Table of Contents Views and Mechanics Publisher's Note Editor's Note Review of Language and Mind Review of This Is My Best Review of Lost in the Void Crossword (Solution Posted in September. Printable version in pdf format of journal.) May/Jun Crossword Solution Creative Nonfiction Puttin' on My Pearls By Cathryn Braswell My Dinner with Gacy By Andy Martello Mysteries of the Shenandoah Valley By Casey Clabough Getting Lucky By Dale Purvis Poetry Your Mind and You Are Our Sargasso Sea By Lita Sorensen Midsummer By Lita Sorensen Windows By Lita Sorensen Simple Man By B.K. Birch The View from Here By Mary Hudock The Dinner Party By Ruth Mark Fiction It's in the Stars By Linda Gallant Potts An Intimate Evening with Papa By Lance Garrison Ballard The Prank By Terri L. Knight A Pocketful of Starflakes By Leslie Wolter Cover Art Photography by Seth Brown About the Contributors © 2006, River Walk Journal and respective authors and artists. All rights reserved. Do not use or reproduce without permission. River Walk Journal, Inc. Board of Directors Chairman - Elizabeth Ross Vice Chairman - Joseph Koch Secretary/Treasurer - Geri Stock-Ross Editorial Director - Patti Kurtz, DA Literacy Director - Bill Mausteller Policy Director - PA State Rep. Jess Stairs Advisory Board Chairman - Patti Kurtz, DA Asst. Chairman - Dan Lachenman, PhD Samuel Hazo Christopher Leland Edwin Yoder Joseph Bathanti Journal Staff Publisher - Elizabeth Ross Editor-In-Chief - Joseph Koch Sen. Fiction Editor - Patti Kurtz Sen. Poetry Editor - Neeldhara Misra Sen. Creative Nonfiction Editor - Brenda Coxe Contributing Editor - Robert Dittman Publicity Director (PA) - Geri Stock-Ross For information about submissions, visit http://www.riverwalkjournal.org/submission.html. Questions about promotions, subscribers' services, and advertising should be sent to publisher@riverwalkjournal.org. River Walk Journal, Inc. is a non-profit corporation run entirely by volunteers. For information about volunteer opportunities and internships, visit http://www.volunteermatch.org/results/org_detail.jsp?orgid=58479.

Getting Lucky By Dale Purvis “Every house is incomplete without him and a blessing is lacking in the spirit.” --Christopher Smart, Jubilate Agno, 1765 My neighbors found him beside a country road, a long, empty highway that meanders through cotton fields and stands of tall pine trees, going nowhere much. Against all odds, to their own astonishment (and mine), they spotted the tiny black and white kitten nosing his way out of the overgrown grass at the edge of the pavement as they were driving by. It was a small miracle, the kind that I believe in now, though I didn’t once. The nearest house was several miles back, so there was no immediate, conclusive explanation for the little one’s presence at the side of the deserted road. But since he had not the least objection to being found—he was, in fact, all for it—the Wilsons picked him up and brought him home. The Wilsons bring home a lot of things. At this writing, their household includes five dogs, three cats, a litter of foster puppies, and a baby blue jay named Elmo, who fell out of his nest. Whatever is lost, hurt, orphaned, or abandoned they shelter, provide for, and love. The dogs, cats, puppies, and Elmo seem to understand, rarely protesting the needy, greedy new arrival that gobbles up nourishment and affection, then settles down for a nap in the sunniest spot in the house. This time, however, the kind-hearted, obliging Wilsons had to look very hard to find a cozy, available nook where they could tuck away one more small creature. Even the bathrooms were inhabited, and Rob and Stephanie were compelled to notice that it was getting a little too crowded at their place. Thus it was that on a bright Saturday morning in late September—a morning when I would have otherwise been at my desk, polishing a rejected manuscript or two—I got Lucky (and his worldly goods). In the week or so that he had spent at the neighbors’, the kitten had amassed a large, varied collection of things. On moving day there was a steady stream of traffic on the path that leads from the Wilsons’ back door to my own. Stephanie brought Lucky and a shopping bag that contained his jingle ball, his squeak toy, his punching bag, and his skein of yarn. A second trip produced Lucky’s dinner plate, water bowl, eardrops, and antibiotics. Rob hauled over a supply of kitten food, a junior-size litter box, a scoop, and a very large bag of clumping litter, then returned with a cardboard carton, a plastic dishpan, and a towel. When assembled, the carton, dishpan, and towel would make a comfy, kitten-sized bed. Taking a quick look about him, Lucky headed straight for the cache of goods piled up on my back steps. He sniffed the dishpan, then dumped over the shopping bag, pouncing on the jingle ball as it rolled down the steps. “He knows his stuff!” Stephanie assured me. She thought, however, that the kitten needed a few more things. Since he would be living inside for awhile, until he was bigger, he would have to have a scratching post; better yet a kitty playhouse or a kitty climbing tree, which would have a much wider variety of fun things for him to shred. Lucky would also require a small stuffed animal to sleep with; better yet, a heating pad, for the late September nights are cool, even in South Georgia. But on that sunny, blue-gold morning when Lucky came to live at my house, there was no hint of a chill in the autumn air. He chased the jingle ball down the driveway. He sniffed out the late-blooming roses (somehow avoiding the thorns). He swatted a bumblebee (somehow avoiding the sting). When he could play no more, I took Lucky and his possessions inside. I gave him a snack on his dinner plate and filled his water bowl. I assembled his bed in my bedroom and positioned his litter box strategically, conspicuously, and not too far away. He availed himself of it; then, turning his back decisively on the carton/dishpan/towel, he climbed the bedspread, surveyed the new, inviting territory, and settled down for a nap in the middle of a pillow. He gave me a direct, meaningful look, which I understood. I crossed the stuffed animal/heating pad off my shopping list. The kitten slept soundly in our bed for an hour or so; then he was up again, ready for another snack and some action. Since the jingle ball could not now be found—inside or out—I gave Lucky a calico mouse that I just happened to have around. While the kitten and the mouse careened about the kitchen and I was having a couple of cups of coffee to ease myself into my new life as a cat owner, Stephanie reappeared at my back door. She was bringing a few more things for the little one: another jingle ball (which she knew would be needed), Lucky’s health record and eye drops (inadvertently left behind during the morning’s move), and a battery—powered alligator (which she just happened to have around). I fixed a cup of coffee for Stephie while the alligator led the kitten on a merry chase into the living room until it got hung up on a table leg. At that point, Lucky’s wails of distress informed me that I was required to get up from my chair, go into the living room, and free the alligator, which would, of course, soon be hung up on something else. As for my own hang up, I quickly realized that there would be no writing on that Saturday morning when the kitten came to stay. Insofar as I could see, there would be no writing anytime soon. Instead, my hours at home would be spent attending to Lucky’s essential needs for nourishment, naps, a clean litter box, and a ready-to-romp alligator. I felt only slightly guilty about this, so after Stephanie had gone, I helped myself to yet another cup of coffee and tossed the jingle ball to Lucky, who was now bored with the uncooperative gator (now stuck under a bed) and demanding new amusement. When the kitten had had his lunch and settled down for a second nap, I went shopping to pick up some other things that would surely make the new arrival feel right at home. I got a few more kitten-size balls and a six-pack of calico mice. Because I knew that Lucky would soon outgrow his junior litter box, I decided to check out that imperative item as well. Although I had expected to find two types of boxes—little and big—I discovered a much wider selection that I could have ever imagined. I could choose an enclosed box (said to promote tidiness and an odor-free environment) or a box with a built in sifter (to simplify maintenance). The top of the line model, however, was a battery-powered, self-cleaning box. Since I had decided to limit myself to the essentials on this first shopping trip, I acquired none of these intriguing, innovative litter boxes. For the present, I would scoop. But I did decide upon an appealing privacy screen (adorned with paw prints) and then (caught up in the spirit of the occasion) an upscale, spill-proof water bowl—although I understood that neither of these items could be considered an absolute necessity. The water bowl also had paw prints on it. Returning to more practical matters, I got another very large bag of litter, some more kitten food, and a box of tuna bites (said to be both tasty and nourishing). For the moment, I ignored Lucky’s pressing need for a scratching post/playhouse/climbing tree, but I happened to spot an appealing wicker basket that would be just the thing for the kitten’s toys, which were now scattered about my living room floor—something I had not anticipated but was certain could be remedied. When I returned home, I stowed the kitten food and tuna bites in my kitchen cabinet, put out the new water bowl, arranged the privacy screen, and collected the balls and toys in the wicker basket. Throughout the course of these undertakings, Lucky watched intently, his one and a half pounds puffed up with pride in his growing stock of possession. “He knows his stuff!” I said to myself, as I spotted Stephanie heading toward my back door once again. She too had been shopping and was bringing the kitten a little something. An incredible, indescribable something concocted of feathers, yarn, and a plastic play ring, which rattled. Lucky fell upon the eye-catching item, giving it a resounding whack that sent it spinning across the kitchen floor. Then he chased it down and tossed it gleefully above his head. “I thinks he likes it!” Stephanie exclaimed, with the undisguised, triumphant delight of one that has chosen the perfect gift, the best gift at the party, the gift that is admired by everyone in the assembled company and brings a special joy to the heart of the recipient. As recipients go, however, Lucky is remarkably easy to please. To date, he has liked everything that has come his way. He likes his jingle balls, his calico mice, his alligator, and his tuna bites. He likes his antibiotics, licking them greedily from the spoon that I hold out to him. He likes his litter box. While I clean it, he sits beside me and purrs. No matter where he may be, he is not too far away to hear me pop the top of a can of kitten food. He eats quickly, though, in order to get back to his toys. He is happiest when he goes outside to play, and his excursions are full of the most delightful adventures. He has fallen into the goldfish pond; he has caught a toad frog; he has gotten a butterfly stuck in his mouth. This latter episode startled us both. Hearing a woeful moaning on my front steps, I rushed right out to discover that a butterfly—although charming to watch and exciting to chase—will adhere to a kitten’s tongue when caught and tasted. I also learned that it can be devilishly hard to dislodge when both butterfly and kitten are flapping frantically about. But when his ordeal was behind him (and my own and the butterfly’s as well), Lucky settled down with me in a rocking chair on the front porch, watching an approaching shower. His eyes grew big, taking in the enormity of the rain. Getting to know him day by day, I am touched by the brave, joyful spirit in this tiny creature. When I make an occasional trip to my nearly forgotten desk and my rejected manuscripts (which don’t upset me nearly as much as they once did), I discover that I am writing a new story. I am writing about my kitten. It will be a happy, funny tale about how he acquired a home and far more stuff than he ever needed, but it will also have a lesson in it, a lesson that I want to set down and remember. It was chance that saved Lucky—that small, unexpected miracle on a country road to nowhere—but he himself has made the greater share of his own good fortune. Finding himself alone in the grass at the edge of the deserted highway, whether by accident or by an act of human cruelty, he stuck out his nose and pressed forward. When the Wilsons picked him up, he had a bruised leg, a gummy eye, an upper respiratory tract infection, and ear mites. Despite his physical discomfort, despite the unexpected turn of fate in his barely begun life, he settled happily into their house with the dogs and cats and blue jay. Shortly thereafter, he settled happily into my far quieter, literary household, which became considerably less quiet and less orderly after his arrival—but much more entertaining. I too have had a piece of very good luck. In a week or so after his arrival, however, as we were growing accustomed to our life together, I was forced to notice a couple of small, scarcely worth mentioning imperfections in my tiny, adorable kitten. He gnawed my pencils whenever I sat down to write, and my toes. He also had fleas—quite a few fleas, in fact. Rob suggested rawhide chews, an essential during the teething process. Stephanie strongly recommended a bath. She reminded me, as well, that the kitten still needed something like a scratching post. So I went shopping once again. This time, though, I went to the pet store that I had spotted a few days earlier on my way home from the university where I teach. Here I was fully initiated into the fun new world of shopping for a conspicuous consumer kitten. Strolling down the first aisle—a long, enticing row that featured products for a cat’s comfort and entertainment—I quickly selected some kitten-size chews and a small scratching post, rejecting (for the moment, at least) a floor to ceiling climbing tree, a kitty condo, a kitty window lounge, and a kitty igloo (an all-weather outdoor feline retreat). But I did pick up a paw-cleaning mat for the litter box, an essential that I had as yet neglected to acquire. A paw cleaning mat, I assured myself, could not be considered an extravagance. Since I had committed myself without reservation to providing the highest standard of care for the energetic, inquisitive young life that had been entrusted to me (and since I knew that Stephanie was watching me closely to make certain that I got things exactly right), I also selected a book on kitten care. Skimming the first few pages, I was advised that a kitten must have a wide variety of toys so that it will not become bored in its environment. Boredom (which, according to this helpful volume, is to be avoided at all costs) will seriously impede a kitten’s mental and physical development. With a large, constantly replenished supply of jingle balls, toad frogs, and butterflies, Lucky certainly did not seem to be bored, but I decided that he could have one new plaything, for good measure. From the expansive display of objects that a kitten can pounce on, hide in, whack, chase, and chew, I selected a quilted cat tunnel—just right for a vigorous, stress relieving romp before bedtime or for a cozy refuge when things are not going a little one’s way. I also picked up another package of jingle balls. Despite my best intentions (and the wicker basket), I calculated that I had somewhere between nine and sixteen lost balls in my house. Turning into the next aisle, which featured products for feline health and grooming needs, I selected some citrus cat repellent (said to prevent furniture scratching and drape climbing). This would certainly come in handy during Lucky’s first critical, formative year. Since the box of tuna bites was going fast, I also checked out the shelf of kitty treats, which included treats that prevent hairball and tartar-control treats (for optimal dental hygiene), as well as herbal, preservative-free cat biscuits (said to promote overall good health). I looked at, but passed over, an astounding array of vitamins and nutritional supplements: for glossy coats, for healthy eyes and skin, for finely tuned digestion, for stress relief. I would ask my vet about these. The kitten didn’t have hairballs, tartar, or an upset stomach; he seemed to be eating more than enough to acquire all essential nutrients (and was showing absolutely no signs of stress). But while I was still on this fascinating, health-promoting row, I thumbed through the pages of a recipe book that featured a variety of gourmet cat tidbits. I decided, however, that home cooking would have to come later. So would the kitty cookie jar (in which to store the tasty snacks) and the kitty kitchen garden (a small tray with three small pots, where I could grow catnip and cat grass). Glancing at my shopping list to remind myself of the main purpose of my expedition (which was not cat tunnels and kitchen gardens), I selected a flea comb and a grooming glove, then pondered a varied, intriguing offering of shampoo: chamomile (for sensitive skin), aloe (for extra conditioning), oatmeal (with anti-itch properties), vitamin E (to improve coat texture), as well as geranium and mango. I thought that the mango had a particularly appealing aroma. I tossed the shampoo into my shopping basket (which, I noted, was much fuller than I had expected) and headed for the checkout. Returning home with my purchases, quite pleased with the results of this latest shopping trip, I collected Lucky from his nap in a favorite spot of sunshine and whisked him off to the kitchen sink to begin his much-anticipated and much-needed grooming. I combed the kitten, lathered him up in a mango meringue, then rinsed him off and blew a little hot air on him to fluff him up a bit. After a vociferous and squirming protest, he submitted to his fate and emerged from the kitchen glistening, delicately scented, and flealess, though considerably daunted by the adversity that had come upon him on an otherwise agreeable afternoon. Still slightly damp, he settled down in my lap for awhile to contemplate a world that has shampoo and blow dryers in it. While Lucky was sorting things out, and before I got back to my nearly finished story, I leafed through the pages of a catalog that I had picked up at the pet store. This interesting publication is crammed full of picturesque, contented cats playing with their toys, climbing up their climbing trees, and munching on their tartar-control treats while their smiling (and equally picturesque) owners utilize an interesting assortment of cat mugs, cat T-shirts, cat neckties, cat book marks, cat tote bags, and cat calendars. These things, though, are ordinary, as I am beginning to understand. For the advanced cat fancier, the catalog offers feline adorned barbeque aprons, tablecloths, door bells, mouse pads, CD holders, wine glasses, and cheese knives, along with meowing clocks and meowing telephones, kitty shower curtains and bath mats, and slipper socks in red or white, with black paw prints on them. I thought the red socks were bright and cheerful. They would be just the thing for a cold winter evening by the fireplace. The mouse pad would also look nice on my desk I put the catalog order form with the lengthening list of my little one’s requirements and another list of books on understanding and caring for a growing kitten; interesting, informative volumes that I had decided to acquire just in case my first book had left out anything essential. I would visit the bookstore, too, on my next shopping trip. Of course, I would also need a photograph album to accommodate the many kitten pictures that were piling up on my kitchen table. I go shopping a lot these days, since I got Lucky.