sloping hill toward the burgeoning crocuses a short distance from the sinuous creek and sat down. Then she would have told the story to the crocuses about her Uncle Peter, who was her mother’s younger brother.

Amaranth would have told the crocuses about what Uncle Peter had done almost 30 years ago, in 1992, when he set out alone to travel around the USA meeting with and talking to the hungry, the homeless, and the hopeless — the millions of forgotten Americans — throughout our nation. In particular, she would speak of one of the many trenchant, personal experiences he had had during his long journey, this one having taken place in Houston, Texas.

Amaranth would start talking about how Uncle Peter was driving back to his cheap motel in his rental car, having spent most of that day visiting different shelters and soup kitchens. But when he drove on the bridge over Prescott Avenue, he saw to his left, down below, a veritable sea of black men spread over a two-block stretch of that boulevard. There must have been several hundred of them, all black, swarming down below. Uncle Peter kept driving for a while, but little by little began to slow down, until he finally came to a stop. Uncle Peter, Amaranth remembered him telling her, had to turn around and go back to speak with some of those human beings. And that’s exactly what he did. When he got back to Prescott Avenue, he parked his car and got out. He saw across the boulevard a large group of men standing up on a landing. As he began to cross the boulevard, he was met with a fuselage of vituperation, an endless stream of obscenities emanating from the mouth of one man standing on the other side of the boulevard. Frankly, Uncle Peter had told Amaranth that he had never heard such hatred verbalized in his life. But Uncle Peter kept walking across the boulevard as these verbal bullets kept whizzing by his ears. Uncle Peter had told her that miraculously he was unfazed by this onslaught of rage, probably because, Amaranth thought, he had such deep empathy for all those who were still oppressed, which, of course, amounted to billions all over Earth.

When Uncle Peter reached the other side of the boulevard, he then walked up the steps to the landing where this group of men was still standing and talking to each other. A number of them turned toward him as he approached the group. Uncle Peter, as he had always done, stuck out his arm to shake hands with anyone who wanted to do that in return, and at the same time, introduced himself. First one, then others, began to shake hands with him, and some even told him their first names. Eventually he moved toward this huge man at the center of the group. He was about 6’4” and weighed somewhere between 260 to 280 pounds. Again, Uncle Peter stuck out his arm to shake this man’s hand, and as he did, he introduced himself. This giant of a man shook Uncle Peter’s hand and said, “I’m Rambo. I’m the sheriff of this community.”

Rambo and Uncle Peter began talking to each other. Uncle Peter told Rambo what he had been doing for months then, traveling across the nation, stopping to talk to and with people who were victims of the same kind of gross inequities Rambo and the members of his community were facing, and had been facing for a long time. In turn, Rambo told Uncle Peter that he had been stabbed, shot, but not yet killed, living on the streets for a terribly long time. Uncle Peter could tell why Rambo was the de facto sheriff of this community, not only because of his gargantuan size, but also because of his intelligence. In fact, Uncle Peter asked Rambo for a big favor. Tomorrow, he told Rambo, he, Uncle Peter, was going to make a televised address — the local NBC News affiliate in Houston was going to be filming it — and Uncle Peter asked Rambo if he would join him in this address. He told Rambo that he could do a better job than he himself could do. Rambo would bring to the attention of thousands of viewers the ugly, atrocious reality of being homeless and hungry in the fourth largest city in the nation. As Uncle Peter was asking Rambo to join him, the two men were still in a handshake, and as he was asking Rambo to join him, Uncle Peter could feel Rambo’s hand, which had to be almost twice the size of his, begin to shake. This man, Rambo, if he had wanted to, said Uncle Peter, could have, with one hand and in one motion, flung Uncle Peter two blocks down the boulevard in the air. Instead, Rambo’s hand was shaking in his. Uncle Peter pleaded with Rambo, but sadly, to no avail. Uncle Peter thanked Rambo for what he was doing for his brothers, then took his leave by walking back down the steps to the sidewalk. Uncle Peter had told Amaranth the great anguish he had felt after Rambo’s decision to decline his offer.

Nonetheless, Uncle Peter began to walk down the sidewalk, saying hello to everyone on it and talking to those who wanted to talk to him, but never bothering those who he could tell were not wanting to interact with him in any way. He did, however, talk for as long as that individual wanted to talk. Every story Uncle Peter heard was, in a word, tragic. After all, everyone to whom he spoke was black, and most of them carried with them the legacies of slavery, which, in the broadest sense, was the unending, pervasive scourge of racism in general, and in particular, all its malevolent effects, such as hunger and homelessness and hopelessness.

It took Uncle Peter an hour to reach the end of his two-block walk down one side of the boulevard, at which point he crossed the boulevard and began taking another one hour, two-block walk back to his parked rental car, again always stopping when individuals indicated a wish to talk to him, and always talking to them for as long as they wished.

Finally, he reached his rental car, and as he was beginning to open the driver’s door, he saw across the boulevard the man who, two hours earlier, had incessantly, viciously, verbally assualted him. Their eyes met for an instant. Then the man across the boulevard slowly lifted one of his arms into the air and waved at Uncle Peter. Uncle Peter, in a near state of shock because of this totally unexpected benevolent act, waved back. Then the man across the boulevard cried out “God Bless You.” Uncle Peter cried back “God Bless You.”

Uncle Peter had told Amaranth that that moment was the high point of his spiritual life. Obviously, Amaranth would never forget that moment either.

Chapter 61

It was the first day of the last week of March, 2020.

It was Wednesday, the 25th.

Amaranth was so excited she couldn’t help herself. She put on her winter coat, opened the kitchen door, walked down the few steps, then quickly walked to the very place where she hoped so much that she would see her dear friends, the crocuses, bravely forcing themselves through the snow that still covered the ground. She knew the exact spot to go to. She had been performing the same ritual for 10 years, and her heart was pounding.

It did not take her long to get to the exact spot. She was absolutely certain she was looking down on the exact spot. But there was no sign of the crocuses. There was no sign of the crocuses pushing through the snow. She was disheartened. Amaranth even looked beyond the exact spot to look for the crocuses, but the simple truth was that the crocuses had not yet appeared. She was so disappointed that she stood in the same place without moving for several minutes. Where are my dear friends? she said to herself. She couldn’t help looking back, year by year, over the past decade. Yes, this was indeed, almost to the day, when she would see the tips of the crocuses pushing through the snow. She was sure of it.

Finally, Amaranth came to terms with the reality of this cardinal day and slowly began to walk back up the hill. OK, tomorrow would be the day. Tomorrow, that’s it. I’ll see my friends tomorrow, she thought.

When she entered the kitchen, Amaranth slowly took off her winter coat and hung it on the stand and then walked over to her chair and sat down. She felt a poem welling up inside of her, so she reached for her purse, which was sitting on the kitchen table, opened it, and pulled out her notebook, opened it, and placed it on top of the table and began to record.

THE WAY THAT WINTER COMES AT ME

The way that winter comes at me,

as if a stranger from a side street

cold and dark accosting me. I turn

my collar up. He hollers “You there!”

Faster I walk, fear chilling me,

a lamp post but a grey ghost in the fog.

This ****, winter, mugs me. He hits me,

stabs me in the side with knives

of ice, slices at my heart, the home

of hope. Supine, frost forming on

my brow, I pray to boughs of willow

trees;  pines will sing my elegy. My mind

drifts like snowdrifts: A mitten lost…

fingers, nose, toes frostbitten…

a lake of isolation…a sleigh with no

horse…a blizzard of insanity.

My blood thaws the frozen ground,

then freezes.


Amaranth put her pen on her poem, closed her notebook and put it in her purse, and with purse in hand, got up from her chair and walked slowly to the bedroom where she lay down on the bed.

She felt cold, even after pulling up the sheet, blanket, and bedspread over her.

Amaranth lay on the bed for several hours. Finally, she got up and went into the leaving room to turn on the evening news. She rarely watched TV, but did so occasionally, mostly getting her news off the Internet. She sat on the blue sofa. By this time, Ty was back at home.

Amaranth and Ty both hated to watch and listen to the political news emanating from Washington, D.C. Politics to both was a game, an ugly, essentially corrupt game. What they appreciated were stories not about politics, but about leadership, but features about the latter were hard to come by.

As they watched and listened, somewhat inattentively, they began to hear an unusual report from Sydney, Australia. It seemed as tough people were reporting that leaves on their trees had begun, almost instantly, first to turn brown and then fall off the tree limbs to the ground. What was this about, they both asked each other? No specialists interviewed in Sydney seemed to have any answer either. Well, this news, as peculiar as it was, was no worse than what they usually heard every day from the Oval Office.

Chapter 62

Each ensuing morning for the rest of the last week of March, Amaranth was anxious to put on her winter coat, open the kitchen door, walk down a few steps, then down the sloping hill to the exact spot where the crocuses, she hoped, would be appearing. But each of those mornings proved again and again to be a major disappointment to her. The crocuses, her dear friends, the harbingers of spring, had not yet appeared. Over these days, Amaranth, who at first had been devastated, slowly became inured to the fact that her crocuses , for some inexplicable reason, remained buried in the earth. The snow on the ground, however, had melted by the end of the week.

On Thursday, 26 March, Amaranth intuitively didn’t wait for the evening TV news. She went straight to her computer and accessed her favorite news site, refdesk.com. What she read startled her. There were a flurry of reports coming in from all different places in the world that were virtually the same as the one from Sydney, Australia yesterday — from Rio de Janeiro, Brazil; from Cape Town, South Africa; from Jakarta, Indonesia; from Buenos Aires, Argentina; from Kinshasa, the Democratic Republic of the Congo; from Lima, Peru; from Santiago de Chile, Chile; and from many other smaller cities.

Friday morning, Amaranth could not wait to find out what else had happened in the world. It did not take her long to find out. It turned out that now cities in the northern hemisphere, those closest to the equator, were experiencing the same phenomenom: Bogota, Colombia; Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia; Singapore; Medan, Indonesia; Cali,Colombia; and again, many other smaller cities.

All major media outlets around the world — TV networks and cable news channels, major newspapers, social media of all types — were beginning to cover and comment on this spreading, climatic enigma, but nobody in the world could yet come up with an explanation, let alone a solution, for it.

Saturday morning, more bad news. Everywhere around the world, in both the north and south hemispheres, there were more and more reports of the same kind coming in. What was worse, there were new reports from farmers from around the world who had planted seeds in their fields that by now should have germinated, but hadn’t. Indeed, other new reports from throughout the world said collectively that all living plants on Earth were beginning to die. What had started just a few days ago as an issue that people had thought was a mere curiosity, and nothing more than that, was now becoming exponentially a worldwide crisis-in-the-making. And no one on Earth yet had been able to figure out why this was happening or what to do about it.

Sunday morning: The whole world was now ablaze with terrifying reports of gigantic forest fires burning millions and millions of acres around the world, whole cities having to be evacuated. There were worldwide reports of unprecedented storms all over the world that were flooding countless cities inland and areas on the coasts of all continents.

The entire world was now a horror story of untold magnitude that had become real.

Chapter 63

Sunday evening, Amaranth could not fall asleep, so she carefully got out of bed, put on her robe, and went into the living room and sat down on the blue sofa. She sat there in the darkness, in the silence, for a long time. Then she heard the voice. The voice said, “Amaranth, I need to talk with you. I need to talk with you now.”

Amaranth had not heard the voice for months. Now it seemed to her as if the voice actually wanted to speak with her. She again was not alarmed, so she said to the voice, “OK, I will speak with you. What should I call you.?

“Call me Spirit,” replied the voice.

“OK,” replied Amaranth.

“Amaranth, you will need to write down every word I will be saying. Do you understand?” said the voice.

“Yes,” said Amaranth. “First, I will need to get my notebook. It’s in the bedroom. I’ll be right back.”

Amaranth came back with her notebook, turned on the lamp sitting on the end table, and sat back down on the blue sofa.

“I’m ready,” said Amaranth.

The voice said to her, “Earth is dying now. It has been mistreated for a long time. It has been abused. It has not been loved. I think you can help save it.

“Now, you can begin to write down everything I say to you.”

The voice began to speak.

“I have been asked to give this message to the entire world.

“Earth is dying now, but all of us on Earth can save it.”

“There is one land, one sky, one sea, one people. The boundaries that divide us are not on maps, but in our minds and hearts. Earth is as impoverished as her poorest Citizen of Earth, as healthy as her sickest, as educated as her most ignorant. If we pollute the headwaters of the Mississippi, then ineluctably we shall pollute the Indian Ocean. If we continue to pollute our air, the current 800,000,000 Citizens of Earth, along with all other living creations on Earth, will die. The imminent threats of nuclear holocaust and catastrophic climate change we need urgently to prevent. This is the truth of Spiritual Ecology.

“If we can wage war, why can we not wage peace? Nations are anachronistic; therefore, there will be none. There will be only Earth and Citizens of Earth. Each Citizen of Earth will devote a sizable number of years of her/his life to the betterment of humankind and Earth. All military weapons — from handguns to hydrogen bombs — will be destroyed, and any future weapons will be prohibited. All jails and prisons will be closed, replaced by Love Centers.  Automation and other technological advances will enhance the opportunity of all Citizens of Earth exponentially to realize their potential, both personally and professionally. There will be no money. All precious resources and assets of Earth will be distributed equally among all the Citizens of Earth. The only things Citizens of Earth will own are the right to be treated well by every other Citizen of Earth and the responsibility to treat all other Citizens of Earth, and Earth itself, well. All Citizens of Earth will be free to travel anywhere, at any time, on Earth. All Citizens of Earth will be free to choose their own personal and professional goals, but will do no harm to Earth or other Citizens of Earth. All Citizens of Earth will be afforded the same resources to live a full, safe and satisfying life, including the best education, health care, housing, food, and other necessities throughout Earth.

“The only way to change anything for the good, for good, is through love. Love is what every living thing on Earth needs. Love Centers are for those Citizens of Earth who were not loved enough, or at all, especially at their earliest of ages. Concomitantly, they act out their pain hurtfully, sometimes lethally, often against other Citizens of Earth. Citizens of Earth who are emotionally ill will be separated from those who are not. Jails and prisons only abet this deleterious situation. Some Citizens of Earth in pain may need to be constrained in Love Centers humanely while they recover, through being loved, so they do not hurt themselves or others. In some extreme cases, Citizens of Earth may be in so much pain that they remain violent for a long time. Thus, they may need to be constrained for the rest of their lives, but always loved, never punished. In time, Citizens of Earth, when loved enough, will only have love to give, and the need for Love Centers will commensurately decline.

“In 1946, Eleanor Roosevelt chaired the commission that wrote the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. The UDHR, with appropriate updating, will serve as the moral and legal guidepost for Earth.

“To remember the former nations on Earth, Citizens of Earth now residing in what was once a nation will elect one Citizen of Earth from that area to serve one five-year term as a member of the General Assembly. Future elections will follow the same model in perpetuity.

“The first vote of all Citizens of Earth will be to ratify the CAMPAIGN FOR EARTH. Majority rules. All Citizens of Earth will have access to Internet voting. All Citizens of Earth will have their own personal computer ID codes. All Citizens of Earth will have to be at least 18 years old to vote. Citizens of Earth will be encouraged to bring before the General Assembly all ideas and recommendations, as well as any concerns or complaints, all of which will be considered and responded to promptly. Citizens of Earth’s ideas and recommendations will be formed into proposals drafted by members of the General Assembly. Citizens of Earth will vote on these proposals at the end of every month. Citizens of Earth will be Earth’s government. Members of the General Assembly will be facilitators who will work with millions of volunteers around the world. There will be no president of Earth.

“If the multinational corporations and multibillionaires who now rule Earth do not abide by the outcome of a majority vote in favor of CAMPAIGN FOR EARTH, Citizens of Earth will initiate the Allcott Movement, a one-at-a-time mancott, womancott, girlcott, boycott — hence, Allcott — against all entities and individuals unwilling to relinquish control of their global businesses and mega- wealth and give all to Citizens of Earth, then Citizens of Earth will continue the Allcott Movement until all have done what's equitable. All personal and smaller-business wealth will be converted into resources to be distributed equally to all Citizens of Earth. All proceeds in excess of what’s needed will be saved for future generations. No violence of any kind will be tolerated during the transfer of these resources. Citizens of Earth will take these steps because they are the moral, the right, steps to take to save all living creations on Earth, and Earth itself.

“Wealth is not worth. The mansuetude of loving, and of being loved, is worth. When love is your currency, all else is counterfeit. Citizens of Earth will be able to go about creating their own happiness that is built on love-based personal relationships and professional activities. No longer will human beings be able to profit from another’s pain and misery. With love at the center of being and living, there will be no more wars, no more dictators, no more corruption. Finally, there will be only Peace on Earth, forever.

“Earth does not have to die."


“That’s all, Amaranth. You and your husband, Ty, will decide the best way to disseminate this critical message. Bless you,” the voice said.

Amaranth had written down every word. She was, she felt, in a transcendent zone. It was the middle of the night, but she was wide awake — no, something much more than that. She felt more fully alive than she had ever felt before, almost a feeling of pure joy.

She knew now she would have to tell Ty about the voice, about the long “relationship" she had had with it. Only Dr. Rosenstein had known about the voice. Ty would understand. He always did. And Ty would help her find the right way to proceed.

“Spirit” — she liked that name — had known what was coming. All Spirit’s comments to her while she slept foreshadowed this incredible message she had just written down. There was no explanation for what had happened with Spirit. And Amaranth realized there didn’t need to be one.

Chapter 64

It was now very early, Monday, 30 March.

Amaranth had stayed up all night. Now she needed to speak with Ty.

She waited until 5 a.m., then woke up Ty.

“Ty, wake up. Ty, wake up. I need to speak with you,” exhorted Amaranth.

Ty was not used to waking up at 5 a.m. Amaranth had brewed some coffee and brought him a cup. Ty was understandably groggy as he lifted himself up on one elbow.

“What’s the matter, Am? What’s wrong?” said Ty.

“Ty, I need to talk with you. I need to talk with you now,” said Amaranth. “It’s urgent.”

Ty slowly moved to the side of the bed where he could sit on it. Amaranth handed him the cup of coffee.

Amaranth began by telling Ty about the whole history of her experiences with the voice, how and when it had begun, each of the brief phrases the voice had said to her while she was asleep, and finally, about last night. Then, after Ty was fully awake, she read the message Spirit had dictated to her.

Ty, while completely surprised, remained calm while Amaranth told him everything that had happened between Spirit and her. Ty knew what had been happening around the world, but when Amaranth had quoted Spirit as saying, “Earth is now dying,” he became instantly alarmed.

“What are we going to do, Ty?” asked Amaranth. “What should we do?”

Ty remained silent for several minutes. Then he took a sip of coffee.

“You know Ed Borgoman, Julie’s husband, right?” Ty asked rhetorically.

“Of course,” replied Amaranth.

“Ed is a technological and computer guru,” said Ty. “I bet if you asked him, he would help you videotape your reading of this compelling message, then help you get that video on as many social media sites around the world as possible.”

“Spirit believes that every Citizen of Earth should vote on CAMPAIGN FOR EARTH. Obviously, that would be a Herculean task.

More silence.

“I have an idea!” cried out Amaranth. “There are thousands of NGOs — non-governmental organizations — around the world. Some are worldwide, some are national, some regional, others are local. Why couldn’t we build a worldwide network of them to facilitate a worldwide vote on CAMPAIGN FOR EARTH? All 800,000,000 of us are facing a worldwide crisis! Why would anyone not want to help prevent the end of life for all living creations on Earth? Spirit speaks of all Citizens of Earth needing Internet access. Many companies are making and selling smartphones to people all over the world. This is a worldwide emergency! Why wouldn’t all these companies be more than willing to donate smartphones to those people who now don’t have one, either because they are destitute and/or live in remote areas? There would be incredible worldwide pressure on them to do the right thing.”

“I have another idea, Am. To make all this happen, we will need a command center, a nerve center, to coordinate and orchestrate all these intricate interactions. I know Peter King. He was, and still is, president of Columbia University. I worked closely with him when I was head of NSOP (New Students Orientation Program) when I was a senior at the College. Virtually everyone on Earth now knows about this catastrophic disaster facing all of Earth that is getting worse by the moment, and if allowed to go unabated, will end all life on it.

“Why wouldn’t Peter King, and the university he runs, become integral parts of the fight? If we cannot win this worldwide battle, then Columbia University will be become a graveyard like every other institution on Earth, and Peter King will very likely die there.

“I will give him a call this morning, tell him everything I know, and ask him for his help,” said Ty.

Chapter 65

Ty called Peter King a few minutes after 9 am Eastern Time and reached him. TY reintroduced himself. King remembered him clearly. Ty told King he would send him an email with an attachment about the worldwide warning and proposals contained therein. Finally,Ty asked King personally for his help, and for the help of the University as a whole.

Amaranth was able to reach Ed Borgoman at work. She explained to him, as succinctly as she could, the help she hoped he would be able to give her. Ed said, yes, he could help her and could take off work tomorrow to shoot the video. Ed told Amaranth that he could get permission from the head librarian of the Boulder Public Library to use their lectern to shoot Amaranth’s video. Because he knew how to get a video on a social media site, Ed told Amaranth that he would indeed contact every social media site in the world and try to get her video uploaded on each. He added, moreover, the perspicacious comment that even the most authoritarian nations in the world would quite possibly be amenable to amending their present draconian policies of censorship, knowing full well that what was facing all the world was therefore threatening inescapably their own country. He also said he would like to help her and Ty with anything else. Amaranth thanked Ed profusely.

Tuesday morning, 31 March, Amaranth met Ed at the downtown Boulder Public Library. The videotaping went smoothly. Ed told Amaranth that he would begin immediately trying to get her video on as many social media sites in the world as possible.

Ty, meanwhile, was waiting for President King to get back to him, but didn’t, for good reasons, expect to hear from him today.

That night, neither Amaranth or Ty slept well, nor did most of the people on Earth, Amaranth thought. Wednesday morning, 1 April, help could not come soon enough.

Sure enough, shortly after 7 am Boulder time, the phone rang. Ty answered it. It was King calling. He told Ty that he had had yesterday an all-day emergency meeting with the Board of Trustees. In short, King told Ty that there was unanimous consensus from the Board that King, and virtually every other member of his administration, as well as all faculty, would immediately assume both the explicit and implicit responsibilities of making the worldwide vote on CAMPAIGN FOR EARTH happen as soon as logistically possible. Ty thanked him profusely and asked him to pass on to everyone else his immense gratitude.

It was a propitious beginning for both Amaranth and Ty.

Chapter 66

The next several days were understandably difficult for Amaranth and Ty to get through. Amaranth didn’t want to bug Ed and Ty certainly didn’t want to bother King. Both knew they had to wait to hear from both of these magnanimous men.

Ty had been able to take a temporary leave from teaching. Amaranth kept checking perforce on the crocuses, but there had been no signs, not surprisingly, of any growth whatsoever. It was a tough time, a terrible time, for the whole world.

Friday morning, 3 April, Amaranth got a call from Ed. Ed told her that he had been able to get her video on almost every social media site in the world.

“What great news, Ed!” exclaimed Amaranth. “I don’t know how to thank you enough.”

“Look, Am, the existence of all life on Earth is in the balance. Julie and I will help you and Ty in any way we can,” said Ed.

Then there was the weekend. Two long days.

Monday morning, 6 April, the phone rang again a few minutes after 7 am Boulder time. It was King calling again. He wanted to give Ty an update. He, and so many members of his administration and faculty, had been working assiduously on this Earth-saving project. King told Ty that the largest NGOs, those that were worldwide, had all been contacted, and all had agreed to take a leading role in organizing the efforts of all the other NGOs around the world.

King explained how the worldwide NGOs would first contact the national NGOs, that, in turn, would contact the regional NGOs, that finally would contact everyone of the 55,000 worldwide local NGOs, which would then make sure that every one of the 8,000,000,000 people on Earth would have access to a smartphone and receive their own secure ID code to use during the one week of voting on CAMPAIGN FOR EARTH. King said that virtually all the authoritarian nations — there were over 50 of them — especially the largest ones, had conceded to allow all their people to participate with impunity in this worldwide endeavor to save Earth. Furthermore, King told Ty that all the manufacturers of smartphones — there were over 50 of them worldwide — had agreed to cooperate collectively in donating the necessary number of smartphones that would be needed worldwide. King also pointed out that there were a sufficient number of satellites already in space around Earth to handle what would be a tremendous amount of communicative traffic during the one week of voting. Finally, King stated that it would take three weeks to prepare and complete logistically and successfully everything that needed to be done, which meant that voting could begin on Monday, 27 April, and conclude on Sunday, 3 May. The worldwide results of the voting would available the following day, Monday, 4 May.

Ty, having heard all of this information, didn’t know what to say to President King, other than expressing again his limitless, unending gratitude both to King, and concomitantly, to the millions of those who were essentially the volunteers from all over the world who were going to make possible this prodigious effort to save Earth.

Chapter 67

Monday, 4 May, at once was so close, and so very far away.

Amaranth and Ty spent those three weeks essentially numb. They had done everything they could humanly do to help save Earth. Now was this interminable wait.

They tried everything. They took long drives into the mountains. They both tried reading books, but found they couldn’t concentrate. They even went to several movies in Boulder, which they usually never did.

Meanwhile, Earth was trying to hang on. Conditions around the world continued to be unimaginably awful. Millions of human beings had lost their lives. Whole cities either had been burnt to the ground or had been flooded into oblivion. Virtually all plant life on Earth was dying, or had already died. Many, many people all over the world had committed suicide because they knew what was happening. Life on Earth had become, in a word, unbearable.

At last, voting around the world on CAMPAIGN FOR EARTH began on Monday, 27 April. Reports worldwide was that voting turnout around the world had been massive. To Amaranth and Ty and billions of others, that one week of worldwide voting seemed like a century. But what had seemed like forever finally, finally came to an end on Sunday, 3 May.

The results of the voting, as King had said, were announced the following day, Monday, 4 May. The Citizens of Earth had approved CAMPAIGN FOR EARTH with 68% of them voting for it.

There were celebrations around the world of all sizes, both huge, such as those in New York City and even in Moscow and Beijing, and tiny, such as those in millions of villages. These celebrations went on for days.

Earth had never seen anything like it.

And Earth, where life of all kinds had found itself on the edge of extinction, miraculously was finding its own way to celebrate. The enormous fires and floods that had killed millions, and threatened even more, were slowly abating. And several days after the results of the worldwide voting had been announced, leaves that had first turned brown and then had fallen to the ground were slowly being replaced by new, little leaves. And the seeds that had been planted in millions of fields around the world that had never begun to grow were now germinating.

Amaranth and Ty, along with Julie and Ed, had joined the celebration in Boulder. Of course, there had never been anything like this before, and probably would never be again. The four of them stayed for as long as they could stand up.

When Amaranth and Ty did say good-bye to Julie and Ed, after hugging both of them, they drove to Niwot in a great hurry, rushed into their home, then literally ran into their bedroom where they managed to strip each other of their clothing in a matter of seconds, then jumped into bed and began to make passionate love that did not end for hours.

Chapter 68

Both Amaranth and Ty slept late into the morning. This new day was Tuesday, 5 May. It was, indeed, a beautiful day.

Amaranth cooked a leisurely, sumptuous breakfast for Ty and herself. Later, when she was washing the dishes, Amaranth suddenly screamed, “The crocuses!”

Instantly, she opened the kitchen door, flew down the stairs, then ran to the exact spot where the crocuses lived. She looked down and screamed again.

“My dear crocuses, you are still alive!” she cried.

Amaranth immediately bent down and kissed each of the crocuses on their tips. Then she sat down beside them, as she had wanted to do for way too long a time, and began talking to them, as was her eternal wont.

Amaranth had a lot to tell them. She told them the whole story with all the details, with all the twists and turns, with all the ups and downs. And finally, she told them about Earth’s victory, and the celebrations around the world that seemingly never wanted to end.

What a joyous time Amaranth was having!

Chapter 69

This day, Ty went back to Fairview High School in Boulder to teach American history.

Amaranth sat on the blue sofa in the living room listening to Beethoven’s immortal Ninth Symphony. As she sat there, she slowly came to the realization that she had not yet had her period. She was usually extremely regular, which meant to her that she should have had it either on Saturday or Sunday. She sat there on the blue sofa thinking about this for quite a while. Finally, she got up and went to the phone. She had decided to call Julie.

“Julie, this is Am,” she said. “I’m calling you for a special reason. I missed my period this month, and I was wondering if I might be able to see your obstetrician and ask him to check me out, and I was hoping you might be able to go with me.”

Julie said yes to both.

“I think an obstetrician can tell you two weeks after the day you missed having your period if you are pregnant. Am I right?” asked Amaranth.

Julie told her she was right.

“Oh my god, Julie! Do you think I might be pregnant?” Amaranth was in disbelief.

Julie told Amaranth to calm down. Yes, there was a possibility that she was pregnant, but only an obstetrician could say for sure, and only after he had taken a blood sample from her.

Amaranth’s heart was pounding.

Julie’s obstetrician was Dr. Pedarsky. She gave Amaranth his office phone number.

“I’ll call his office right now. Let’s see, two weeks from today will be Wednesday, 20 May. Will that date work for you?” she asked Julie.

“Yes, it will,” Julie said.

“I’ll call you right back to let you know if I can get an appointment for that day,” said Amaranth, her heart still pounding.

Amaranth immediately called Dr. Pedarsky’s office.

“This is Amaranth Anderson calling. I am a friend of Julie Borgoman, who is a patient of Dr. Pedarsky and has recommended him to me. I’m calling to see if it would be possible to make an appointment to see Dr. Pedarsky sometime on Wednesday, May 20th. I have missed my period for the first time since I began menstruating, and I feel strongly I should see a doctor.”

There was a short pause, then the nurse said Dr. Pedarsky could see her at 2:30 on the 20th.

“That would be wonderful,” said Amaranth, almost shouting.

After thanking the nurse for her help, she quickly called Julie back.

“I got an appointment with Dr. Pedarsky on Wednesday, May 20th, at 2:30. I am so excited,” exclaimed Amaranth.

Julie told Amaranth that she was pleased to hear this good news, but also told Amaranth to settle down. Amaranth told Julie that she understood and appreciated what she was telling her, but could not find a way to tell Julie that she would not be able to calm down for quite a while. Amaranth thanked Julie for all her help, then hung up.

Amaranth went back to the blue sofa and sat down. Her heart was still pounding, and would continue to pound for a long time this day.

Chapter 70

Another impossible, long wait, Amaranth thought.

She would spend most of her days going out to sit down and talk to the crocuses. There were so many things to tell them, and she was so, so happy to see them again.

Finally, Wednesday, 20 May, arrived. Amaranth was so excited. She couldn’t help it. About 1:30, she left Niwot to pick up Julie in Boulder.

“I am so excited Julie! I can’t help it,” said Amaranth.

“I understand, Am,” said Julie.

They got to Dr. Pedarsky’s office a little bit before 2:30.

"I’m Amaranth Anderson, and I have a 2:30 appointment to see Dr. Pedarsky. This is my friend, Julie Borgoman. She is also a patient of Dr. Pedarsky."

The nurse recognized Julie and said hello, then asked the two of them to have a seat.

“Dr. Pedarsky will be out shortly to see you,” said the nurse. Amaranth and Julie took a seat.

Within a few minutes, Dr. Pedarsky came around the corner. He knew Julie and that Ms. Anderson was her friend and his new patient.

“Ms. Anderson, I’m Dr. Pedarsky. It is a pleasure to meet you. Won’t the two of you come with me?” said the doctor.

Amaranth and Julie got up and followed Dr. Pedarsky down the hallway and into an examining room.

Dr. Pedarsky spoke to Amaranth.

“It’s my understanding that you recently missed having your period, and that this was the first time you could ever remember having that happen to you. Am I right?” asked Dr. Pedarsky.

“Yes, that’s right, Dr. Pedarsky,” said Amaranth.

“And you’re concerned, aren’t you?” asked Dr. Pedarsky.

“Yes I am,” said Amaranth.

“I’ll have my nurse take a blood sample from you. We have our own lab here, so it will be about a half hour before we have the results,” said Dr. Pedarsky.

That half hour was the longest half hour of Amaranth’s life.

Dr. Pedarsky came back into the room and walked over to Amaranth. He paused a second. Then he looked directly at Amaranth and said, “Amaranth, you are going to have a baby. You’re pregnant.”

Amaranth almost fainted. “Are you sure, Doctor?” asked Amaranth.

“I am certain,” said Dr. Pedarsky.

Amaranth started crying. Her body began to shake.

“I can’t believe it! This is the best news I have ever received!” cried Amaranth. Julie got up and went over, first to squeeze her hand, then to hold it.

“Thank you, Dr. Pedarsky! Thank you so much!” cried Amaranth.

Dr. Pedarsky said, “I don’t think I’m the correct man for you to thank,” chuckling a bit after saying that.

Amaranth was so overwhelmed with joy. She took Julie by the hand and wisked her and herself out of the examining room, down the hallway, down the stairs to the entrance and flung the door open and essentially ran to her car, dragging Julie behind her. Then she sped Julie home, hugged her so tightly and thanked her for all her help, then sped to Niwot, almost hitting the edge of the garage because she was driving so fast. She leaped out of the car, ran to the back door, swung it wide open, ran through the kitchen into the living room where she saw Ty standing and kept running until she leaped into his open arms.

“Ty!,” she screamed. “We’re going to have a baby! I’m pregnant!”

Ty kissed this woman he had loved from the moment he had first seen her. And then he held her in his arms it seemed like forever.

The Making of a Poet
by Michael R. Burch

While I don’t consider “Poetry” to be my best poem—I wrote the first version in my teens—it’s a poem that holds special meaning for me. I consider it my Ars Poetica. Here’s how I came to write “Poetry” as a teenager ...

When I was eleven years old, my father, a staff sergeant in the US Air Force, was stationed in Wiesbaden, Germany. We were forced to live off-base for two years, in a tiny German village where there were no other American children to play with, and no English radio or TV stations. To avoid complete boredom, I began going to the base library, checking out eight books at a time (the limit), reading them in a few days, then continually repeating the process. I quickly exhausted the library’s children’s fare and began devouring adult novels along with a plethora of books about history, science and nature.

In the fifth grade, I tested at the reading level of a college sophomore and was put in a reading group of one. I was an incredibly fast reader: I flew through books like crazy. I was reading Austen, Dickens, Hardy, et al, while my classmates were reading … whatever one normally reads in grade school. My grades shot through the roof and from that day forward I was always the top scholar in my age group, wherever I went.

But being bright and well-read does not invariably lead to happiness. I was tall, scrawny, introverted and socially awkward. I had trouble making friends. I began to dabble in poetry around age thirteen, but then we were finally granted base housing and for two years I was able to focus on things like marbles, quarters, comic books, baseball, basketball and football. And, from an incomprehensible distance, girls.

When I was fifteen my father retired from the Air Force and we moved back to his hometown of Nashville. While my parents were looking for a house, we lived with my grandfather and his third wife. They didn’t have air-conditioning and didn’t seem to believe in hot food—even the peas and beans were served cold!—so I was sweaty, hungry, lonely, friendless and miserable. It was at this point that I began to write poetry seriously. I’m not sure why. Perhaps because my options were so limited and the world seemed so impossibly grim and unfair.

Writing poetry helped me cope with my loneliness and depression. I had feelings of deep alienation and inadequacy, but suddenly I had found something I could do better than anyone around me. (Perhaps because no one else was doing it at all?)

However, I was a perfectionist and poetry can be very tough on perfectionists. I remember becoming incredibly frustrated and angry with myself. Why wasn’t I writing poetry like Shelley and Keats at age fifteen? I destroyed all my poems in a fit of pique. Fortunately, I was able to reproduce most of the better poems from memory, but two in particular were lost forever and still haunt me.

In the tenth grade, at age sixteen, I had a major breakthrough. My English teacher gave us a poetry assignment. We were instructed to create a poetry booklet with five chapters of our choosing. I still have my booklet, a treasured memento, banged out on a Corona typewriter with cursive script, which gave it a sort of elegance, a cachet. My chosen chapters were: Rock Songs, English Poems, Animal Poems, Biblical Poems, and ta-da, My Poems! Audaciously, alongside the poems of Shakespeare, Burns and Tennyson, I would self-publish my fledgling work!

My teacher wrote “This poem is beautiful” beside one my earliest compositions, “Playmates.” Her comment was like rocket fuel to my stellar aspirations. Surely I was next Keats, the next Shelley! Surely immediate and incontrovertible success was now fait accompli, guaranteed!

Of course I had no idea what I was getting into. How many fifteen-year-old poets can compete with the immortal bards? I was in for some very tough sledding because I had good taste in poetry and could tell the difference between merely adequate verse and the real thing. I continued to find poetry vexing. Why the hell wouldn’t it cooperate and anoint me its next Shakespeare, pronto?

Then I had another breakthrough. I remember it vividly. I working at a McDonald’s at age seventeen, salting away money for college because my parents had informed me they didn’t have enough money to pay my tuition. Fortunately, I was able to earn a full academic scholarship, but I still needed to make money for clothes, dating (hah!), etc. I was sitting in the McDonald’s break room when I wrote a poem, “Reckoning” (later re-titled “Observance”), that sorta made me catch my breath. Did I really write that? For the first time, I felt like a “real poet.”

Observance
by Michael R. Burch

Here the hills are old, and rolling
casually in their old age;
on the horizon youthful mountains
bathe themselves in windblown fountains . . .

By dying leaves and falling raindrops,
I have traced time's starts and stops,
and I have known the years to pass
almost unnoticed, whispering through treetops . . .

For here the valleys fill with sunlight
to the brim, then empty again,
and it seems that only I notice
how the years flood out, and in . . .

Another poem, “Infinity,” written around age eighteen, again made me feel like a real poet.



Infinity
by Michael R. Burch

Have you tasted the bitterness of tears of despair?
Have you watched the sun sink through such pale, balmless air
that your soul sought its shell like a crab on a beach,
then scuttled inside to be safe, out of reach?

Might I lift you tonight from earth’s wreckage and damage
on these waves gently rising to pay the moon homage?
Or better, perhaps, let me say that I, too,
have dreamed of infinity . . . windswept and blue.

Now, two “real poems” in two years may not seem like a big deal to non-poets. But they were very big deals to me. I would go off to college feeling that I was, really, a real poet, with two real poems under my belt. I felt like someone, at last. I had, at least, potential.

But I was in for another rude shock. Being a good reader of poetry—good enough to know when my own poems were falling far short of the mark—I was absolutely floored when I learned that impostors were controlling Poetry’s fate! These impostors were claiming that meter and rhyme were passé, that honest human sentiment was something to be ridiculed and dismissed, that poetry should be nothing more than concrete imagery, etc.

At first I was devastated, but then I quickly became enraged. I knew the difference between good poetry and bad. I could feel it in my flesh, in my bones. Who were these impostors to say that bad poetry was good, and good was bad? How dare they? I was incensed! I loved Poetry. I saw her as my savior because she had rescued me from depression and feelings of inadequacy. So I made a poetic pledge to help save my Savior from the impostors:



Poetry
by Michael R. Burch

Poetry, I found you where at last they chained and bound you;
with devices all around you to torture and confound you,
I found you—shivering, bare.

They had shorn your raven hair and taken both your eyes
which, once cerulean as Gogh’s skies, had leapt with dawn to wild surmise
of what was waiting there.

Your back was bent with untold care; there savage brands had left cruel scars
as though the wounds of countless wars; your bones were broken with the force
with which they’d lashed your flesh so fair.

You once were loveliest of all. So many nights you held in thrall
a scrawny lad who heard your call from where dawn’s milling showers fall—
pale meteors through sapphire air.

I learned the eagerness of youth to temper for a lover’s touch;
I felt you, tremulant, reprove each time I fumbled over-much.
Your merest word became my prayer.

You took me gently by the hand and led my steps from boy to man;
now I look back, remember when—you shone, and cannot understand
why here, tonight, you bear their brand.

I will take and cradle you in my arms, remindful of the gentle charms
you showed me once, of yore;
and I will lead you from your cell tonight—back into that incandescent light
which flows out of the core of a sun whose robes you wore.
And I will wash your feet with tears for all those blissful years . . .
my love, whom I adore.

Originally published by The Lyric

I consider "Poetry" to be my Ars Poetica. However, the poem has been misinterpreted as the poet claiming to be Poetry's  sole "savior." The poet never claims to be a savior or hero, but more like a member of a rescue operation. The poem says that when Poetry is finally freed, in some unspecified way, the poet will be there to take her hand and watch her glory be re-revealed to the world. The poet expresses love for Poetry, and gratitude, but never claims to have done anything heroic himself. This is a poem of love, compassion and reverence. Poetry is the Messiah, not the poet. The poet washes her feet with his tears, like Mary Magdalene.



These are other poems I have written since, that I particularly like, and hope you like them too ...

In this Ordinary Swoon
by Michael R. Burch

In this ordinary swoon
as I pass from life to death,
I feel no heat from the cold, pale moon;
I feel no sympathy for breath.

Who I am and why I came,
I do not know; nor does it matter.
The end of every man’s the same
and every god’s as mad as a hatter.

I do not fear the letting go;
I only fear the clinging on
to hope when there’s no hope, although
I lift my face to the blazing sun

and feel the greater intensity
of the wilder inferno within me.



Second Sight
by Michael R. Burch

I never touched you—
that was my mistake.

Deep within,
I still feel the ache.

Can an unformed thing
eternally break?

Now, from a great distance,
I see you again

not as you are now,
but as you were then—

eternally present
and Sovereign.



Mending
by Michael R. Burch

for the survivors of 9-11

I am besieged with kindnesses;
sometimes I laugh,
delighted for a moment,
then resume
the more seemly occupation of my craft.

I do not taste the candies...

The perfume
of roses is uplifted
in a draft
that vanishes into the ceiling’s fans

which spin like old propellers
till the room
is full of ghostly bits of yarn...

My task
is not to knit,

but not to end too soon.

This poem is dedicated to the victims of 9-11 and their families and friends.



Love Unfolded Like a Flower
by Michael R. Burch

Love unfolded
like a flower;
Pale petals pinked and blushed to see the sky.
I came to know you
and to trust you
in moments lost to springtime slipping by.

Then love burst outward,
leaping skyward,
and untamed blossoms danced against the wind.
All I wanted
was to hold you;
though passion tempted once, we never sinned.

Now love's gay petals
fade and wither,
and winter beckons, whispering a lie.
We were friends,
but friendships end . . .
yes, friendships end and even roses die.



Shadowselves
by Michael R. Burch

In our hearts, knowing
fewer days―and milder―beckon,
how now are we to measure
that wick by which we reckon
the time we have remaining?

We are shadows
spawned by a blue spurt of candlelight.
Darkly, we watch ourselves flicker.
Where shall we go when the flame burns less bright?
When chill night steals our vigor?

Why are we less than ourselves? We are shadows.
Where is the fire of our youth? We grow cold.
Why does our future loom dark? We are old.
And why do we shiver?

In our hearts, seeing
fewer days―and briefer―breaking,
now, even more, we treasure
this brittle leaf-like aching
that tells us we are living.



Dust (II)
by Michael R. Burch

We are dust
and to dust we must
return ...
but why, then,
life’s pointless sojourn?



Leave Taking (II)
by Michael R. Burch

Although the earth renews itself, and spring
is lovelier for all the rot of fall,
I think of yellow leaves that cling and hang
by fingertips to life, let go . . . and all
men see is one bright instance of departure,
the flame that, at least height, warms nothing. I,

have never liked to think the ants that march here
will deem them useless, grimly tramping by,
and so I gather leaves’ dry hopeless brilliance,
to feel their prickly edges, like my own,
to understand their incurled worn resilience―
youth’s tenderness long, callously, outgrown.

I even feel the pleasure of their sting,
the stab of life. I do not think―at all―
to be renewed, as earth is every spring.
I do not hope words cluster where they fall.
I only hope one leaf, wild-spiraling,
illuminates the void, till glad hearts sing.

It's not that every leaf must finally fall ...
it's just that we can never catch them all.

Originally published by Silver Stork



Less Heroic Couplets: Funding Fundamentals
by Michael R. Burch

*"I found out that I was a Christian for revenue only and I could not bear the thought of that, it was so ignoble." ― Mark Twain

Making sense from nonsense is quite sensible! Suppose
you’re running low on moolah, need some cash to paint your toes ...
Just invent a new religion; claim it saves lost souls from hell;
have the converts write you checks; take major debit cards as well;
take MasterCard and Visa and good-as-gold Amex;
hell, lend and charge them interest, whether payday loan or flex.
Thus out of perfect nonsense, glittery ores of this great mine,
you’ll earn an easy living and your toes will truly shine!

Originally published by Lighten Up Online



Marsh Song
by Michael R. Burch

Here there is only the great sad song of the reeds
and the silent herons, wraithlike in the mist,
and a few drab sunken stones, unblessed
by the sunlight these late sixteen thousand years,
and the beaded dews that drench strange ferns, like tears
collected against an overwhelming sadness.

Here the marsh exposes its dejectedness,
its gutted rotting belly, and its roots
rise out of the earth’s distended heaviness,
to claw hard at existence, till the scars
remind us that we all have wounds, and I
have learned again that living is despair
as the herons cleave the placid, dreamless air.

Originally published by The Lyric



Moon Lake
by Michael R. Burch

Starlit recorder of summer nights,
what magic spell bewitches you?
They say that all lovers love first in the dark . . .
Is it true?
Is it true?
Is it true?

Starry-eyed seer of all that appears
and all that has appeared―
What sights have you seen?
What dreams have you dreamed?
What rhetoric have you heard?

Is love an oration,
or is it a word?
Have you heard?
Have you heard?
Have you heard?

Originally published by Romantics Quarterly



Tomb Lake
by Michael R. Burch

Go down to the valley
where mockingbirds cry,
alone, ever lonely . . .
yes, go down to die.

And dream in your dying
you never shall wake.
Go down to the valley;
go down to Tomb Lake.

Tomb Lake is a cauldron
of souls such as yours―
mad souls without meaning,
frail souls without force.

Tomb Lake is a graveyard
reserved for the dead.
They lie in her shallows
and sleep in her bed.

I believe this poem and "Moon Lake" were companion poems, written around my senior year in high school, in 1976.



Mother of Cowards
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

So unlike the brazen giant of Greek fame
With conquering limbs astride from land to land,
Spread-eagled, showering gold, a strumpet stands:
A much-used trollop with a torch, whose flame
Has long since been extinguished. And her name?
"Mother of Cowards!" From her enervate hand
Soft ash descends. Her furtive eyes demand
Allegiance to her ****'s repulsive game.
"Keep, ancient lands, your wretched poor!" cries she
With scarlet lips. "Give me your hale, your whole,
Your huddled tycoons, yearning to be pleased!
The wretched refuse of your toilet hole?
Oh, never send one unwashed child to me!
I await Trump's pleasure by the gilded bowl!"



Frantisek “Franta” Bass was a Jewish boy murdered by the Nazis during the Holocaust.

The Garden
by Franta Bass
translation by Michael R. Burch

A small garden,
so fragrant and full of roses!
The path the little boy takes
is guarded by thorns.

A small boy, a sweet boy,
growing like those budding blossoms!
But when the blossoms have bloomed,
the boy will be no more.



Jewish Forever
by Franta Bass
translation by Michael R. Burch

I am a Jew and always will be, forever!
Even if I should starve,
I will never submit!
But I will always fight for my people,
with my honor,
to their credit!

And I will never be ashamed of them;
this is my vow.
I am so very proud of my people now!
How dignified they are, in their grief!
And though I may die, oppressed,
still I will always return to life ...



Options Underwater: The Song of the First Amphibian
by Michael R. Burch

“Evolution’s a Fishy Business!”

1.
Breathing underwater through antiquated gills,
I’m running out of options. I need to find fresh Air,
to seek some higher Purpose. No porpoise, I despair
to swim among anemones’ pink frills.

2.
My fins will make fine flippers, if only I can walk,
a little out of kilter, safe to the nearest rock’s
sweet, unmolested shelter. Each eye must grow a stalk,
to take in this green land on which it gawks.

3.
No predators have made it here, so I need not adapt.
Sun-sluggish, full, lethargic―I’ll take such nice long naps!

The highest form of life, that’s me! (Quite apt
to lie here chortling, calling fishes saps.)

4.
I woke to find life teeming all around―
mammals, insects, reptiles, loathsome birds.
And now I cringe at every sight and sound.
The water’s looking good! I look Absurd.

5.
The moral of my story’s this: don’t leap
wherever grass is greener. Backwards creep.
And never burn your bridges, till you’re sure
leapfrogging friends secures your Sinecure.

Originally published by Lighten Up Online

Keywords/Tags: amphibian, amphibians, evolution, gills, water, air, lungs, fins, flippers, fish, fishy business



Unlikely Mike
by Michael R. Burch

I married someone else’s fantasy;
she admired me despite my mutilations.

I loved her for her heart’s sake, and for mine.
I hid my face and changed its connotations.

And in the dark I danced—slight, Chaplinesque—
a metaphor myself. How could they know,

the undiscerning ones, that in the glow
of spotlights, sometimes love becomes burlesque?

Disfigured to my soul, I could not lose
or choose or name myself; I came to be

another of life’s odd dichotomies,
like Dickey’s Sheep Boy, Pan, or David Cruse:

as pale, as enigmatic. White, or black?
My color was a song, a changing track.



This is my translation of one of my favorite Dimash Kudaibergen songs, the French song "S.O.S." ...

S.O.S.
by Michel Berger
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Why do I live, why do I die?
Why do I laugh, why do I cry?

Voicing the S.O.S.
of an earthling in distress ...

I have never felt at home on the ground.

I'd rather be a bird;
this skin feels weird.

I'd like to see the world turned upside down.

It ever was more beautiful
seen from up above,
seen from up above.

I've always confused life with cartoons,
wishing to transform.

I feel something that draws me,
that draws me,
that draws me
UP!

In the great lotto of the universe
I didn't draw the right numbers.
I feel unwell in my own skin,
I don't want to be a machine
eating, working, sleeping.

Why do I live, why do I die?
Why do I laugh, why do I cry?

I feel I'm catching waves from another world.
I've never had both feet on the ground.
This skin feels weird.
I'd like to see the world turned upside down.
I'd rather be a bird.

Sleep, child, sleep ...



"Late Autumn" aka "Autumn Strong"
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
based on the version sung by Dimash Kudaibergen

Autumn ...

The feeling of late autumn ...

It feels like golden leaves falling
to those who are parting ...

A glass of wine
has stirred
so many emotions swirling in my mind ...

Such sad farewells ...

With the season's falling leaves,
so many sad farewells.

To see you so dispirited pains me more than I can say.

Holding your hands so tightly to my heart ...

... Remembering ...

I implore you to remember our unspoken vows ...

I dare bear this bitterness,
but not to see you broken-hearted!

All contentment vanishes like leaves in an autumn wind.

Meeting or parting, that's not up to me.
We can blame the wind for our destiny.

I do not fear my own despair
but your sorrow haunts me.

No one will know of our desolation.



My Forty-Ninth Year
by Michael R. Burch

My forty-ninth year
and the dew remembers
how brightly it glistened
encrusting September, ...
one frozen September
when hawks ruled the sky
and death fell on wings
with a shrill, keening cry.

My forty-ninth year,
and still I recall
the weavings and windings
of childhood, of fall ...
of fall enigmatic,
resplendent, yet sere, ...
though vibrant the herald
of death drawing near.

My forty-ninth year
and now often I've thought on
the course of a lifetime,
the meaning of autumn,
the cycle of autumn
with winter to come,
of aging and death
and rebirth ... on and on.



Less Heroic Couplets: Rejection Slips
by Michael R. Burch

pour Melissa Balmain

Whenever my writing gets rejected,
I always wonder how the rejecter got elected.
Are we exchanging at the same Bourse?
(Excepting present company, of course!)

I consider the term “rejection slip” to be a double entendre. When editors reject my poems, did I slip up, or did they? Is their slip showing, or is mine?



Spring Was Delayed
by Michael R. Burch

Winter came early:
the driving snows,
the delicate frosts
that crystallize

all we forget
or refuse to know,
all we regret
that makes us wise.

Spring was delayed:
the nubile rose,
the tentative sun,
the wind’s soft sighs,

all we omit
or refuse to show,
whatever we shield
behind guarded eyes.

Originally published by Borderless Journal



Drippings
by Michael R. Burch

I have no words
for winter’s pale splendors
awash in gray twilight,
nor these slow-dripping eaves
renewing their tinkling songs.

Life’s like the failing resistance
of autumn to winter
and plays its low accompaniment,
slipping slowly
away
...
..
.



The Drawer of Mermaids
by Michael R. Burch

This poem is dedicated to Alina Karimova, who was born with severely deformed legs and five fingers missing. Alina loves to draw mermaids and believes her fingers will eventually grow out.

Although I am only four years old,
they say that I have an old soul.
I must have been born long, long ago,
here, where the eerie mountains glow
at night, in the Urals.

A madman named Geiger has cursed these slopes;
now, shut in at night, the emphatic ticking
fills us with dread.
(Still, my momma hopes
that I will soon walk with my new legs.)

It’s not so much legs as the fingers I miss,
drawing the mermaids under the ledges.
(Observing, Papa will kiss me
in all his distracted joy;
but why does he cry?)

And there is a boy
who whispers my name.
Then I am not lame;
for I leap, and I follow.
(G’amma brings a wiseman who says

our infirmities are ours, not God’s,
that someday a beautiful Child
will return from the stars,
and then my new fingers will grow
if only I trust Him; and so

I am preparing to meet Him, to go,
should He care to receive me.)

Keywords/Tags: mermaid, mermaids, child, children, childhood, Urals, Ural Mountains, soul, soulmate, radiation



The Blobfish
by Michael R. Burch

You can call me a "blob"
with your oversized gob,
but what's your excuse,
great gargantuan Zeus
whose once-chiseled abs
are now marbleized flab?

But what really alarms me
(how I wish you'd abstain)
is when you start using
that oversized "brain."
Consider the planet! Refrain!



There’s a Stirring and Awakening in the World
by Michael R. Burch

There’s a stirring and awakening in the world,
and even so my spirit stirs within,
imagining some Power beckoning—
the Force which through the stamen gently whirrs,
unlocking tumblers deftly, even mine.

The grape grows wild-entangled on the vine,
and here, close by, the honeysuckle shines.
And of such life, at last there comes there comes the Wine.

And so it is with spirits’ fruitful yield—
the growth comes first, Green Vagrance, then the Bloom.

The world somehow must give the spirit room
to blossom, till its light shines—wild, revealed.

And then at last the earth receives its store
of blessings, as glad hearts cry—More! More! More!

Originally published by Borderless Journal
POEMS ABOUT SHAKESPEARE by Michael R. Burch

These are poems I have written about Shakespeare, poems I have written for Shakespeare, and poems I have written after Shakespeare.



Fleet Tweet: Apologies to Shakespeare
by Michael R. Burch

a tweet
by any other name
would be as fleet!
@mikerburch



Fleet Tweet II: Further Apologies to Shakespeare
by Michael R. Burch

Remember, doggonit,
heroic verse crowns the Shakespearean sonnet!
So if you intend to write a couplet,
please do it on the doublet!
@mikerburch



Stage Fright
by Michael R. Burch

To be or not to be?
In the end Hamlet
opted for naught.



Ophelia
by Michael R. Burch

for Kevin N. Roberts

Ophelia, madness suits you well,
as the ocean sounds in an empty shell,
as the moon shines brightest in a starless sky,
as suns supernova before they die ...



Shakespeare's Sonnet 130 Refuted
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
— Shakespeare, Sonnet 130

Seas that sparkle in the sun
without its light would have no beauty;
but the light within your eyes
is theirs alone; it owes no duty.
Whose winsome flame, not half so bright,
is meant for me, and brings delight.

Coral formed beneath the sea,
though scarlet-tendriled, cannot warm me;
while your lips, not half so red,
just touching mine, at once inflame me.
Whose scorching flames mild lips arouse
fathomless oceans fail to douse.

Bright roses’ brief affairs, declared
when winter comes, will wither quickly.
Your cheeks, though paler when compared
with them?—more lasting, never prickly.
Whose tender cheeks, so enchantingly warm,
far vaster treasures, harbor no thorns.

Originally published by Romantics Quarterly

This was my first sonnet, written in my teens after I discovered Shakespeare's "Sonnet 130." At the time I didn't know the rules of the sonnet form, so mine is a bit unconventional. I think it is not bad for the first attempt of a teen poet. I remember writing this poem in my head on the way back to my dorm from a freshman English class. I would have been 18 or 19 at the time.



Attention Span Gap
by Michael R. Burch

What if a poet, Shakespeare,
were still living to tweet to us here?
He couldn't write sonnets,
just couplets, doggonit,
and we wouldn't have Hamlet or Lear!

Yes, a sonnet may end in a couplet,
which we moderns can write in a doublet,
in a flash, like a tweet.
Does that make it complete?
Should a poem be reduced to a stublet?

Bring back that Grand Era when men
had attention spans long as their pens,
or rather the quills
of the monsieurs and fils
who gave us the Dress, not its hem!



Chloe
by Michael R. Burch

There were skies onyx at night... moons by day...
lakes pale as her eyes... breathless winds
******* tall elms ... she would say
that we’d loved, but I figured we'd sinned.

Soon impatiens too fiery to stay
sagged; the crocus bells drooped, golden-limned;
things of brightness, rinsed out, ran to gray...
all the light of that world softly dimmed.

Where our feet were inclined, we would stray;
there were paths where dead weeds stood untrimmed,
distant mountains that loomed in our way,
thunder booming down valleys dark-hymned.

What I found, I found lost in her face
while yielding all my virtue to her grace.

“Chloe” is a Shakespearean sonnet about being parted from someone you wanted and expected to be with forever. It was originally published by Romantics Quarterly as "A Dying Fall"



Sonnet: The City Is a Garment
by Michael R. Burch

A rhinestone skein, a jeweled brocade of light,—
the city is a garment stretched so thin
her festive colors bleed into the night,
and everywhere bright seams, unraveling,

cascade their brilliant contents out like coins
on motorways and esplanades; bead cars
come tumbling down long highways; at her groin
a railtrack like a zipper flashes sparks;

her hills are haired with brush like cashmere wool
and from their cleavage winking lights enlarge
and travel, slender fingers ... softly pull
themselves into the semblance of a barge.

When night becomes too chill, she softly dons
great overcoats of warmest-colored dawn.

“The City is a Garment” is a Shakespearean sonnet.



Afterglow
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

The night is full of stars. Which still exist?
Before time ends, perhaps one day we’ll know.
For now I hold your fingers to my lips
and feel their pulse ... warm, palpable and slow ...

once slow to match this reckless spark in me,
this moon in ceaseless orbit I became,
compelled by wilder gravity to flee
night’s universe of suns, for one pale flame ...

for one pale flame that seemed to signify
the Zodiac of all, the meaning of
love’s wandering flight past Neptune. Now to lie
in dawning recognition is enough ...

enough each night to bask in you, to know
the face of love ... eyes closed ... its afterglow.

“Afterglow” is a Shakespearean sonnet.



I Learned Too Late
by Michael R. Burch

“Show, don’t tell!”

I learned too late that poetry has rules,
although they may be rules for greater fools.

In any case, by dodging rules and schools,
I avoided useless duels.

I learned too late that sentiment is bad—
that Blake and Keats and Plath had all been had.

In any case, by following my heart,
I learned to walk apart.

I learned too late that “telling” is a crime.
Did Shakespeare know? Is Milton doing time?

In any case, by telling, I admit:
I think such rules are ****.



Heaven Bent
by Michael R. Burch

This life is hell; it can get no worse.
Summon the coroner, the casket, the hearse!
But I’m upwardly mobile. How the hell can I know?
I can only go up; I’m already below!

This is a poem in which I imagine Shakespeare speaking through a modern Hamlet.



That Mella Fella
by Michael R. Burch

John Mella was the longtime editor of Light Quarterly.

There once was a fella
named Mella,
who, if you weren’t funny,
would tell ya.
But he was cool, clever, nice,
gave some splendid advice,
and if you did well,
he would sell ya.

Shakespeare had his patrons and publishers; John Mella was one of my favorites in the early going, along with Jean Mellichamp Milliken of The Lyric.



Chip Off the Block
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

In the fusion of poetry and drama,
Shakespeare rules! Jeremy’s a ham: a
chip off the block, like his father and mother.
Part poet? Part ham? Better run for cover!
Now he’s Benedick — most comical of lovers!

NOTE: Jeremy’s father is a poet and his mother is an actress; hence the fusion, or confusion, as the case may be.

Keywords/Tags: Shakespeare, Shakespearean, sonnet, epigram, epigrams, Hamlet, Ophelia, Lear, Benedick, tweet, tweets



Untitled Epigrams

Teach me to love:
to fly beyond sterile Mars
to percolating Venus.
—Michael R. Burch

The LIV is LIVid:
livid with blood,
and full of egos larger
than continents.
—Michael R. Burch

Evil is as evil does.
Evil never needs a cause.
Evil loves amoral “laws,”
laughs and licks its blood-red claws
while kids are patched together with gauze.
— Michael R. Burch

Poets laud Justice’s
high principles.
Trump just gropes
her raw genitals.
—Michael R. Burch



When Pigs Fly
by Michael R. Burch

On the Trail of Tears,
my Cherokee brothers,
why hang your heads?
Why shame your mothers?

Laugh wildly instead!
We will soon be dead.

When we lie in our graves,
let the white-eyes take
the woodlands we loved
for the *** and the rake.

It is better to die
than to live out a lie
in so narrow a sty.



Perhat Tursun (1969-) is one of the foremost living Uyghur language poets, if he is still alive. Tursun has been described as a "self-professed Kafka character" and that comes through splendidly in poems of his like "Elegy." Unfortunately, Tursun was "disappeared" into a Chinese "reeducation" concentration camp where extreme psychological torture is the norm. According to a disturbing report he was later "hospitalized."

Elegy
by Perhat Tursun
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

"Your soul is the entire world."
— Hermann Hesse, Siddhartha

Asylum seekers, will you recognize me among the mountain passes' frozen corpses?
Can you identify me here among our Exodus's exiled brothers?
We begged for shelter but they lashed us bare; consider our naked corpses.
When they compel us to accept their massacres, do you know that I am with you?
Three centuries later they resurrect, not recognizing each other,
Their former greatness forgotten.
I happily ingested poison, like a fine wine.
When they search the streets and cannot locate our corpses, do you know that I am with you?
In that tower constructed of skulls you will find my dome as well:
They removed my head to more accurately test their swords' temper.
When before their swords our relationship flees like a flighty lover,
Do you know that I am with you?
When men in fur hats are used for target practice in the marketplace
Where a dying man's face expresses his agony as a bullet cleaves his brain
While the executioner's eyes fail to comprehend why his victim vanishes, ...
Seeing my form reflected in that bullet-pierced brain's erratic thoughts,
Do you know that I am with you?
In those days when drinking wine was considered worse than drinking blood,
did you taste the flour ground out in that blood-turned churning mill?
Now, when you sip the wine Ali-Shir Nava'i imagined to be my blood
In that mystical tavern's dark abyssal chambers,
Do you know that I am with you?



Shock and Awe
by Michael R. Burch

With megatons of “wonder,”
we make our godhead clear:
Death. Destruction. Fear.

The world’s heart ripped asunder,
its dying pulse we hear:
Death. Destruction. Fear.

Strange Trinity! We ponder
this God we hold so dear:
Death. Destruction. Fear.

The vulture and the condor
proclaim: "The feast is near!"
Death. Destruction. Fear.

Soon He will plow us under;
the Anti-Christ is here:
Death. Destruction. Fear.

We love to hear Him thunder!
With Shock and Awe, appear!
Death. Destruction. Fear.

For God can never blunder;
we know He holds US dear:
Death. Destruction. Fear.



The State of the Art (?)
by Michael R. Burch

Has rhyme lost all its reason
and rhythm, renascence?
Are sonnets out of season
and poems but poor pretense?
Are poets lacking fire,
their words too trite and forced?
What happened to desire?
Has passion been coerced?
Must poetry fade slowly,
like Latin, to past tense?
Are the bards too high and holy,
or their readers merely dense?



Solicitation
by Michael R. Burch

He comes to me out of the shadows, acknowledging
my presence with a tip of his hat, always the gentleman,
and his eyes are on mine like a snake’s on a bird’s—
quizzical, mesmerizing.

He ***** his head as though something he heard intrigues him
(although I hear nothing) and he smiles, amusing himself at my expense;
his words are full of desire and loathing, and while I hear everything,
he says nothing I understand.

The moon shines—maniacal, queer—as he takes my hand whispering
"Our time has come" ... And so together we stroll creaking docks
where the sea sends sickening things
scurrying under rocks and boards.

Moonlight washes his ashen face as he stares unseeing into my eyes.
He sighs, and the sound crawls slithering down my spine;
my blood seems to pause at his touch as he caresses my face.

He unfastens my dress till the white lace shows, and my neck is bared.
His teeth are long, yellow and hard, his face bearded and haggard.
A wolf howls in the distance. There are no wolves in New York. I gasp.
My blood is a trickle his wet tongue embraces. My heart races madly.
He likes it like that.



Less Heroic Couplets: Baseball Explained
by Michael R. Burch

Baseball’s immeasurable spittin’
mixed with occasional hittin’.



Infatuate, or Sweet Centerless Sixteen
by Michael R. Burch

Inconsolable as “love” had left your heart,
you woke this morning eager to pursue
warm lips again, or something “really cool”
on which to press your lips and leave their mark.

As breath upon a windowpane at dawn
soon glows, a spreading halo full of sun,
your thought of love blinks wildly—on and on . . .
then fizzles at the center, and is gone.



The Wonder Boys
by Michael R. Burch

(for Leslie Mellichamp, the late editor of The Lyric,
who was a friend and mentor to many poets, and
a fine poet in his own right)

The stars were always there, too-bright cliches:
scintillant truths the jaded world outgrew
as baffled poets winged keyed kites—amazed,
in dream of shocks that suddenly came true . . .

but came almost as static—background noise,
a song out of the cosmos no one hears,
or cares to hear. The poets, starstruck boys,
lay tuned in to their kite strings, saucer-eared.

They thought to feel the lightning’s brilliant sparks
electrify their nerves, their brains; the smoke
of words poured from their overheated hearts.
The kite string, knotted, made a nifty rope . . .

You will not find them here; they blew away—
in tumbling flight beyond nights’ stars. They clung
by fingertips to satellites. They strayed
too far to remain mortal. Elfin, young,
their words are with us still. Devout and fey,
they wink at us whenever skies are gray.

Originally published by The Lyric



The Singer
by Michael R. Burch

for Leslie Mellichamp

The sun that swoons at dusk
and seems a vanished grace
breaks over distant shores
as a child’s uplifted face
takes up a song like yours.

We listen, and embrace
its warmth with dawning trust.



Dawn, to the Singer
by Michael R. Burch

for Leslie Mellichamp

“O singer, sing to me—
I know the world’s awry—
I know how piteously
the hungry children cry.”

We hear you even now—
your voice is with us yet.
Your song did not desert us,
nor can our hearts forget.

“But I bleed warm and near,
And come another dawn
The world will still be here
When home and hearth are gone.”

Although the world seems colder,
your words will warm it yet.
Lie untroubled, still its compass
and guiding instrument.



Geraldine in her pj's
by Michael R. Burch

for Geraldine A. V. Hughes

Geraldine in her pj's
checks her security relays,
sits down armed with a skillet,
mutters, "Intruder? I'll **** it!"
Then, as satellites wink high above,
she turns to her poets with love.



Advice to Young Poets
by Nicanor Parra Sandoval
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Youngsters,
write however you will
in your preferred style.

Too much blood flowed under the bridge
for me to believe
there’s just one acceptable path.
In poetry everything’s permitted.

Originally published by Setu



A poet births words,
brings them into the world like a midwife,
then wet-nurses them from infancy to adolescence.
— Michael R. Burch



The Century’s Wake
by Michael R. Burch

lines written at the close of the 20th century

Take me home. The party is over,
the century passed—no time for a lover.

And my heart grew heavy
as the fireworks hissed through the dark
over Central Park,
past high-towering spires to some backwoods levee,
hurtling banner-hung docks to the torchlit seas.

And my heart grew heavy;
I felt its disease—
its apathy,
wanting the bright, rhapsodic display
to last more than a single day.

If decay was its rite,
now it has learned to long
for something with more intensity,
more gaudy passion, more song—
like the huddled gay masses,
the wildly-cheering throng.

You ask me—
How can this be?
A little more flair,
or perhaps only a little more clarity.

I leave her tonight to the century’s wake;
she disappoints me.



The following translation is the speech of the Sibyl to Aeneas, after he has implored her to help him find his beloved father in the Afterlife, found in the sixth book of the Aeneid ...

The Descent into the Underworld
by Virgil
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The Sibyl began to speak:

“God-blooded Trojan, son of Anchises,
descending into the Underworld’s easy
since Death’s dark door stands eternally unbarred.
But to retrace one’s steps and return to the surface:
that’s the conundrum, that’s the catch!
Godsons have done it, the chosen few
whom welcoming Jupiter favored
and whose virtue merited heaven.
However, even the Blessed find headway’s hard:
immense woods barricade boggy bottomland
where the Cocytus glides with its dark coils.
But if you insist on ferrying the Styx twice
and twice traversing Tartarus,
if Love demands you indulge in such madness,
listen closely to how you must proceed...”



Uther’s Last Battle
by Michael R. Burch

Uther Pendragon was the father of the future King Arthur, but he had given his son to the wily Merlyn and knew nothing of his whereabouts. Did Uther meet his son just before his death, as one of the legends suggests?

When Uther, the High King,
unable to walk, borne upon a litter
went to fight Colgrim, the Saxon King,
his legs were weak, and his visage bitter.

“Where is Merlyn, the sage?
For today I truly feel my age.”

All day long the battle raged
and the dragon banner was sorely pressed,
but the courage of Uther never waned
till the sun hung low upon the west.

“Oh, where is Merlyn to speak my doom,
for truly I feel the chill of the tomb.”

Then, with the battle almost lost
and the king besieged on every side,
a prince appeared, clad all in white,
and threw himself against the tide.

“Oh, where is Merlyn, who stole my son?
For, truly, now my life is done.”

Then Merlyn came unto the king
as the Saxons fled before a sword
that flashed like lightning in the hand
of a prince that day become a lord.

“Oh, Merlyn, speak not, for I see
my son has truly come to me.
And today I need no prophecy
to see how bright his days will be.”

So Uther, then, the valiant king
met his son, and kissed him twice—
the one, the first, the one, the last—
and smiled, and then his time was past.

Originally published by Songs of Innocence



HAIKU

Unaware it protects
the hilltop paddies,
the scarecrow seems useless to itself.
—Eihei Dogen Kigen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Fading memories
of summer holidays:
the closet’s last floral skirt...
—Michael R. Burch

Scandalous tides,
removing bikinis!
—Michael R. Burch

She bathes in silver
~~~~~afloat~~~~
on her reflections ...
—Michael R. Burch



Sulpicia Translations by Michael R. Burch

These are modern English translations by Michael R. Burch of seven Latin poems written by the ancient Roman female poet Sulpicia, who was apparently still a girl or very young woman when she wrote them.



I. At Last, Love!
by Sulpicia
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

for Carolyn Clark, who put me up to it

It's come at last! Love!
The kind of love that, had it remained veiled,
would have shamed me more than baring my naked soul.
I appealed to Aphrodite in my poems
and she delivered my beloved to me,
placed him snugly, securely against my breast!
The Goddess has kept her promises:
now let my joy be told,
so that it cannot be said no woman enjoys her recompense!
I would not want to entrust my testimony
to tablets, even those signed and sealed!
Let no one read my avowals before my love!
Yet indiscretion has its charms,
while it's boring to conform one’s face to one’s reputation.
May I always be deemed worthy lover to a worthy love!



II. Dismal Journeys, Unwanted Arrivals
by Sulpicia
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

for Carolyn Clark, who put me up to it

My much-hated birthday's arrived, to be spent mourning
in a wretched countryside, bereft of Cerinthus.
Alas, my lost city! Is it suitable for a girl: that rural villa
by the banks of a frigid river draining the fields of Arretium?
Peace now, Uncle Messalla, my over-zealous chaperone!
Arrivals of relatives aren't always welcome, you know.
Kidnapped, abducted, snatched away from my beloved city,
I’d mope there, prisoner to my mind and emotions,
this hostage coercion prevents from making her own decisions!



III. The Thankfully Abandoned Journey
by Sulpicia
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

for Carolyn Clark, who put me up to it

Did you hear the threat of that wretched trip’s been abandoned?
Now my spirits soar and I can be in Rome for my birthday!
Let’s all celebrate this unexpected good fortune!



IV. Thanks for Everything, and Nothing
by Sulpicia
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

for Carolyn Clark, who put me up to it

Thanks for revealing your true colors,
thus keeping me from making further fool of myself!
I do hope you enjoy your wool-basket *****,
since any female-filled toga is much dearer to you
than Sulpicia, daughter of Servius!
On the brighter side, my guardians are much happier,
having feared I might foolishly bed a nobody!



V. Reproach for Indifference
by Sulpicia
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

for Carolyn Clark, who put me up to it

Have you no kind thoughts for your girl, Cerinthus,
now that fever wilts my wasting body?
If not, why would I want to conquer this disease,
knowing you no longer desired my existence?
After all, what’s the point of living
when you can ignore my distress with such indifference?



VI. Her Apology for Errant Desire
by Sulpicia
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

for Carolyn Clark, who put me up to it

Let me admit my errant passion to you, my love,
since in these last few days
I've exceeded all my foolish youth's former follies!
And no folly have I ever regretted more
than leaving you alone last night,
desiring only to disguise my desire for you!



Sulpicia on the First of March
by Sulpicia
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

“One might venture that Sulpicia was not over-modest.” – MRB

Sulpicia's adorned herself for you, O mighty Mars, on your Kalends:
come admire her yourself, if you have the sense to observe!
Venus will forgive your ogling, but you, O my violent one,
beware lest your armaments fall shamefully to the floor!
Cunning Love lights twin torches from her eyes,
with which he’ll soon inflame the gods themselves!
Wherever she goes, whatever she does,
Elegance and Grace follow dutifully in attendance!
If she unleashes her hair, trailing torrents become her train:
if she braids her mane, her braids are to be revered!
If she dons a Tyrian gown, she inflames!
She inflames, if she wears virginal white!
As stylish Vertumnus wears her thousand outfits
on eternal Olympus, even so she models hers gracefully!
She alone among the girls is worthy
of Tyre’s soft wool dipped twice in costly dyes!
May she always possess whatever rich Arabian farmers
reap from their fragrant plains’ perfumed fields,
and whatever flashing gems dark India gathers
from the scarlet shores of distant Dawn’s seas.
Sing the praises of this girl, Muses, on these festive Kalends,
and you, proud Phoebus, strum your tortoiseshell lyre!
She'll carry out these sacred rites for many years to come,
for no girl was ever worthier of your chorus!

• We may not be able to find the true God through logic, but we can certainly find false gods through illogic. — Michael R. Burch



Rag Doll
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 17

On an angry sea a rag doll is tossed
back and forth between cruel waves
that have marred her easy beauty
and ripped away her clothes.
And her arms, once smoothly tanned,
are gashed and torn and peeling
as she dances to the waters’
rockings and reelings.
She’s a rag doll now,
a toy of the sea,
and never before
has she been so free,
or so uneasy.

She’s slammed by the hammering waves,
the flesh shorn away from her bones,
and her silent lips must long to scream,
and her corpse must long to find its home.
For she’s a rag doll now,
at the mercy of all
the sea’s relentless power,
cruelly being ravaged
with every passing hour.

Her eyes are gone; her lips are swollen
shut to the pounding waves
whose waters reached out to fill her mouth
with puddles of agony.
Her limbs are limp; her skull is crushed;
her hair hangs like seaweed
in trailing tendrils draped across
a never-ending sea.
For she’s a rag doll now,
a worn-out toy
with which the waves will play
ten thousand thoughtless games
until her bed is made.

Keywords/Tags: Sulpicia, Latin, Latin Poems, English Translations, Rome, Roman, Cerinthus, Albius Tibullus, Uncle Valerius Messalla Corvinus, birthday, villa, poem, poetry, winter, spring, snow, frost, rose, sun, eyes, sight, seeing, understanding, wisdom, Ars Poetica, Messiah, disciple