Table of Contents Views and Mechanics Publisher's Note Editor's Note Review of Terrorist Review of God's Gym Review of Cherry Blossoms in Twilight Creative Nonfiction Ain't Is A Word By Marcie Hollowell & Kristen Munch Love Under the Big Top By Andy Martello Revival By Brenda G. Wooley Poetry Letting Go Wish By Antoinette Brim Pam Farwick By G. David Schwartz Confession While Dining By Mary Lou Taylor Homeschooling Adventures By Beth Happel Fiction Ike Experiences Vanity By Sidney Kidd What Keeps Me Alive By Paul Brittain Minor Damage By Jane Hammons How To Cook for Your In-Laws By Ricky Ginsburg 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/subs.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 VolunteerMatch.

What Keeps Me Alive By Paul Brittain The clear blue sky was eerily out of place; an expanse of brightness that mocked the desolate town below. How ironic, Patrick thought. In its heyday, the milltown's skyline was rarely anything but smoke red; the air heavy with the acrid scent of molten metal. The death of the steel industry spelled the demise of its towns. Yet today, clean air and blue skies prevail over dead communities. The bumpy road was pockmarked with holes large enough to shred belted tires. Patrick carefully navigated them like an obstacle course, even as the vacant storefronts watched in silence. When he wasn't dodging potholes, Patrick took in the remains of what had once been a thriving blue-collar town. Nary a viable business could be seen for many blocks in the midst of filthy old windows that had been fortified by planks of wood. Faded words on obsolete tavern windows advertised extinct brews such as Black Label and Old Frothingslosh. Broken glass and beer bottles littered walkways and clogged curbside drains. Old black men and old white men ambled along the uneven sidewalks, stopping to stare blankly at the moving car. Patrick reminded himself this was not the sort of place for a wayward motorist to stop to ask for help. He cursed his haste in scribbling the directions on both sides of a crumpled piece of scrap paper. This works best in tandem, with a passenger guiding the way. As it was, Patrick was forced to alternate watching the jagged roadway and reading his own chicken scratches that were intended to get him to Stanley Romanski's house. "Bud Light" blinked in neon lights beneath the torn awning of McGovern's Bar and Grill. Blank faced men could be seen drinking their breakfast through the streaked windows. Boilermakers- shots of whiskey "chased" with beer- at 10 in the morning, no less. A man leaning against the front of the bar took a swig from a brown bottle. He belched a disgusting blend of saliva and nasal drip, spitting mucous at the pavement, where it splattered and glistened in the morning sunlight. Dirty black smokestacks of the empty steel mills caught Patrick's eye. Patches of high grass surrounded the plant, fluttering carefree in the winds. Empty bags and paper tumbled past. Refuse had piled along the paved lot and fencing that surrounded the abandoned mill. Torrents of brown water wound alongside the riverbanks. The Allegheny and Monongahela rivers bordered many such towns before wending their way to a merger in downtown Pittsburgh, flowing thereon as the Ohio River. It didn't matter if the economy thrived elsewhere across America, times always seemed to be bad in Western Pennsylvania. This town; the mills; even the ugly river, bore such testimony. Patrick stopped at a traffic signal, and wondered aloud why a ghost town needed one. The only moving car on the road, his bright new model looked out of place alongside rusted old Pintos and Impalas parked or abandoned at curbsides. Apparently, the clunkers still got the locals from place to place, which was all they cared about. Many of the vehicles were severely dented, and broken window glass glittered within crevices worn into the street by the region's harsh winter weather. Closing his eyes, Patrick tried to envision this Western Pennsylvania mill town back in its heyday. He thought of morning sunshine glinting off the shiny roof of the factory, bustling art deco storefronts, fashionably dressed men and women. Under the circumstances, he founds this almost impossible to perceive. Suddenly, Patrick jumped as a blaring horn snapped him back to reality. The traffic light had changed to green, and an angry man gesturing obscenely from behind the wheel of the ramshackle truck had grown instantly impatient. Abruptly, Patrick pulled out with the angry native right on his bumper. He didn't dare glance down at the directions, as he felt perspiration pouring across his face, and a cold hint of fear gripping his heart. "Geez, buddy," he blurted. "All I did was hold you up a second or two!" This is all I need, he thought. Just minding my own business and some townie wants to fight. Defiantly shaking a fist, the cursing face began to shrink in the mirror. Patrick's antagonist turned onto a side road, leaving him to breathe deeply and exhale a loud sigh of relief. Picking up his paper again, Patrick noticed he'd missed a landmark or two during the excitement. "Continue past Second Street... Keep going straight at the war memorial," he said to himself. "One mile past Willie's Station...? Where in the hell is Willie's....? Oh...there it is!" Like most of the town, Willie's was permanently out of business. "....past Willie's Station," he read again, "road begins to wind out of town. Count fifth house on right, past convenience store." The mini-market was just the second functioning business Patrick had seen after McGovern's. It's window projected the state's green keystone symbol with the words 'Pennsylvania Lottery Tickets Sold Here,' in poorly written ink. What little money people had in these parts often went to liquor and daily lottery tickets. Making certain no one else was driving behind him, Patrick slowed his car to count the houses. The paving narrowed as the town changed from desolate buildings to unkempt countryside, with the river still to the right. High brush sprang up all around as the single motorist's eyes bounced from paper to road. "...fifth house on right, past convenience store," he whispered again. "There's.... one...!" Along the way, flat land had become a hillside to the left as Patrick stared desperately to his right, looking for houses to count. The riverbed was getting closer to the roadway. "There's.... two? Nah, that's a shed... I think... There! Two!" People living on this stretch of the road certainly didn't have to be concerned with nosy neighbors. But it must have made it difficult for anyone to borrow a cup of sugar. Patrick thought this could be a secluded backwoods road simply by trading the old pavement for stones and dirt. It likely started that way in an early century. He saw what appeared to be another house. "Three!" A car approached from behind, and Patrick pulled over to wave it past. The filthy jalopy swung around as countless children made faces at him against the rear window. "Not all kids are cute," Patrick grumbled. Motoring along, he reminded himself that his count had reached three houses, or whatever excuse for a residence they may have been. "Four," he said, and noticed that his odometer indicated nearly two miles since he passed Willie's Station. The road wound beneath a chipped concrete tunnel that served to support a much higher railroad trestle. Rumblings from the moving train above thundered through the ground and echoed off the tunnel walls. Powder and concrete chips hissed and bounced awkwardly off the windshield. "Damn! This crap's probably scratching up the hood!" Emerging from the short tunnel, Patrick's ears cleared. Further ahead, another rundown structure poked out between trees and brush. "That must be it." Slowing to a crawl, Patrick pulled closer, then saw the makeshift sign. "Aw, hell!" NO TRESPASSING. A cartoonish gun barrel was depicted on a ragged sheet nailed beside the sign. "Now what? If I'm wrong, I get shot at? If I'm right, why didn't the old geezer warn me about the sign in the first place?" Gingerly, he pulled the car off the road as far as he could, grimacing as a barren tree branch screeched along the side panel. There was no driveway, and the front yard hadn't been mowed for ages. There was also the absence of a walking path indicating a direction to enter. "The hell with it," he mumbled. "Mortenson can fire me if he wants, I've had enough of this cra...!" Abruptly, he jumped to see the old man glaring at him. A rumpled old geezer of, perhaps seventy-five, Stan Romanski looked every bit like someone who had lived a hard life. Rough stubble shadowed his lower face; creases lined his forehead and cheekbones. Once-new dress pants were frayed at the cuffs, and the end of his oversized belt flopped beneath the sleeveless tee-shirt that stereotyped his age. "Your sign. I wasn't certain if it was safe to...." Romanski gave a slightly wicked laugh of amusement. "Hee, hee! That? Just a sign. I've got guns. I'd never shoot anyone though." He gestured towards the rough surface of a rooftop that loomed from within brush and foliage a few yards away. "Now Phillips over there, he doesn't have a sign. He shoots first, then asks questions. Hee, hee!" "Your neighbor would shoot someone?" "Nah! At someone maybe. Close as he can. Just to scare them. Never to hurt or kill. He could though. Phillips was a decorated sniper in World War II. Nazis never knew what hit them." He waved a hand. "Relax, boy. Come in and join me and Panda Bear for tea!" "Panda Bear?" "My cat. Man, you're jumpy!" The old man continued talking as jagged brush raked at Patrick's pants, making him wish that he had dressed casually. "Call me Stush," Romanski said. "Stush?" "Everyone named Stan is Stush in Polish. Don't you know anything about these parts son?" "Guess not." "Well, you're gonna know lots more before you leave here." They walked between the rundown house and an old car. " I use that to go for my groceries. Used to drive it to Sunday Mass. Before I stopped going, that is." "You lost faith?" "Not in God. Not in Jesus. People. Those slobs come go to Mass wearing ignorant tee-shirts, blue jeans, shorts. They come in after the Mass starts and move everyone over who got there early for a good seat. They have no respect for God. No respect for anyone. You're supposed to dress right for church. That's why I haven't worn my suit in ages." "Your suit?" "Don't act so surprised, son. I clean up right nice. When I want to, that is." Romanski pulled the creaky back door open, and the men walked inside. Immediately, Patrick noticed the musty smell, and dried mud in the corners of the room. He sat down at the kitchen table as his guest raised a gas flame on the stove. Worn out padding made him shift uncomfortably in the old chair, where he could feel part of its frame poking against his backside like a metal enema. Marks lined the walls; with uneven strokes next to numbers or years scribbled alongside. He gazed at the numbers; 1968, 1996, 1957, 1972. Startled by a set of eyes that poked near his face, Patrick yelped and fell backwards. "Yeeoww!" "Hee, hee. Boy, that's my Panda Bear!" Straightening the chair, Patrick cautiously reached to stroke the purring cat. In an otherwise rundown, decrepit setting, the feline was clean and immaculate. Romanski took better care of his cat than he did himself. "He's beautiful!" "She! She's beautiful! You can check the plumbing underneath her if you don't believe me!" "No thanks. I'll take your word for it." Romanski brought two ceramic cups to the table. "Sugar?" Patrick nodded. He wasn't certain he should drink out of a cup from this stained old kitchen, but didn't wish to offend his host. Panda Bear purred at the sight of a saucer of milk her owner placed on the floor. Patrick took the sugar bowl and gave a nod of gratitude. Spilling a teaspoon of powder into his cup, he stirred, then gingerly sipped the contents. They tasted remarkably good. "Ah, that's nice." "You were expecting....?" "That's nice," Patrick repeated. "So, uh, tell me about yourself, Mister Romanski." "Let's see... where to start? Well, I quit school early to work in the mills... to support the family. Back then, it was either coal mines or steel mills. Poison your lungs with black dust or sulfur. We never had much after my grandparents came over from Poland. The steel mills were hard. But they were good to us. All this slum area you see? Used to be a great town. Sky was ugly, air we breathed stunk and tasted horrible. But we lived good. My Rosalee was a real looker. Went out on Saturdays, and the other guys just drooled. Stush Romanski was damn lucky. They all knew it too. Rosalee and me, we were great together. Before she left me, that is." "You must have been heart broken? Why did she leave you?" Romanski became irritated. "Beause God said so's why." "Oh, she di... I mean, I thought she left you..." Romanski smiled. "I like you, kid. Not many of your type these days with that stupid innocence about them." "Thank you," Patrick said, although he was certain it wasn't a compliment. "That was no compliment, son. But you're welcome just the same." Patrick changed the subject. "Rosalee? Tell me more about her." The old man's eyes glistened like cut diamonds. "Not another woman like her around. First time she saw me, she was a goner. Never forget that look on her face. Like I was a stick of cotton candy, and she just wanted to gobble me up." "And you?" "I was with the guys, so I had to be cool. But I didn't want any of them latching on to her neither. I did okay. Married her didn't I?" He paused, as a tear formed in one eye. Then he became animated again. "You want to see my Rosalee?" "Sure." Romanski led Patrick through a dimly-lighted hallway. There were more lines with four numbers next to each of them; countless slashes and numbers beginning at 19, and a few with 20 marked along the hallway and into the living room. Romanski pulled a chain, and turned on a lamp that was covered by a stained glass shade. "Antique glass, son. Don't make them like this no more." He picked up a framed portrait and handed it to Patrick. As he moved the glass under the light, the young man saw the black and white likeness of a proud thin man standing beside a woman dressed in a silk polka dotted dress and high heels. He moved the frame closer and blinked in disbelief. "THAT'S Rosalee?," he blurted. Seeing his host's reaction, Patrick knew his brain had engaged an instant too late to save his mouth's shortcoming. "What boy? You think Stush Romanski couldn't get a woman like this? How dare you?" Thankfully realizing his host had misunderstood, Patrick's thoughts sped to damage control. "It is just...." "Just what, boy?" "I'm truly sorry sir. I have never seen a woman like her in my life." He really hadn't. Romanski's late wife was a mountain of a woman whose likeness dwarfed that of the man standing beside her. Aside from her attire and fashionably coifed hair, there was nothing attractive about her. Romanski smiled again. "Understood, son. Sorry I was cross with you. Should have known you'd react like all the other men. Only one like her. And Stanley 'Stush' Romanski had her. Rest of the world, eat your heart out...!" "Any children, sir?," Patrick interrupted. "Nah! We really didn't need any. Didn't want any. Church might of kicked us out if they'd a known. Guess I ought to start getting back to Mass. Should thank God for having given her to me for as long as I had her." Pausing to wipe away another tear, Romanski looked up again. "That's not all you came here for, son. Look at these markings. I know you noticed them." The man stood. "Look out, Panda Bear." He gently shooed the cat from his pants legs. "Come up here." Patrick scribbled notes on a pad before following his host up the stairway. Romanski stopped to point at still more slashes and numbers. "This was one of the big ones. Nineteen hundred and eighty-nine. Rosalee and I were stuck upstairs for days. "Now here!" A bony finger traced the ragged line above muddy stains. "The big one. Nineteen seventy-two. Agnes. Old Hurricane Agnes. Days, boy. A week, perhaps that bugger lasted." "I've heard of Hurricane Agnes. Coastal storms stretched inland and Western Pennsylvania came under rain and flooding that never seemed to stop." "We had water all over the damn place. Moved everything upstairs. Had another cat and two dogs then. Moved them all to the bedroom as well." Romanski became animated and happy as he showed off valuables and possessions that he'd saved from the flood damage. Other heirlooms were lost or tarnished in the many floods he'd endured. Rosalee's wedding ring had washed away one year, only to be discovered months later within a sea of mud in the basement. The old man had become diligent in flood watching over the years. He told of how, when his old radio warned of rising waters, he would take to the windows, eschewing sleep in order to pursue his passion. Romanski reveled in his knack of moving his furniture and possessions upstairs on a precise timetable. It had become a passion; his life's hobby. He spoke of catching fish out of the bedroom window, then throwing them back to the waters. "Don't ever want to eat fish that comes out of all that crap in a flood," he said. "Liken to poison yourself if you do." Patrick watched Romanski rummage through a closet, scattering an eclectic mix of new and vintage belongings across the frayed carpeting before finally producing boxes of albums and photographs. Padded and ragged covers barely contained torn black pages that were plastered with outdated stickers barely holding stained Polaroids in place. The old man was oblivious to the growing piles, that became increasingly cluttered by pictures that kept sliding free from the dried yellow tape. Black and white images showed old People in rowboats who were handing food and supplies through windows; hands clutching bags and cans; often connected to bodies that were obscured from the frame. Pictures ran the gamut from out of focus to crystal clear. Black and white, faded color, vibrant color, Romanski had them all. This was his collection, and he treated it with almost a religious reverence. Finally, the last page of the last album had been seen. "Ah, hell with the mess. I'll clean it up later. Give me n the cat something to do after you leave." With that, 'Stush' Romanski guided his writer friend back to the stairway. They settled in downstairs, and Patrick asked questions that gnawed at him from the moment he'd been assigned the interview with Stanley Romanski. "Mister Romanski... uh, Stush? Why do you... I mean, why do all these people stay here? Why not move somewhere else? Why put up with all the aggravation? The town is dead. Your property values are rock bottom. I mean no disrespect, but why?" Romanski lovingly fingered the picture of the young couple known as "Stush" and Rosalee while stroking Panda Bear's soft fur. "My Rosalee asked me that many a time. You can't understand unless it's part of your life. I was born in this house, back when it was nice, and new, and worth something. Grew up here, as an only child. Couldn't just leave it to a wrecking ball." He paused. "Well-dressed flim-flam guys came through. Made us all some dirt cheap offers to buy, so's they could put in a strip mall or some other worthless place. We all said the same thing. Go to hell! Except for old Phillips. He got off a couple shots, just close enough. Hee, hee. Strange. After that, we never saw those well-dressed guys again. "Hey!," he continued, "we know our places aren't worth squat. Haven't been for years. We live on disability, unemployment, and whatever small change passes for Social Security these days. Our lives have been hard. But we're proud. That's why we stay. Here, everyone understands each other. Here, we're family. Besides, don't matter what anyone has when you die. No one gets to take it with them. Right?" Patrick nodded and continued scribbling in what had become a full pad of notes. He had even begun writing on the other side of used pages. While he had first hoped to get out of the place in no more than an hour, he found that nearly three hours with "Stush" Romanski had passed quickly. Patrick stood up and extended a hand. "Sir. It has truly been a privilege and an honor." Romanski took his hand. " If you mean that, son, then you'll come back for more of our hospitality. Panda Bear and I will hold you to it." Patrick nodded, and the men walked through the high grass again. It didn't even matter that his pant legs were covered in barbs and splatter marks. Neither man said a word as Romanski looked on, still stroking his cat. As Patrick opened the car door, his host called out one last time. "Hey, son?" Patrick looked up. "You asked why I put up with all this. It's my life, It's what I do." He began walking back to the house, and stopped. Turning once more, he shouted. "This," he yelled, "is what keeps me alive!" Patrick smiled and waved goodbye. He no longer wondered what headline would accompany his story. Now he knew.