Another vignette of paranormal prose, the tingle you to your toes. "Remind me why I wanted to go to SMGC?"' Monika wondered aloud as she lugged six industrial strength textbooks and her laptop out of the BKT (Bl. Kateri Tekakwitha) Library on All Hallow's Eve. The university was lovely, old and very secluded. Way off the beaten track in the middle of Michigan's Upper Peninsula, which was all off the beaten track to start with.
''Remind me why I wanted to go to SMGC again?', Monika wondered aloud as she lugged six industrial size textbooks, assorted notes and files and her laptop out of the BKTL (Bl. Kateri Tekakwitha Library) on All Hallows Eve. The university was lovely, old and very secluded. Way off the beaten track in the middle of Michigan's Upper Peninsula, which was all off the beaten track already, halfway between Forgotten Town and Middle of Nowhereville.
The BKTL smelled of wood, lemon Pledge and generations of academia. The early Victorian buildings with their lower level of beautiful windows and glass-work, so reflective on the nearby lake, were built shortly after the Civil War, by the Sisters of Mercy, some of whom, it was rumored, still haunted the place. In a kindly, nun-ish way. Well, if you were stuck out in those deep back dune woods, you would have nothing better to do either.
St. Maria Goretti College was a private, all girls school renown for its highly accredited courses in the Turkic, Slavic, Cyrillic and (believe it or not) Hindi languages. Which Monika would need for her calling to work in missions schools in India. An Irish American teaching Indian languages to Indians, whatever will they think of next, she laughed to herself. Well, teaching children in their native tongue, that is. She was sure she'd be learning a lot more than she would be teaching.
Monika Mary Dalaigh was every bit as Scots-Irish as her name. What a combination! Oh did people make with the hot-head-redhead Gaelic temper jokes. Oldest girl of a Catholic family of nine, Monika had known at three that she was going to become a nun and go to Calcutta to help the Untouchables like Blessed Mother Theresa. Four years at SMGC was the first step on that road.
When it came to looks, Monika's sisters Faustina Rose of Lima (yes they named her the full thing, poor kid. Like Rose 'a Sharn in Grapes of Wrath, but anyway) and Philomena Bernadette (try putting that on a driver's license) got most of what was dished out. Their dark auburn curls fell in the Byronic soft tendrils. Unlike Monika's tresses which tended toward Titian, frizzy and Pre-Raphaelite dead girl in a boat. But no matter once she took the veil.
And looks aside, in the corpus mensa and common sense department, Monika Mary was fully stocked. Six older brothers had removed any shyness, squeamishness or girliness. Two pretty, petted younger sisters had removed any illusions of being the baby. And who'd want it anyway when there was so much world to conquer?
As was her wont, Monika Mary in her third year at St. Maria Goretti, was still closing down the library at night, even on a holy day. Mass had been said by Father Marc at 6pm. After dinner and compline, most of the girls, even the younger ones who should be studying, were curled up in bed or watching TV in the common room which had the only television on campus.
Times had changed around the world, but not much had changed at SMGC. Monika was surprised that elderly librarian, Sr. Michael had agreed to keep the BKT open until 10pm. Apparently she understood about time waiting for no one, not even on All Saints. Sister was locking offices, gathering her belongings and Monika was leaving.
"Goodnight, dear. Why don't you wait and I'll walk you back to your dormitory?' the fully habited nun asked.
"I'll be fine, Sister. Really, though I appreciate the offer." Monika smiled and patted Sr. Michael's fragile, ancient, liver spotted hand.
The air was biting cold and smelt of the eastern hemlock so prevalent in old growth Michigan forests. Monika thought she just might be able to smell Lake Superior to the north. The tree frogs and crickets were giving a concert on the still autumn evening. The mist was just beginning to form off the little lake, and as the moon rose, the mirrored windows of the BKT Library came into view. It made everything look carved in bas relief, like Keats' "Grecian Urn." Monika was just mentally composing a poem about the view when suddenly...
"Don't scream!' a voice growled in her ear. Monika almost choked, more at being startled than in fear as the clammy hand clamped over her mouth. The smell of cheap liquor and sweat and the intense pressure of a body pressed very close shocked Monika out of Bodleian musings. She bridled at the hand irritably but had the presence of mind not to struggle too much.
She could hear cursing and scuffling and got a glimpse of several NU sweatshirts, students from the nearby university, she assessed, out drunk on Halloween and looking for whatever passed for fun in that state of mind. The hand came away and the other arm and body did not. Oh, we're in for a long night, Monika thought.
Sweaty Palms said "We came here to see the ghost nuns, but this is even better! You're not bad, for a neo-nun! I'll show you what's under my robe if you show me what's under yours!" Monika could feel her arm bending painfully far back. And a very nasty sensation of hands groping around her jacket. The group began to laugh and make noises doing God only knows what, Monika thought.
And tailgating that thought came the sickening realization that one very senior nun was coming down the path after her and five or so young girls and another equally old nun were snuggled on couches in the common room watching an old movie, totally unprotected. It wasn't anger or fear she felt, just a very clear quiet settling of the mind down to basics of survival.
Prayer was something Monika was finding increasingly less time for. SMGC had a policy that each student must spend an hour each day in adoration in front of the Blessed Sacrament. Truth be told, Monika often spent her hour studying or in slumber. But like atheists in foxholes, Monika found herself praying and praying hard. "'St Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil...'
"Yeah, baby, you pray, cause I'm the devil and I've got a pitchfork for you!" Too intent on concentrating her energy on vigilance, Monika bit down the angry comments she was thinking. Which was probably for the best. Keeping quiet and biddable were not her strong suits. More groping ensued and what sounded like a belt unbuckling and zipping pants. Oh, God, please, not this not now. But if it keeps their minds off the others, well, help me just get through it.
Suddenly, an eerie yellow-green glow appeared wobbly against the sky but growing larger. The sounds of drunken laughter zipped to a silence like a record player needle dragged across a record. In fact everything was weirdly silent, except for thin strange almost demonic sounds of incantation. It was absolutely terrifying.
Walking in front of the glow was what appeared to be an army of grim reapers, all about fifteen feet tall, holding scythes. Small points of brightly colored lights darted around like tiny flames which seemed to crackle and sizzle. It was as if the demons were shooting at them with the fires of hell. Joining the incantation were mutated grunts and unintelligible moans issuing from the group of specters. Everyone, including Monika stood paralyzed. Nearer, louder and brighter came the phantom brigade. If this is what hell is like, the movies don't do it justice, Monika thought.
In less time than it takes to zip up a zipper, Monika's captors had hightailed into the night. Their shrieks of terror lingering on the mist. It would have been funny if it wasn't so frightening. And Monika was left to face the demon horde alone. Now was when Monika was most glad she'd inherited the Irish practicality instead of the auburn locks. Because as bizarre as this whole scene appeared, she knew without a doubt that it had a rational, non-spook movie explanation. And it did.
From amid the shadows, a loud but very human voice boomed out "Oh, Hello Monika, dear, are you still out?" And a very corporeal elderly nun approached Monika. Sister Michael closed her Latin prayer breviary and placed her jeweled rosary which she had been praying, inside her scrip. She snapped off the old Sony Walkman with which she'd been praying along with the recorded Latin prayers.
"Oh dear, I'm still wearing this silly cordless microphone from lecture today. I must bumped it and turned it on. I'll never figure out how to use it properly. No wonder there was such a racket as I was praying. I thought it was racoons! Would you mind holding this while I turn it off? Sister Benedict needs a sickle for play rehearsal, but this staff from the St. Patrick's procession is the best I could find. I hope it looks close enough to the real thing. By the way, what do you think of the new outdoor burglar lights for the library. I really don't think they are quite bright enough, do you? Though I don't suppose we'll ever need them. This is such a peaceful little wood."
After what seemed like about three hours, Monika breathed and on the great exhale, laughed aloud. "Believe me Sister, the staff makes a very convincing sickle. And I think the lights are just right. I think they'll scare off any burglars that might be around!"
*Monika never told anyone about that night. However a closeted meeting with the NU dean, yielded a most interesting story. Evidentially he was concerned for the SMGU staff and students about reports of ghostly goings-on at All Saints. And Monika felt obliged to allay his fears with an account of what happened. The howls of laughter from the Dean could be heard across campus. He was still laughing as he drove away. After extracting a promise from the sisters that they all would attend complimentary Jujitsu classes at NU, just to be safe.
her eyes, green-gray still waters, do not cry
I just had a major meltdown the other day. When I was a younger mom, I had them more frequently. I'd been doing so much better and it makes me mad that I had one. But I know now to look to the source of the problem. And I found it--pushing myself too hard. After talking to husband and kids (and apologizing profusely), they all said that I didn't rest enough. Which was kind of them to empathize but I still feel badly. But maybe it's also time to start forgiving myself and letting up a bit, too. 
Haiku poems are more than just 17 syllables in three lines of 5-7-5 syllabication. Many styles of Japanese poetry rely on syllable count to establish poem structure, similar to the Greek iambic or "feet" (or meter) poems. Notable are the iambic pentameter poems, composed of five lines with ten syllables each. Haiku and senryu are structured on "mora" or "on" which are similar to syllables, but not an exact correlation. "On" in Haiku and Senryu is similar to iambic feet, which are patterns of stressed and unstressed syllables. Thus haiku are cadence (rhythm) poems vs. rhyme poems, but the similarity of western poetry ends there. Use this guide to teach haiku writing or to write your own. 
Ice cream has spelled summer since the Chinese invented it 3,000 years ago. It was primarily for nobility and the upper class until 1776, when the first public ice cream parlor opened in New York City. Ice cream went portable when edible coronets, or cones, made from waffles were introduced at the St. Louis World's Fair. My grandmother remembered buying ice cream squares wrapped in paper, from street vendors in Grand Rapids, Mich. When I was a kid, the Good Humor man still sold frozen novelties, accompanied by a cheerful tune. 
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