Mt. Monadnock update:
Our nearest local peak, 3100 or so feet high, is allegedly the second most climbed mountain in the world, next to Mt. Fuji. Itís an easy, if mostly vertical climb in the summer, a more challenging, exciting climb in the winter. Though these folks have crampons, Iíve never really needed them. Our plan is to leave Acton Sunday morning at about 8 AM , and return before sunset. The forecast is for clouds, wind, and temps in the teens. Climbers: Matt, Daryl, Robby and Hillary Burgin. Oh, one more thing.If you’re worried that my photos will be as boring as those above, don’t be. Robby is bringing his snow board and plans to ride it down.

Diane sat at her computer playing Penguin Batting when I walked in. ( Her best swing produced a score of 573)
ìDo you remember the story I wrote about the girl who was hit by a train?î The title was, Turn the Page, although you liked the alternative, what was it…?î
Diane thought for a moment, ìFootloose?î
ìNo, Dust Jacket, thatís what it was. Remember, I used the real name of the emergency room nurse? That incident happened thirty-two years ago, and I thought I was completely safe, but guess what? Someone got to the blog by using Google to search for that name.î

I bring this up because Iím posting a rewritten version of a story I posted not long ago. Written by a gifted writer I met in my summer class, Rea was told by the teacher, Robert Atwam, that the story needed more tension. Iím not naming it or identifying the writer because, though she gave me permission to post the first edition, Iím not sure she knows how truly unprivate the blog is. Rea sent it to me for my comments, and Iíll be happy to pass on anyone elseís.

When I am nine, we pray all the time because Sister Patricia Anne says somewhere on the other side of the earth ìour boys are dying in the jungles.î I pray and pray, but the war doesnít go away. I am starting to wonder if God hears me.
St. Pius X Church is my familyís new church after we move into our bigger house. Itís shaped like a cross and has an orange wall-to-wall rug that muffles our steps. I donít like this church. It doesnít have a railing or kneeling pads at the altar and thereís no Jesus hanging on the cross hanging high over the altar.

One Saturday night we all go to church. Snow falls under the streetlights, like white whispers.
Kneeling, I hear Sister Patricia Anneís voice in my head.
ìDraw the seasons,î says Sister Patricia Anne. I draw the spring in tulips, yellow and red. The summer in green. The fall in a waxy mat of layered reds, yellows and orange. And here is winter. I draw a gray sky with branches, black and thin. See my winter? I hold my paper up to Sister. See my grove of birch trees? See the snowflakes neatly trimming the top edge of my paper? See?
ìAll the snowflakes are different,î she says.
ìYes Sister,î I say.
ìTheyíre beautiful,î says Sister.
ìThanks Sister.î

Someone drops a missal on the pew; someone else coughs. A mother hushes her children and a young child cries. Tittering, chatting, yipping and yapping. Our whole school is here. All the parents are here too. I genuflect and then scoot as far away from everyone as I can. I think that God can hear me better if I pray away from the other voices. We pray for peace in Vietnam. We are praying for peace in America. Our parish priest, Father Durgin, tells us that if we pray together, God will hear us.
Doesnít he hear us all the time? Sister says he knows what we think. Sister says we donít even need to speak our thoughts. God knows all our thoughts, she says.
I bow my head anyway. I pray with all the other voices in the church shaped like Jesusís cross with the orange rug beneath us.

Lord have mercy.
Christ have mercy.
Lord have mercy.

Sister says there is hope in the seasons. ìEvery season has its own color. Every season has its own shape and time. Every season returns to us.î

I pray as hard as I can because Jimmy Tucker is in Vietnam and even though none of the adults like him because he was always lighting off firecrackers in the mailboxes, I like him. He called me ìSprout.î ìHey Sprout,î heíd say and mess up my hair with his hand that smelled like the sulfur of a newly lit match. ìHey Sprout,î heíd say, like he knew me. Like I was his little sister or something.
I pray as hard as I can because Jimmy Tucker is wearing army boots instead of his sneakers, which dangle on the telephone wire in front of his house. I can see them when I pull up my bedroom shades in the morning. I think, ìItís night where Jimmy is.î I wonder if Vietnam has seasons. I try to picture snowflakes in Vietnam. I try to picture maple leaves. I cannot.

ìHi Sprout,î he says to me. I can hear his voice in the cross- shaped church.
Dear God, bring us peace. Bring Jimmy home. End war and poverty and suffering and sickness. Amen.

Sister says, waiting is a winter thing.
I wait for God to hear me, to hear all these voices.
I look for a sign.
The snow falls sideways. Is the earth spinning faster? Will the seasons happen sooner?

I lift my head and listen to the winter. And I wonder if God hears us in the muffled brightness of St. Pius Church, if Jimmy knows I prayed for him.
And I wonder if Jimmy is scared, all alone, taken from everything he knew and put someplace where he knows nothing at all.

Father Durgin tells us mass has ended. We say, ìThanks be to God.î I canít tell if we are really thanking God or if we are thanking God for ending the mass, which was loud and sad. ìGo in peace,î he says.

Outside, icy snow stings my face. My shoes are wet from stepping in a puddle that lay hidden beneath a new blanket of snow. Car doors slam as people hurry to escape the cold. Shivering, my mother puts her key in our old station wagon door and then lifts the lock on the back door for us kids. My brothers and sisters pile into the way back and the middle seat.
ìHop in the well,î my mother says to me. I like the solitude of this skinny space between the middle seats and the way back seats and so I slip into the well willingly.
ìPig!î my older brother snarls at my sister.
ìJerk,î my sister punches him.
My youngest brother sits in the way back, away from my sister, who is punching my older brother. He breathes on the window, pounds the outside edge of his curled up fist on the steam and dabs five little marks above the fist image. ìFeet,î he says. ìIím makiní lots of feet.î

I slide into the well and slip down so that my knees are bent upward and I am facing the ceiling of the car. I close my eyes and pretend I am not here. Not in this car. I am trying to talk to God. To see if now, finally, the war has ended. It feels quiet in the car well where sounds are muffled, except for the humming of the motor and the slishing of the wheels. I try to picture Jesus looking down at us. I try to picture him seeing through the car and into my face. I try to picture him in our car with us.
ìGod is in everyone,î Sister Patricia Anne says. I wonder. I think of the picture I saw on TV of a soldier. His teeth clenched, his shoulders lifted, his face pulled and crumpled in fear. Another man holds a gun to his head. I see this terrified face and then see the fingers of the man holding the gun. His blank face, cool eyes. I wonder if Sister is right.

Dear Jesus if the war is ended, please send a sign. As soon as I say this to myself, I know that deep down I am not worried about the war. I am worried that praying is not real. I am worried that Sisterís promises are not real. That seasons do not bring new hope. That Jesus isnít really in all of us. I think of the empty cross hanging over the altar. Where have you gone?

My little brother hangs over the seat and bends his face towards mine. ìLook,î he says. ì Come see my feet.î
ìNot now,î I say.
ìCímon,î he says and he drops a soggy mitten on my face.î
ìCut it out,î I say and throw the mitten back at him. ìIím thinking.î
ìíBout what?î
ìNevermind.î
ìNevermind what?î
ìForget it. Lemme see.î I sit up and stare. Tiny feet prints fill the large windows surrounding the way back seats.
ìNice,î I say. ìWaitíll Mom sees ëem. Youíre gonna be cleaning windows all day.î
He hits me with his mitten and slouches in his seat.
ìJust kiddiní,î I say. ìTheyíre nice. For feet anyway.î

I sit up and watch as we pass the houses of friends and neighbors. Old Mr. Oakleyís light is on. He is probably reading in his armchair. Or maybe he is sleeping over his open book, his head drooping and tugging on his neck. Billy Doranís kitchen light is on and I can see one of the kids running from the dining room to the kitchen. We pass the Mastrioniís. Michael Mastrioni died of leukemia and then his father died one month later of a heart attack. ìTen kids,î Mr. Mastrioni used to say proudly when people would ask how many kids he had. And then, when theyíd say, ìTEN?!î heíd say, ìYep. They all count. There are no extra kids, no extra people.î And then he died. Just like that. Died and left nine kids and his wife behind. My mother said he died of a broken heart. ìIf you donít believe a heart can break,î sheíd say, ìthen you donít know the Mastrionis.î

ìNow look,î my little brotherís presses my arm with his round, dimpled fingers. ìSee?î The window is covered in tiny feet running pell-mell.
We pull into our driveway. ìOut. Everyone out. First one in, let the dog out in the yard,î my mother directs.
ìPig,î my sister growls and slugs my older brother.
ìJerk,î my brother flails and shoves my sister so that she falls onto the driveway.
ìThatís enough you two. Right out of church and look at you,î my mother sighs as she lifts my baby sister out of the car and heads into the house.
Dear God if you can hear me, send me a sign. My brothers and sister race ahead of me. I turn to look at the window of feet. I think of my little brotherís pudgy fingers tapping out the toes in the steam and I can hear his voice counting over and over again, ìOne, two, three, four, five. There. Now for the next one.î
ìFeet for everyone,î he calls back to me as he catches me looking at his window.
Feet for everyone. God for everyone. God is in all of us, Sister Patricia Anne says. Dear God, Is this your sign? I can feel my feet, wet and cold in my soggy shoes. I can see the window feet, small baby feet, like my sisterís. Looking up, I can see Jimmyís sneakers dangling on the telephone wire. Once upon a time his mother could hold his feet in the palm of her hand, wrap her hand around his feet, feel the soft new skin.
Dear God. Feet cannot be your sign. Please. Send me a real sign that the war will end, that you are here with us.
I stand too long. Someone rockets a snowball into my face and peals of laughter spill out from behind Mr. Oakleyís hedges.
ìHey! Cut it out!î I say and bend down to collect my own ammunition.
Another snowball splatters against our car. I wind up and launch one into the hedges. I can see two figures, maybe three. ìWho is it?î I ask.
ìUs.î
ìUs who?î
ìUs the Mastrionis, who do ya think?î I recognize Angelaís voice. ìWanna have a war? Us versus you guys?î
My brothers and sister and I suit up and we fight for a while and then stop. My little brother wants to build a snowman. My sister wants to build a fort. We split up and create a fortress guarded by a lopsided snowman wearing a Yankee baseball cap and holding a broken broom.
ìSee ya,î we say when our mother whistles to call us in.
ìYeah, See ya,î the Mastrionis say as they head back to their house without a father.
It is a great night. I forget all about Jesus and feet for everyone. I forget all about Jimmy Tucker in the jungle wearing army boots. I forget all about wondering about the seasons, about the man with the crumpled face and the man with the gun.
That night as I pull down my shades, I see Jimmyís sneakers and the lopsided snowman near the fortress down below. I think of the Mastrionis without their father. I think of Jimmy in a world he doesnít know. And I know then that I will never know. I know then that there are some things I will never understand. God. Wars. A family of ten children, then nine, and then no father.
I know then that waiting is more than a winter thing.
I pull the covers over my head. Feel my warm breath rise against the worn blanket and fall back against my face. And I sigh. I lift the blanket off my face and listen to my motherís voice in the kitchen beneath my bedroom. The clatter of dishes being gathered and stored in the cupboards, silverware tucked in the drawers. My father laughs. My mother laughs. And then it is quiet.
Nodding off, I see the window feet. Feet for everyone. One, two, three, four, five. I see the snowman, the broken broom, the Yankees hat, Jimmyís sneakers. I surrender to the exhaustion of trying to find meaning in these everyday things. In the bed next to mine, my sister turns and snores, high-pitched snores that sound like church bells.
I hear my own breathing and I know that I am stuck. Stuck never knowing if God can hear me. I pray anyway. Dear God, bring Jimmy home. Please. No longer waiting, this prayer is not for a sign, but for Jimmy. Braving the darkness, I close my eyes and fall asleep to the sound of sleet tapping on my window.