Lone Rock, Oregon -- prose by Ron Smith

The other day my online writing class took inspiration from the first line of Isak Dinesen's Out of Africa: "I had a farm in Africa, at the foot of the Ngong Hills."

My friend Ron Smith wrote this story in response to the prompt. I love the way he skillfully captures the beauty of a place he had to leave behind. What an act of generosity to let us see Lonerock through his eyes.

 

Lonerock, Oregon

I had a cabin in Lonerock, Oregon, one hundred and seventy-five miles east of Portland, from 1999 until 2005, when I sold it to Boyd Harris, the realtor.

Situated in the approximate center of the Columbia River Gorge basin in Eastern Oregon, Lonerock is located twenty-two miles southeast of Condon, Oregon. It is customary to think of Eastern Oregon as mostly flat or rugged wasteland, supporting little vegetation, home only to jack rabbits and people who want to get away from it all.  However, Lonerock nestles in a gentle ravine, with surrounding clusters of low pine and cedar.

The last several miles to Lonerock are traveled on a narrow, descending gravel road, the hamlet seeming toylike and far away, huddled in the ravine in the shimmering distance. Closer, rising from the small group of dwellings and long-empty storefronts, a stiletto steeple rises above a perfectly maintained white New England style church.

As you cross a small bridge over a part-time creek and enter the small town, population twenty-six, the chief attraction of Lonerock and the source of its name appears, a huge lone rock, egglike, half the size of the church it roosts next to, deposited about seventy-five thousand years ago during the last ice age.

It is a mystery why people don't flock to this spectacle, but all the better that they don't. If a log truck isn't passing through or the sheep aren't quarrelling, there is a quiet in Lonerock that was such a revelation to this Portlander.  The stars at night are so clear, numerous and bright that they seem artificial if you are not ready for them.

I had a cabin in Lonerock, Oregon for six years, no rude hut, twin sinks in the bathroom (his and hers), the pride of Madden Street, but the maintenance at that distance became too difficult so I let it go. I've never been back.     

 

About the author: 

Ron Smith has been playing drums and been in bands for as long as he can remember. His attempts at songwriting led to prose. He loves reading fiction, history and biography and specializes in writing short fiction. His favorite book is Thomas Mann's Buddenbrooks. He shares a Woodstock cottage with numerous musical instruments and hundreds of books, vinyl records, and CDs. 

Celery Tanka -- by Deborah Lee

Isn't it wondrous how an artist can say so much with just a few lines?

A tanka is a Japanese poetic form where every word in its short five lines counts. Enjoy this one by Deborah Lee, who proves you can truly write in a meaningful way about anything...even celery.

Celery Tanka

by Deborah Lee

 

I remember a

Class about Waldorf Salad.

The teacher was handsome.

I think of mom when I cut 

Celery; she loved the heart.

About the author: Deborah is a writer, musician, and a longtime resident of Portland, Oregon. 

An Award-Winning Anthology!

Congratulations to d. ellis phelps and her Moon Shadow Sanctuary Press, which won two prizes for its anthology purifying wind.

The book earned first place in the editorial category and at the state level in the National Federation of Press Women's contest.

I'm so honored that my lyric essay "No Place Like It" is a part of this collection!

You can click here to order a copy of the book.

A New Anthology from the Oregon Poetry Association!

Thank you to Dale Champlin and the Oregon Poetry Association for including my poem "Pandemic Mary" in their new anthology, /pān/dé/mïk/ 2020.

The book includes poems by some of my favorite local writers, including Dale Champlin, Suzy Harris, Sherri Levine, Carolyn Martin, Collette Tennant, Emmett Wheatfall and many others! 

I'm especially thrilled that the amazing Susan Donnelly has two poems in this collection. We met in one of my classes about three years ago, and I continue to be in awe of her image-rich writing. Congratulations to all the poets...not only on their publication, but for continuing to grapple with this crisis through their writing. 

You can click here to purchase a copy of the book.

The Sketch -- Poem and Drawing by Linda Ann Fraser

 What a joy to share this delicately probing poem and drawing by my dear friend Linda Ann Fraser.

The Sketch

 

Who is this person

who collects books and

loves black cats?

Where do I find her?

Is it in her white hair,

the glasses she wears?

Just where does this woman

reside?

It takes all these pieces

and more to make her

complete.

How should she be labeled?

She can’t be.

She is still becoming, pieces

are still missing like blank

holes in a jigsaw puzzle.

Some pieces will never

be found.

She doesn’t need them

to be whole. 

She is becoming

something else, something magic.

About the author:

Linda Ann Wilson’s interest in poetry and writing began as a senior in Ellensburg, Washington. Early marriage and raising three girls took a toll on writing but creativity thrived as she sewed for her daughters. After the girls grew up, sewing merged into cloth art dolls and drawing. She thought the dolls needed stories. When grandchildren wanted family stories, she found Linda Ferguson’s writing class. This class has encouraged Linda Ann to keep writing and during the COVID shut down, writing has kept her sane.

Song for Some Women

Thanks so much to Mia Savant for sharing my poem "Song for Some Women" on her Online Open Mic today! You can read the poem here.

You: A Poetry/Prose Hybrid by Liz Samuels

Although we haven't met in person for a year, my amazing students still inspire, delight and astonish each other each week by exploring their creative depths online.

Thank you to Liz Samuels for sharing this piece that pulses with all the scents and sounds and sights of life.

You

by Liz Samuels

A week later, but with the remnants of Valentine love lingering in the Willamette Valley, mist blankets fields of grass, sunbeams emerge, tiny droplets sparkle turquoise, lavender and chartreuse, and I get to spend this day with you.

 

I don perfect attire for mid February,

deep pocketed jeans and

Pendleton plaid shirt, sheepskin vest and

waders with soles meant for clinging to mud.

I can't take my eyes off your rounded belly as I twist the lid off a cumbersome thermos of steel, pour a stream of hot coffee from its tower, into it,

then take one quick gulp of that steaming brew.

As the air fills with the richness of fresh roasted beans,

I rub dry, eyes. Purple vessels protrude beneath them after a sleepless night.

The barn is cold but bearable and I only shiver a little.

Dim light gives way to sun beginning to show its face. A rooster crows.

 

The first time you gave birth

you feared you might drown in that swollen river,

didn't know what to make of it.

Make that both of us.

Now we float on its waves

though ready for that unexpected curve.

 

You

have given us babies

most of your life,

only lost a few,

one, a tiny triplet too weak to live

though his two siblings wobbled, then grew.

As I watch you, I am hopeful

the straw beneath you feels soft

and my

words soothe.

 

The cock crows an encore, past the break of dawn,

and at that moment

I see the hoof of a lamb, blood and goo

ooze out of your bright pink opening.

It's a black one, the opposite color of you.

You, oblivious some humans

have given black sheep an unwarranted rap,

you push it all the way out. Then comes another, this one the light of day marbled with midnight splotch

 

That seems to be the extent of it.

 

Your two little lambs coated in licorice down snuggle against your white chocolate wool,

nuzzle their way to the sweet smell of colostrum,

latch on to the pointed teats of your engorged sacs and the suckling begins.

You are an old hand at this.

 

Now rain drenches the grass. So does the sun.

How many more years will I be right here

to relish this time by your side

and you, ewe, bring your little lambs

into the warm arms of winter ending?

A rainbow arches across gray tinted blue, to me a sign these births will not be our last, that you will continue to provide cheese, milk, wool and lamb. On this day I give you my promise that I will do my best not to gouge you with clippers when I shear you, that your blood will not spill, on my watch, that I'll try not to mind when you almost knock me over when you rub up against me with the weight of your body, eager for that bucket of fodder. Today I promise to think of you every day as divine, for to me on this day there is only one ewe.

About the author: 

In the summer of 1983, Liz lived on a small farm halfway between Mt. Hood and Portland where she and her husband took care of besides small animals, two forceful and friendly sheep that would often almost knock her over. The first of three children was born the following spring. Thirty-seven years later, they spend their empty nest years living on a floating home on the Columbia in Portland where they're responsible for watching other people's sailboats. Liz began writing for fun in the last few years. Her other passions are singing anything and African dancing.