writing bear  2010
Writing Contest


2010 Writing Contest Winners

(For 2011 winners click here.)

In poetry the winners were:
Carol Drummond, 1st place; Mary Beth Lundgren, 2nd place; and Larry Stiles, 3rd place. 

In fiction the winners were:
Dayna Harpster, 1st place; Anita DeWeese, 2nd place; and Larry Stiles, 3rd place.

In nonfiction the winners were:
Jan Nieman, 1st place; David Hauenstein, 2nd place; and Lewis Knickerbocker, 3rd place.

Second Place Poetry

COLD SNAP

by Mary Beth Lundgren

I named my cat Flame since Florida’s hot,
has fires that run wild—as if they have feet—
and sunsets with skies turning red, purple, pink,
and gold like Flame’s fur. He loves heat.

So most days we're hot, but not
today when Flame is ice in my lap.
But the sun is warm through the window. He yawns
and stretches, curls up for a nap.

My sister Marie loves bikes and her cat,
Bob, who loves her but hates frozen toes,
so they’re back. Burrowed deep into quilts,
she sighs, he purrs, and they doze.

I ran with my kite all that day at the beach.
As wind tugged the string, the kite swooped
and dipped, backward-flipped, flew high over waves.
Home now. Flame near. Eyelids droop….

 

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Second Place Fiction

Faye and Mr. Fusser

By Nita DeWeese

         Today was the worst day of Faye Haverfield’s life.  If she had to work with that man on that stupid computer one more day . . .
         That was exactly what she told Millie, her closest friend at the Village.  They shared the day’s events over coffee.
         “You don’t think you’ll like the job?” Millie asked as she placed a plate of coconut cookies in front of them. 
         “Only two things wrong with it.  The boss and the computer.”  Faye had put on a few pounds the last five years but that didn’t stop her from reaching for a cookie.  “If  I’d ever thought I had to go back to work . . .” A loose strand of her wavy, silver bangs drooped over her left eye.  She took a big breath and sticking out her bottom lip, blew it out of the way.
         “You haven’t got the hang of it, yet?  The computer, I mean?”
         “No, I keep forgetting to wiggle the clicker twice and I lose the files.”
         “Lose them where?”
         “Hell if I know.  They’re just gone!”
         Faye, widowed for nine years, sold her Florida condo that was too big and too much work for one person and used the proceeds to buy into a nearby plush retirement community that boasted security, medical emergency buttons in each apartment, a full service dining room and housekeeping.  And, plenty of other widows for company.
         Everything went along nicely; she walked every morning, although not as briskly as she used to, and swam every afternoon, but not too many laps.  Activities abounded, off-site trips kept her involved in the community and, of course, she had Millie.
         Three years Faye’s senior at seventy, Millie still had a girlish giggle, and a reasonable figure.  But then, she was five-foot-nine.  Faye knew if she were three inches taller, she, too would have a reasonable figure.  Of course the nightly sugar-fest didn’t help. 
          “So, what’s wrong with the boss?”  Millie helped herself to her third cookie and freshened their coffees.
          “He’s rude, shouts orders at me, has no patience and absolutely no sense of humor,” Faye said, using all her willpower to refuse a second sweet.  “My late husband, Spencer?  Now there was a man with a sense of humor.”
         “So quit.”
         “After only two days?  I ran my own company for sixteen years!  I’m not stupid.  I just don’t know computers.”  Faye blew her pesky bangs away from her eye again.  “Besides, I can’t quit.  At least not until the market recovers.  I should’ve never let that financial planner guy talk me into buying stocks.”
         Millie sighed.  “They’ll go up again.  They always do.” 
         The two women sat in silence for several minutes.  Finally, Millie said, “My Ralph put quite a bit of our money into annuities.  They won’t keep up with inflation, but at least I know how much to depend on each month.”
         Faye groaned and stood.  “Some retirement.”

         Faye made up her mind she’d tame that blasted computer.  And she did.  Her index finger got the hang of the double click.  Files stopped disappearing and she discovered a marvelous little command called Save.   Every time she had to click on the little X to change programs, a message popped up and said “Save changes to–?” whatever she’d named the file.  Handy little command.  She had no trouble retrieving the file, intact, once it had been saved.
         Next order of business, her boss.
         “How’d it go today?”  Millie asked when Faye had settled herself for their nightly coffee and cookie ritual.
         “Computer-wise, fine.”  Faye reached for her one self-allotted treat, chocolate chip with walnuts, her most favorite.  “Boss still needs work, though.”
         “What’d he do now?”
         Faye closed her eyes, and mentally recreated her third day as bookkeeper/receptionist for the firm of All Media Advertising, Inc.   She had gotten grid-locked in traffic and arrived exactly six and a half minutes late.
         “Are you aware of the time, Ms. Haverfield?”  Kurt Fusser, eyebrows drawn together, lips pressed into a thin line, arms folded across his chest, stood by Faye’s desk. 
         Faye sighed.  “Yes, Mr. Fusser.  It’s 9:06.”
         “And what time do we open?”
         “Nine o’clock.”
         “I thought I made it clear that promptness was essential?”  Fusser’s ebony eyes never blinked. 
         “I’m sorry, traffic’s constipated this morning.”
         Faye towered over Fusser by at least three inches, even in her sensible shoes.  Why, she thought, are short men always strutting their importance?  Acting like they’re head of the Third Reich?  And, what’s the big deal?  Wait ‘til you’re sixty-seven, Buster.  You’ll slow down, too.
         “So leave home earlier.”
          Faye hated Fusser’s voice.  Born in New York, the remnants of a slight nasal twang remained and it irritated her, especially when he raised it loud enough for anyone within fifty feet to hear it.  She felt her cheeks flush.  A portion her bangs slipped over one eye and, forgetting her manners, she stuck out her bottom lip and aimed a puff of breath skyward to remove the hair.
         “Excuse me?” Fusser said.
         Oh good grief, she thought.  “I’m sorry.  It’s my bangs.  They keep slipping.”
         “Perhaps you’ve never heard of hair spray?”
         “Mr. Fusser, is there something wrong with my work?” Faye asked.  What she wanted to say was lighten up!
         “No, Ms. Haverfield.  Your work is satisfactory.  But tardiness and slovenly looks reflect on me and I won’t have it.”  Fusser turned and, arms swinging, power-walked to his office.
         As she turned on her computer and retrieved the Accounts Payable file she’d saved  yesterday, Faye said, very softly, “You rude, egotistical bastard!”
         Millie, who had listened attentively to Faye’s tale of the day’s events, shook her head.
         “Slovenly!  What a cruel thing to say.  And in front of other employees.  I would have walked out.”  She bit into her fourth cookie, a record for even Millie.
         “Oh, I’ll walk,” Faye said.  “Just as soon as my dividends pick up.  But I’ll teach him a few people skills before I leave.”

         On day four, a strange thing happened at All Media Advertising, Inc.  Faye, at work on time, wavy hair neatly in place, finished printing an ageing report for Mr. Fusser.  She clicked the little X and the ‘Save changes to–?’ message appeared.  She clicked on the Yes prompt and the file disappeared from the screen.  She decided to take a break from her accounting work and learn a bit more about the computer.
         Opening a blank document, Faye typed in the word ‘pencil.’  Then she clicked on the font arrow.  Again, she typed the word ‘pencil.’  The font, TypoUpright BT, displayed the word in a pretty, curlicued cursive form.  pencil.  Next she tried Allegro BT.  Pencil.  Interesting. She spent ten minutes fooling with different fonts, and different sizes of fonts, always using the word ‘pencil’ to view her handiwork.  Before Mr. Fusser could accuse her of theft of service on company time or some such nonsense, Faye used the command ‘Save As. . .’, named the file Pencil, and clicked on the X.  The little box announcing ‘Save changes to–?’ emerged and she clicked Yes at the prompt.
         The ageing report in hand, Faye carried it into Fusser’s office and placed it on his desk.  He looked up, his black eyebrows raised high enough to produce a long wrinkle across his forehead.
         “It’s customary to knock before entering my office, Ms. Haverfield.”
         “Excuse me.  Your door was open and I assumed–
         “Assumed?  Did you ever hear the definition of assume?  It makes an ass of you and me.  We don’t assume anything here, Ms. Haverfield.”
         Faye didn’t know whether to salute or bow, decided she’d be fired for either, opted for saying “Yessir” and returned to her work station.  But in her head she fairly shouted, You miserable little jerk.
         At her desk, Faye reached for her pencil to make a note to remind herself to call her doctor at her break.  She needed a prescription refill for her sleeping pills.  This job and particularly Fusser had robbed her of a decent night’s rest.  The pencil had vanished.  Not in her drawer, not under her desk, gone.  Sighing audibly, Faye turned to the computer and retrieved the Pencil file she’d been working on. 
         When the phone rang, Faye grabbed the pink ‘While You Were Out’ pad to take the message and there, in plain sight in the middle of her desk, lay her pencil.  Maybe she was losing it, was too old to be working, should tighten her financial belt and weather out her retirement.  The stock market would rally again, hadn’t Millie said so?
         Faye saved the Pencil file and retrieved the Accounts Payable file.  Perhaps paying some of the company’s invoices would take her mind off of her personal problems.
         Fusser appeared at her desk.
         “Ms. Haverfield, please make a note.  I want to be notified at exactly 9:55.  I have an important call to make at 10:00.”
         When Faye reached for her pencil to oblige, it was gone.  Frantically, her eyes swept over the desk. 
         Fusser crossed his arms over his chest.  “Well?  Will you make the note?  I haven’t got all day.” 
         “Sorry, I seem to have misplaced my pencil.” 
         “Ms. Haverfield.  Sloppiness is no way to do a job properly.”  The twang in Fusser’s speech increased with the volume of his voice.
           Faye pulled out her bottom drawer, reached into her purse and found a pen.  She made the requested note with a hand that shook.  She couldn’t remember being yelled at so many times in her life, let alone in a week.  Yesterday slovenly. Today sloppy.  Better quit before Fusser dismissed her.
         The company checks written, the phone quiet, Faye once again retrieved her Pencil file.  She decided to pick an eye-catching font and design a professional letterhead for herself.  To use in finding another job.
         The missing pencil appeared again.  Right where she’d left it.  What’s going on here? she thought.  Tricks?  Hallucinations?  What? 
         All during lunch hour, Faye pondered the disappearing pencil.  Why couldn’t she see it?  If it truly vanished, where did it go?  What made it go?  Determined to solve the puzzle, she decided to retrace her morning activities.
         The discovery brought goose bumps to her arms and made the hair at the nape of her neck stand at attention.  Every time Faye saved her Pencil file, the pencil left her desk.  When she retrieved the file, it appeared again.  The ramifications were scary.  And marvelous.  In order to test the phenomenon, she typed a solid page of the word ‘pen.’  Then, ‘calendar.’  Even ‘stapler.’
         Each time the file was named and saved, the item went missing.  Retrieve the file and she retrieved the item.
         Shortly before five o’clock, Faye prepared a page with the words ‘Kurt Fusser’ repeated over and over its entire width and length.  At the stroke of five, she named the file and clicked on the X.  With a secret smile of satisfaction, she clicked Yes to the “Save changes to–?” prompt.
         As Faye left the building for the day, she noticed Mr. Fusser was not in his office. 

         The nightly cup of coffee and plate of cookies assembled in front of her in Millie’s kitchen, Faye related that she was beginning to like her job.
         “No kidding,” Millie said.  “That’s great.  You get that nasty boss of yours straightened out okay?”
         “I believe I have,” Faye said, reaching for a celebratory second peanut butter cookie. On the drive home from the office she had remembered another computer command. One that she planned to use first thing in the morning.  Delete.

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First Place Non Fiction

What’s In a Perfect, Unremarkable Summer Day?
By Jan Nieman

                                      

The boxes labeled “KEEPERS” were filling up faster than those marked “GOODWILL.” All in all, organizing attic jumble was satisfying, a noble effort with noticeable results. On this occasion, it produced a curious item requiring deeper scrutiny.

“Well, well, well,” I murmured as, photo in hand, I scooted to a comfy rolled-up carpet and plunked my back-side down. I squinted through the dust motes at the yellowed picture. There we were – posing in front of the Packard – me, a skinny seven-year-old, squeezed between six-foot-two Grandpa and plump four-foot-eleven Grandma.

The snapshot was taken that unsettling summer of 1946 when Mom worked at the former Nash plant (retooled for Jeep production) and Dad, still fuming he hadn’t been discharged, was based at Guantanamo. I, an only child, was shuttled from relative to relative until school began. My favorite landing spot was at Grandma and Grandpa’s.

That photographed day had been typical for a Milwaukee August – hot and muggy. But it didn’t stop Grandma from her daily baking. She and I “worked” together rolling out dough to form flaky butter horns and after they popped out of the oven, drizzling sweet frosting over them – bowl licking allowed. Later, we listened to Helen Trent, One Man’s Family, and The Guiding Ligh,t and I, under Grandma’s direction, chopped spinach and onions in a wooden bowl (“Don’t forget to add a pinch of nutmeg, Pumpkin”) until the mixture was creamy and glistening.

Just before supper Grandma said, “I’m going to show you how to make iced tea. It’s going to be your job to have it ready every afternoon.”

Ooh, the trust in me to boil the water, steep the loose tea, strain, add more water, sugar, lemons, and when ready to serve, pour over ice.

Kitchen routine with Grandma was fun and reassuring, but the real excitement was skipping to the bus stop to greet Grandpa at the end of his workday. As soon as he stepped off the bus, he spotted me. His eyes crinkled and his mouth worked its way into a lop-sided grin. My matching off-centered smile, caused by several missing teeth, widened as he handed me his black shiny lunch box to carry home – more responsibility.  

“What did you do today, Pumpkin? What’s for supper?”

“I played with my dolls and we’re having creamed spinach.”

Grandpa patted me on the head. “Did you help make it?”

“Uh-huh, I chopped it, and Grandpa, I fixed the iced tea for tonight, too.”

After supper he folded his hands behind his head, and balancing on his chair’s two back legs teased, “Grandma, this is the best spinach I’ve ever eaten,” as though he’d forgotten I helped, “and the iced tea – I don’t have words for it.”

I protested, “Grandpa! I made it!”

The evening was still humid and sticky and Grandpa suggested, “How about we take a country ride?”

Their neighbor, experimenting with her new Brownie camera, snapped the three of us next to the Packard coupe. We hopped in and settled into our customary seats. My place was smack in the middle of the bench seat with my knees straddling the gear shift. Grandpa backed the Packard down the driveway, Grandma crooked her elbow out the window, and we left Milwaukee behind.

Out first stop was Zehnder’s Grocery where Grandma transformed herself from housewife to detective and, giddy with pleasure, scanned the shelves for previously rationed, but slowly appearing, German specialty foods. While she uncovered new items, Grandpa and I snuck over to the candy aisle.

He whispered, “What do you think, Pumpkin, how about some of those big jaw-breakers or a pack of candy cigarettes?”

“Not tonight, Grandpa. I think I’d like those syrup filled little wax bottles and maybe some Wrigley’s Spearmint Gum.”

We debated the merits of each sugary item, but both understood the winner would be the longer-lasting twisted peppermint sticks.

Grandma waggled her eyebrows as we, treats secreted behind our backs, sidled to the cash register. She huffed, “What did you two get? Candy?”

“Nah,” Grandpa said, “just looking,” and as Grandma transferred her purchases to the car, he winked, and paid for our contraband.    

We resumed our evening adventure as the sun dipped behind the pine trees and a cooling breeze puffed through the open car windows. Grandpa turned off the main highway and maneuvered the Packard around the pot-holes in the dirt lane. The “L” shaped weather-beaten farmhouse at its end, enveloped by gnarled apple trees gone wild, could have been spooky, but not for me. This was a stop of comfort and my mouth already watered with anticipated treats. I giggled at Shep, part hound, part collie, racing alongside our car.

While Grandma and Mrs. Lemke caught up on family news, Mr. Lemke revved up his green and yellow John Deere. Grandpa hoisted me onto the flat hay wagon and legs dangling off the rear, we sucked on our smuggled candy. Mr. Lemke drove past the new apple orchard and steered the tractor to the cornfield’s far corner. He and Grandpa debated as to the ripest ears, picked half-a-dozen cobs of sweet corn, and swaddled them in newspaper. Grandpa and I each nibbled on complimentary ears on our ride back to the farmhouse. Raw sweet corn tasted so good.

Meanwhile, Grandma had selected huge “Rutgers” plump tomatoes, pickles the size of cucumbers, and golden, fuzzy-skinned, free-stone peaches.  She turned to me and said, “Guess what you and I will be doing.”

I nodded, already daydreaming about tomorrow. Shiny canning equipment would emerge from the cupboard, and after peeling, slicing, and stuffing our produce into Mason jars, Grandma, with a steady practiced motion, would lower them into boiling water. My job was to place the cooled red, green, and yellow vegetable-filled jars on basement shelves.

Mrs. Lemke’s warm apple pies fragranced the farm house and Grandpa pointed to one. “Mabel, don’t you think we should get one of those for supper tomorrow?”

The pie was added to the largess and Grandpa, removing his wallet, asked, “How much do I owe you?”

As usual, Mr. Lemke said, “Nothing, Walter. Your money’s no good here.”

What did that mean? As the Packard bounced back to the main road, I asked, “Grandpa, why don’t we pay Mr. Lemke?”

“Pumpkin, we go back a long way.”

That didn’t answer my question. Grown-ups were so mysterious. Was our visit a mutual treat?

Our last, but my least favorite stop, was Mr. Schneider’s butcher shop with its sawdust- covered floor. I wasn’t sure what purpose wood shavings served, but figured it had something to do with cutting up animals. Uneasy, I nibbled at a small slice of summer sausage while Grandma scrutinized the meat case.

Grandpa, envisioning future feasts, hovered over her shoulder. “Mable, don’t forget a few links of Bavarian bratwurst and some blood sausage.”

Did I hear “blood sausage”?  Already jittery, my mouth gaped as I spun around to see what Mr. Schneider was holding. Holy Toledo! The sausage I loved was made from blood?  I was never eating it again!

When the butcher finished wrapping the meat in white butcher paper, Grandma lowered her head, eyes peeking sideways at him, and whispered, “Would you have any extra soup bones?”

Mr. Schneider turned the chrome handle of the huge white cooler door and a mist drifted out. Eyes wide, I spotted skinned pink slabs of meat swaying from hooks. My terror level soared, but mesmerized, I continued peering through my fingers while back-peddling toward the door. Grandma’s flirting might have produced a few free bones, but next time I’d stay in the car and skip the butcher shop.     

A white full moon accompanied us as, sheltered and dozing, I snuggled up to Grandma while Grandpa pointed the Packard home. It was simply a perfect, unremarkable, summer day, but everything an unsettled seven-year-old needed, and I tucked its smells, sights, sounds, and tastes into memory.  

I backhanded the moisture away from my cheeks and returned the snapshot to the “KEEPERS” box. Navigating the rickety attic stairs, I promised myself I’d steep tea leaves for tonight’s iced tea – Grandma’s old-fashioned way. Maybe I’d dig out her wooden chopping bowl and teach seven year old Susan how to make her great-grandma’s creamed spinach.

In fact, after supper would be an ideal time for us to abandon dirty dishes, leave behind computers and cell phones, and pile into the car for a summer ride … must remember to include the camera and capture our own moment in time.

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