{"title":"To My Mother: Winter Circus","authors":"L. Swanson","doi":"10.1353/rcr.2011.0052","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/rcr.2011.0052","url":null,"abstract":"","PeriodicalId":158814,"journal":{"name":"Red Cedar Review","volume":"21 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2011-08-06","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"123636009","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
M wife was too swollen. Her pregnant belly threatened to expand into the next county, and her ankles were inflated beyond recognition. So, needless to say, when I asked if she’d like to fly across the country to visit my ailing grandfather, she respectfully declined. “Matt, darling, they’d charge me for two seats. I can see it now: ‘In the event of a water landing, please use the giant pregnant woman as a floatation device.’” Jodi said she loved me but she wasn’t going anywhere. Th e neighbors agreed to feed her and take care of her while I was gone, as if she were a pet. I was grateful that they helped out, though, because I hadn’t been thinking too clearly since I’d heard that a major heart attack had hospitalized my grandfather. Th roughout my childhood, Grandpa Chuck looked after me when things were too hectic for my parents. Typically, life was too hectic whenever my parents were home at the same time, and so I saw a lot of Grandpa Chuck. By the time I was ten, the sound of my dad grinding his teeth had become my cue to go to Grandpa Chuck’s house. Grandpa Chuck lived only a few blocks away from us, so the two of us were pretty close. Grandpa Chuck’s was a fun place, full of scary, dusty rooms to explore, and Grandpa Chuck was a fun guy, always ready to play or tell me a story. He instinctively knew when I wanted more candy, and even through college, I’d never seen his candy dish empty. On the plane, I chuckled at the image of him pulling a candy dish out from behind his heart monitor at the hospital. “Well, looky here, Matty. I bought too many caramels, and I need somebody to eat them right away. Can you help me out?” Th e thought of a heart monitor scared me. Grandpa Chuck was always a hale and hearty old man, and I didn’t know how I’d react when I saw him
{"title":"The Girl My Grandfather Never Met","authors":"G. Wright","doi":"10.1353/rcr.2011.0054","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/rcr.2011.0054","url":null,"abstract":"M wife was too swollen. Her pregnant belly threatened to expand into the next county, and her ankles were inflated beyond recognition. So, needless to say, when I asked if she’d like to fly across the country to visit my ailing grandfather, she respectfully declined. “Matt, darling, they’d charge me for two seats. I can see it now: ‘In the event of a water landing, please use the giant pregnant woman as a floatation device.’” Jodi said she loved me but she wasn’t going anywhere. Th e neighbors agreed to feed her and take care of her while I was gone, as if she were a pet. I was grateful that they helped out, though, because I hadn’t been thinking too clearly since I’d heard that a major heart attack had hospitalized my grandfather. Th roughout my childhood, Grandpa Chuck looked after me when things were too hectic for my parents. Typically, life was too hectic whenever my parents were home at the same time, and so I saw a lot of Grandpa Chuck. By the time I was ten, the sound of my dad grinding his teeth had become my cue to go to Grandpa Chuck’s house. Grandpa Chuck lived only a few blocks away from us, so the two of us were pretty close. Grandpa Chuck’s was a fun place, full of scary, dusty rooms to explore, and Grandpa Chuck was a fun guy, always ready to play or tell me a story. He instinctively knew when I wanted more candy, and even through college, I’d never seen his candy dish empty. On the plane, I chuckled at the image of him pulling a candy dish out from behind his heart monitor at the hospital. “Well, looky here, Matty. I bought too many caramels, and I need somebody to eat them right away. Can you help me out?” Th e thought of a heart monitor scared me. Grandpa Chuck was always a hale and hearty old man, and I didn’t know how I’d react when I saw him","PeriodicalId":158814,"journal":{"name":"Red Cedar Review","volume":"25 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2011-08-06","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"127907349","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
P the most interesting bureau drawer in Ben’s mother’s room was her unmentionables drawer. Most of the items looked fragile, the same shade of pink, coral and dusty rose, stacked in three rows like silk scarves. Further, once the compartment was drawn open, a sweet aroma wafted out of a calico sachet bag. Petticoats, half slips, camisoles, panties, and, at the very bottom, the ballast—a chunky girdle festooned with bone stays, wire fasteners and elastic straps with catches that kept her nylon sheers from drooping like loose skin on her legs. “It doesn’t belong here,” thought Ben. He recalled an aged catfish he’d once pulled out of a pond with wire leaders and hooks decorating its mouth. Ben had looked forward to this day. She’d promised the two of them were going on a special trip. He sat all dressed on the side of the fully made bed. His father had left early to hurry onto the golf course. “Where are we going, Ma?” “To a Queen Esther social.” Queen Esther was the name of her Sunday Bible class. All women, most of whom Ben thought looked like boarded-up Victorian houses. His mother was the youngest and prettiest in the group. He watched her draw cocoa stockings up her legs, careful so as not to cause them to run, then roll their ends in cloth covered rubber bands high on her thighs. “Are the seams straight, Ben?” she asked. Lifting up the half slip. “Yes,” he said. She never asked his father. “Ben, go get the clear nail polish.”
{"title":"Queen Esther","authors":"Dennis Must","doi":"10.1353/rcr.2011.0029","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/rcr.2011.0029","url":null,"abstract":"P the most interesting bureau drawer in Ben’s mother’s room was her unmentionables drawer. Most of the items looked fragile, the same shade of pink, coral and dusty rose, stacked in three rows like silk scarves. Further, once the compartment was drawn open, a sweet aroma wafted out of a calico sachet bag. Petticoats, half slips, camisoles, panties, and, at the very bottom, the ballast—a chunky girdle festooned with bone stays, wire fasteners and elastic straps with catches that kept her nylon sheers from drooping like loose skin on her legs. “It doesn’t belong here,” thought Ben. He recalled an aged catfish he’d once pulled out of a pond with wire leaders and hooks decorating its mouth. Ben had looked forward to this day. She’d promised the two of them were going on a special trip. He sat all dressed on the side of the fully made bed. His father had left early to hurry onto the golf course. “Where are we going, Ma?” “To a Queen Esther social.” Queen Esther was the name of her Sunday Bible class. All women, most of whom Ben thought looked like boarded-up Victorian houses. His mother was the youngest and prettiest in the group. He watched her draw cocoa stockings up her legs, careful so as not to cause them to run, then roll their ends in cloth covered rubber bands high on her thighs. “Are the seams straight, Ben?” she asked. Lifting up the half slip. “Yes,” he said. She never asked his father. “Ben, go get the clear nail polish.”","PeriodicalId":158814,"journal":{"name":"Red Cedar Review","volume":"304 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2011-08-06","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"126939711","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
{"title":"Seven Views of a Circle","authors":"Barbara Van Noord","doi":"10.1353/rcr.2013.0001","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/rcr.2013.0001","url":null,"abstract":"","PeriodicalId":158814,"journal":{"name":"Red Cedar Review","volume":"47 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2010-10-13","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"127196210","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
The winter dusk was fading, and I could see snow falling in the halos of the courtyard lamps through the sliding glass door as I walked into the apartment. I set my suitcase down, and sat on die couch in the dark, looking at outlines of posters on the opposite wall. I was tired. It was the Friday before classes started again and I had just gotten back from a two-day trip with my modier to Evanston to see her sister. It had been a five-hour drive home. The light on die answering machine was blinking. Brian had left a message. Alexis, sorry Ididn't call sooner. Your dad saidyou were out oftown 'til today. I'll try and call hter. Brian was a friend of mine from high school. He was tall, with a soft, warm handshake and liquid movements that washed over his body eroding the sharpness of his masculinity. He had shy hands, hands practiced in prayer, never reaching out to make casual contact with the skin on my arms, or touch my back, or grab my shoulders to give awkward aggressive massages. Though sometimes, in the past, I had wished they would have. He went to Pinedale Bible College in Indiana, and he usually called to ask me to breakfast when he came home. It was a tradition we had started our senior year in high school when he was die president and I was the vice president of the honors society. We met for breakfast every other Saturday dien. A middle-aged man, a member of Brian's church, owned the restaurant we went to, and most of the patrons were elderly couples. He always knew dieir names, and would ask them about their weeks. I would stand next to him smiling. When we went to our table Brian would always help me take offmy coat, and pull out the chair, and I felt like we were one of those old couples in the restaurant. It felt nice. Normally, on Christmas break, he called inbetween Christmas day and NewYear's Day; I felt slightly disappointed when I left with my mom on the second for Evanston. But diere was die message on the machine. It surprised me how good I felt when I heard his voice. I pushed the button again. Alexis, sorry I didn't call sooner. Your dad saidyou were out oftown 'til today. I'll try and call hter.
{"title":"Coveting","authors":"Scott Larner","doi":"10.1353/rcr.2013.0030","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/rcr.2013.0030","url":null,"abstract":"The winter dusk was fading, and I could see snow falling in the halos of the courtyard lamps through the sliding glass door as I walked into the apartment. I set my suitcase down, and sat on die couch in the dark, looking at outlines of posters on the opposite wall. I was tired. It was the Friday before classes started again and I had just gotten back from a two-day trip with my modier to Evanston to see her sister. It had been a five-hour drive home. The light on die answering machine was blinking. Brian had left a message. Alexis, sorry Ididn't call sooner. Your dad saidyou were out oftown 'til today. I'll try and call hter. Brian was a friend of mine from high school. He was tall, with a soft, warm handshake and liquid movements that washed over his body eroding the sharpness of his masculinity. He had shy hands, hands practiced in prayer, never reaching out to make casual contact with the skin on my arms, or touch my back, or grab my shoulders to give awkward aggressive massages. Though sometimes, in the past, I had wished they would have. He went to Pinedale Bible College in Indiana, and he usually called to ask me to breakfast when he came home. It was a tradition we had started our senior year in high school when he was die president and I was the vice president of the honors society. We met for breakfast every other Saturday dien. A middle-aged man, a member of Brian's church, owned the restaurant we went to, and most of the patrons were elderly couples. He always knew dieir names, and would ask them about their weeks. I would stand next to him smiling. When we went to our table Brian would always help me take offmy coat, and pull out the chair, and I felt like we were one of those old couples in the restaurant. It felt nice. Normally, on Christmas break, he called inbetween Christmas day and NewYear's Day; I felt slightly disappointed when I left with my mom on the second for Evanston. But diere was die message on the machine. It surprised me how good I felt when I heard his voice. I pushed the button again. Alexis, sorry I didn't call sooner. Your dad saidyou were out oftown 'til today. I'll try and call hter.","PeriodicalId":158814,"journal":{"name":"Red Cedar Review","volume":"39 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2010-10-13","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"131306960","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Rush around the house as soon as she arrives to elicit the image of being constantly in motion. Tidy things up, put the dishes in the washer. Wipe the kitchen counter. Chatter on about the same things: what rime he got up, what his mood is like. Discuss his bowels. Dig enthusiastically through your purse to make sure you "have everything." You are an epicenter. She, on the other hand, is a fuck-all English graduate with purple streaks in her hair who leaves Chekov and Joyce novels laying around; this is her leisurely reading. She is the type to tell everyone the truth and here you are in your power suit, coffee in one hand, fancy leather briefcase in the other, kissing your kid goodbye, and putting on your business smile. You are terrified of her.
{"title":"Vicarious Motherhood","authors":"Amy Sumerton","doi":"10.1353/rcr.2013.0039","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/rcr.2013.0039","url":null,"abstract":"Rush around the house as soon as she arrives to elicit the image of being constantly in motion. Tidy things up, put the dishes in the washer. Wipe the kitchen counter. Chatter on about the same things: what rime he got up, what his mood is like. Discuss his bowels. Dig enthusiastically through your purse to make sure you \"have everything.\" You are an epicenter. She, on the other hand, is a fuck-all English graduate with purple streaks in her hair who leaves Chekov and Joyce novels laying around; this is her leisurely reading. She is the type to tell everyone the truth and here you are in your power suit, coffee in one hand, fancy leather briefcase in the other, kissing your kid goodbye, and putting on your business smile. You are terrified of her.","PeriodicalId":158814,"journal":{"name":"Red Cedar Review","volume":"452 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2010-10-13","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"125783450","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
{"title":"A History of Letters: An Introduction to the Issue","authors":"Meg Sparling","doi":"10.1353/rcr.2013.0011","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/rcr.2013.0011","url":null,"abstract":"","PeriodicalId":158814,"journal":{"name":"Red Cedar Review","volume":"38 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2010-10-13","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"129696314","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Igot me the only rose on the family tree," Mitch liked to say. When they were first married, Dolores took it as a compliment, and she'd color a bit, looking rosier than ever. But after a while, she caught on that Mitch was boasting about himself, not her. And, more than anything, was being mean about her sisters. "The thorns," he called them to her face, as if they weren't just as good as he was. When the children came along, Mitch found a new twist on the joke. "Get ready, kids. Uncle Al and Thorn Selma are coming over—whatever you do, don't let her hug you!" Or—with a shake of the head—"Your Thorny Margaret, ain't she the sharp one!" Now that he'd got hold of it, he couldn't let it go. So if one of his daughters answered back or made a face, he'd say, "Uh oh, looks like we got a little sticker pushing out here!" And if the girl began to cry and carry on—"I'm not, I'm not!"—Mitch would laugh and say, "Where's my scissors?" "Papa's just teasing," Dolores told them, angry at him for getting them worked up, and angry at them for taking it to heart. When it came to hurt feelings, her oldest was the worst, Miss Sensitive of America. "Barbara the barbarian," Mitch would mock her, his way to make her mind. "How could you stick me with that ugly moniker?" she whined, blaming her mother. Other mothers thought about what they were doing, and named their girls something pretty, like Rita or Marilyn or Amy. Which just happened to be the names of the sisters in the yellow bungalow who wore matching Polly Flinders smocks to school, and Danskin tights, and black bands holding back their hair. Were they ever the lucky ones. Finally, Barbara made everyone she could (not her father or her teachers) call her Babs. "Oh, great," Mitch said, "the only Babs I ever heard ofwas a stripper." Next in line was Theresa. "Saint Theresa, holy-moly, cut that out!" Mitch would yell though really she was the most obedient of the lot. "We could call you Terry," was Babs' suggestion. But Theresa said no, that could be a boy's name, like Terry Donlan, the dumb kid who sat in the back row and picked his nose when Miss Yeager wasn't looking. She guessed she was just stuck like
{"title":"Any Other Name","authors":"Evelyn Shakir","doi":"10.1353/RCR.2013.0036","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/RCR.2013.0036","url":null,"abstract":"Igot me the only rose on the family tree,\" Mitch liked to say. When they were first married, Dolores took it as a compliment, and she'd color a bit, looking rosier than ever. But after a while, she caught on that Mitch was boasting about himself, not her. And, more than anything, was being mean about her sisters. \"The thorns,\" he called them to her face, as if they weren't just as good as he was. When the children came along, Mitch found a new twist on the joke. \"Get ready, kids. Uncle Al and Thorn Selma are coming over—whatever you do, don't let her hug you!\" Or—with a shake of the head—\"Your Thorny Margaret, ain't she the sharp one!\" Now that he'd got hold of it, he couldn't let it go. So if one of his daughters answered back or made a face, he'd say, \"Uh oh, looks like we got a little sticker pushing out here!\" And if the girl began to cry and carry on—\"I'm not, I'm not!\"—Mitch would laugh and say, \"Where's my scissors?\" \"Papa's just teasing,\" Dolores told them, angry at him for getting them worked up, and angry at them for taking it to heart. When it came to hurt feelings, her oldest was the worst, Miss Sensitive of America. \"Barbara the barbarian,\" Mitch would mock her, his way to make her mind. \"How could you stick me with that ugly moniker?\" she whined, blaming her mother. Other mothers thought about what they were doing, and named their girls something pretty, like Rita or Marilyn or Amy. Which just happened to be the names of the sisters in the yellow bungalow who wore matching Polly Flinders smocks to school, and Danskin tights, and black bands holding back their hair. Were they ever the lucky ones. Finally, Barbara made everyone she could (not her father or her teachers) call her Babs. \"Oh, great,\" Mitch said, \"the only Babs I ever heard ofwas a stripper.\" Next in line was Theresa. \"Saint Theresa, holy-moly, cut that out!\" Mitch would yell though really she was the most obedient of the lot. \"We could call you Terry,\" was Babs' suggestion. But Theresa said no, that could be a boy's name, like Terry Donlan, the dumb kid who sat in the back row and picked his nose when Miss Yeager wasn't looking. She guessed she was just stuck like","PeriodicalId":158814,"journal":{"name":"Red Cedar Review","volume":"51 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2010-10-13","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"131588736","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
{"title":"America Discovering Columbus: Lover to the One Who Had Loved","authors":"Mathieu Cavell","doi":"10.1353/RCR.2013.0026","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/RCR.2013.0026","url":null,"abstract":"","PeriodicalId":158814,"journal":{"name":"Red Cedar Review","volume":"21 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2010-10-13","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"126467272","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
{"title":"Every Day It Matters Less That I'm Not Tall","authors":"C. Webb","doi":"10.1353/rcr.2013.0037","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/rcr.2013.0037","url":null,"abstract":"","PeriodicalId":158814,"journal":{"name":"Red Cedar Review","volume":"9 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2010-10-13","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"127883273","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
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