I lost track of the coats of paint that covered and re-covered those walls during my growing years; but the accumulation smoothed the surface somewhat so I was able to snuggle close to it to cool off during the hot summer months. When Papa finally patched up the ceiling, I was dispirited and confused for quite some time–not knowing whether it was the tormenting witch that I missed, or the warm milk and hug.

During this transitional stage, my toys and dolls were shoved from one corner of the room to the other, and finally dumped in a large green bag that eventually vanished.

Furniture began to clutter my room — a large mahogany chest of drawers, a dresser of cherry wood, and a new twin bed with an oak headboard. With all of these luxuries crunched together, I had to shuffle sideways to leave the room. Despite its crowded quarters it was all mine and I loved it. Its thick plaster wall muffled the sound of my occasional sniffs and sobs of self pity, and the sounds of the transistor radio that lulled me to sleep afterward.

Decorating was difficult to do well on our low family budget, but after careful scrutiny, I gleefully tore down the tissue paper queens and replaced them with centerfold pictures of Frankie Avalon, Elvis Presley, and James Dean. To bring these photos to life, a record player was added to the clutter in my room. It was the portable type in a suitcase and was difficult to place, but it finally found a home at the foot of my bed, which made it even more difficult to open the closet door; this was O.K. though, because I hadn’t forgot about the monsters in the closet.

It’s amazing what versatility the common twin bed could offer. It served as a chair, a desk, a clothes rack, ladder, a safe for my diary, and of course, a place to sleep. Even my favorite pillow developed secrets of its own. When stripped of its cover, it unveiled (with various hearts, stars, exclamation marks, and careless scratch-offs) names of boys who didn’t even know I existed. The space under my bed was not ignored; it housed fifty ‘Teen magazines, seventy-five 45 rpm records, ten record albums, various notebooks, two poetry books, and a torn out page from Better Homes and Gardens of the huge bedroom I longed to have someday.

My bedroom remained untouched for a long time after I left home – almost as if it were trying to lure me back. Quite frightened, I did return to it the night before my wedding. I smiled at my famous friends on the wall when my attention fell upon something above the door. I laughed hysterically. It was etched in wood: “Sharon Loves ___ Forever.” I realized then that some things do change.

Late that night I clicked on my lighted Jesus picture and lay in bed, thinking of patched up witches, haunted closets, and warm milk. I wondered if I would ever have another room where dreams were limitless and life has no boundaries.

Sharon Palmeri
copyright 1985/2002

My husband and I adopted (rescued) a second dog in January 2000. We went to the same humane society that we did when we adopted Missy, who is now (2001) 13 years old. The process of adoption had changed drastically in the past few years. We were able to bring Missy home the same day. We were both pleased and surprised that the humane society had us fill out a 2 page application for adoption, asking questions such as: do you work? How many hours? Do you live in a house or apartment? Do you have a fence? Any small children? Since we had another dog, they wanted to know the vets name and address. They even asked directions to our home!

We could not take Mandy home that first day. They told my husband and I to talk it over. What they did not tell us was that Mandy (about 9 months old) and had been adopted for a short time (maybe 1 month), but then returned to the humane society. The excuse was “she was not good with young children.” She spent the other 6 months in cage in a dark room at the humane society, with her only fun pastime between the two short daily outings to “do her business” was mealtime, and catching flies and bugs.

When we finally were able to bring her home on that snowy Midwest winter day, her eyes became bloodshot because she was not used to the light.

She is mostly lab, but howls like a beagle. She weighed about 48 pounds when we brought her to the vet and had no muscle at all. I had to help her climb onto my lap by pushing her back legs up.

From the scared way she acted, I knew she had to have been abused. She was afraid of every sound. We had a cage waiting at home for her so she could make herself at home in something familiar. Her cage became her retreat..a place of security where she could go when she was afraid or unsure.

The first week was very trying for all of us. Missy, our Lab/Dob mix (then 11) who looks much like Mandy, only with lots of white fur, now had to set parameters. Fortunately Mandy was very submissive towards her..and we all passed the critical adjustment stage with no more than growls and barks.

We also used treats to get her to come to us and others. Missy taught her how to sit, lie down and roll over for food. She never growled, but would cower away from people. We knew we had to get her over that before spring, because we are sailors, and knew she would spend much time with us and Missy at the marina.

Seeing all the people at the marina terrified her at first, but most boat people have dogs, and so they were very understanding. She loves the boat though, like her own little den…and enjoys the fresh air, ducks and seagulls.

This January will be our 9th anniversary with Mandy, and she has grown to love Missy and us a much as we love both of them.

So one more dog was saved…but how about the thousands of others? We still have much to do to get the word out. Hats off to all the humane societies that shelter dogs, and well as to the people who bring a rescue dog to a loving home. My husband and I agree that there is no such thing is a bad dog, only dogs that have been abused or misunderstood.

….And the great thing is…when you rescue a dog, in return they “rescue” you every time you are sad, lonely or bored.

**The above printed material is copyrighted, is registered with the Library of Congress and is the property of Sharon Palmeri. Permission is needed before use. Thank you! **

Her intelligence was downright scary sometimes. I told John once that I thought she was a space puppy sent to Earth to monitor human activities and emotions. He laughed and asked me if this was a plot for a new novel I was working on. My answer was simply a wink, a kiss on Missy’s muzzle and a smile.
Now don’t get me wrong, Missy was not without her faults by any means. For example, she thought that if she allowed anyone on Impulse or in our home, that they should immediately take a seat and never leave. When visitors would get up to leave Missy would immediately give them her don’t-even-think-about-it bark. This strange manner of hers began to make more sense when she started to develop the sleek body and small head of a Doberman. Now we knew what the lab mix was mixed with!
The years swiftly sped by with Missy swimming in the summer and romping in the snow in the winter till her sleek black fur coat turned whiter and whiter with age. She remained as strong as ever, and her body stayed muscular from all the swimming.
It was not till her twelfth autumn that she even slowed her active pace. She started sneezing quite a bit, and at first we thought she had developed allergies. It was when the sneezing lasted well into the night, and winter approached, that we got concerned and consulted a vet. Tests were done, antibiotics given, but the sneezing and breathing difficulties continued. More inconclusive tests were done, and we finally took her to Indiana’s Purdue University Veterinary Center in LaFayette. A rhinoscope was done, x-rays and cultures done. Cancer.
We didn’t want to accept that Missy could leave us so soon. She was still eating well and was still strong as an ox. But she began hiding under the table and in corners more and more. Her eyes started to squint, like the light was hurting them. When she started to have trouble walking we knew that we had to make a decision.
“Missy has given you both the most love and companionship that she can, but now she is in pain and needs your help.” the veterinarian said “You should be with her to the end to say good-bye.”
“I can’t!” I told John later that night “ I can’t be there when she is put to sleep. I know I will want to stop it. I will pull the needle away from the vet. I can’t bear to see her in pain, but I can’t bear to see her put to sleep, either!”
I was at the university teaching a composition class the following day, when I received an emergency phone call. It was John. “I called the vet and am going to take her in. I just want to make sure you are O.K. with it,” John said.
“I’m O.K. with it.” I hung up, went back to class, dismissed my students 10 minutes early, closed the door and cried. My mind raced back to the eight-week-old black ball of fur that really put the charm on me twelve years ago. I remembered her small floppy-ears, black furry face, and cold wet nose that gave me ear licks and nibbles. It seemed like only yesterday that the bright-eyed bouncing puppy came home to live with us. I visualized the swimming “space dog” that was as agile as a deer and loved to navigate our sailboat.
Tears flowed hard and burned my cheeks as I thought of the panting, gray-black dog that I had kissed just a few hours before.
We put the sailboat up for sale the following week. It was something we had been talking about for a while, but without Missy, the times on the boat just would not be the same. It was the end of an era.
“Don’t rush me into getting another dog,” John said.
“Don’t worry I won’t,” I answered.
The following day I found the paper open to the “dogs for sale” section in the newspaper.
You may wonder if we ever did get another dog. Well, not exactly. We got two. One is a Lab-mix, the other is pure Lab. Their names are Mandy and Chrissy.
The truth about dogs is that every time a puppy or dog is rescued, that puppy or dog rescues the rescuer right back. And so that was the way it was with us — and now it all begins again.

©2002

**The above printed material is copyrighted, is registered with the Library of Congress and is the property of Sharon Palmeri. Permission is needed before use. Thank you! *S* **

It was many years ago that
she sat beside the Shoon River.
The mountains surrounded her, while
many tall pine trees shaded her.

The sun, visible through the trees,
flickered brightly, warming soft
blanket of moss at the edge of
the ravine. The musty smell of
wet wood encircled around her.

As she gazed up at the pine- filled
mountain in front of her, it cried
with her; water trickled down deep
crevices in the Earth, between
the furry pines –
so many years.

A gentle wind dried her tears, though
there remained a heaviness in
her heart and a lump in her throat
that just would never go away.
She unbraided her long black hair,
as she ran her fingers through it.
The wind caressed her hair softly,
like that of a gentle lover.

She stooped and gingerly removed
her necklace and bracelet. She had
promised never to remove the
turquoise ring on her left finger.
She stepped out of her moccasins
and stood up, feeling the warmth of
shimmering sunshine on her face:

“Oh mountain! You are beautiful!
I wish my arms were long enough
to hold you — you see me as I
really am. I have come to you
in my happiness, and also
when I was troubled or worried.
Today I stand before you in
sorrow and despair. But today,
dear mountain I will not leave you.

She sprung forward towards the mountain
and felt a lightness in her feet
as she dropped from the moss laden
cliff to the to the river far below.
She felt a blow to her body,
and a coldness and numbness to
her face and head.
The sun was gone…

* * *

Today I stand here at the same
mountain while the wind caress’s
my short auburn hair, as would a
gentle lover. I now remove
my hi heels and feel the soft bed
of moss beneath my feet, The wind
and sunshine dry my tearstained face.

Tears not of despair, but tears of
remembering a lovely but
despondent Indian maiden
whose life ended at this mountain.

Or did it? Her last words echo
in the breeze, the mountain tears are
no more, and the river has long
since dried up. Only the pines and
an unclear legend have remained.

But is that really all? Perhaps.
Perhaps not. I look down at the
turquoise ring I am wearing, a
ring I have promised never
to remove — and smile.

Sharon Palmeri
copyright 2001

**The above printed poem is copyrighted, is registered with the Library of Congress and is the property of Sharon Palmeri. Permission is needed before use. Thank you! **

Colorful balloons float
towards the rainbow
with ambitious dreamers
gliding smoothly
in sail of their
personal goals and desires.

We can be anything we want to be!
All negative thoughts and problems
are thrown out of the balloon,
allowing it to float higher and higher
to reach our dreams and to grasp
our material and emotional goals.

an ideal concept, one might say
but now
let’s look at the other side
of the rainbow :

What is a rainbow? Just a prism of light
real, yet unreal,
with no beginning and no end. Yet
away we float, higher and higher, caught
in the quest for all we need and want.
We attain our goals, satisfy our needs

but our dreams float on, searching
for the illusive rainbow, to be
captured in its mystical beauty.
Hands cupped, we reach out
to grab it! Yes – we finally have it!
The rainbow!

but as cupped hands reopen we find
nothing but air.

So it is with dreams. Only our
frame of mind determines
which side of the rainbow we see.

Sharon Palmeri
Copyright Library of Congress 1983/2002

**The above printed material is copyrighted, is registered with the Library of Congress and is the property of Sharon Palmeri. Permission is needed before use. Thank you! *S* **

In the large room I hear the high-pitched hum of the whispering voices behind me. I try to block it out.

I stared at my mother, remembering back to when we first moved to our home in Hobart, Indiana.Her hair was long and black— held back by two combs, allowing curls to gently caress the nape of her neck. She rarely laughed out loud, but when the edges of her mouth turned up slightly, her large brown eyes glistened.
She loved flowers—especially roses. She’d pick only one from our garden at a time, smell it, and put it gently into a small bud vase. She always told me that it’s much more rewarding to appreciate the beauty of a single rose, because one could cherish the unfolding of every velvet petal. I didn’t understand it—then.
I asked her one day why she never chose to have a career. “Being a mother is my career,” she answered. “Even more than that” she continued “It’s my entire life. Mothers should be home with their children.”
When I was at school and the housework was done, she would nestle down and watch TV. When I came home for lunch, I would find her in her special place at the end of the sofa, where she would tuck under her small, fragile legs and watch As the World Turns. A warm meal would always be waiting for me. There were never any excuses for not eating. “People in China are starving,” she’d say. Sometimes I heard her talk on the phone to her sister about the soap opera characters as if she really knew them.
On Saturdays she watched American Bandstand with me. She rarely went out, but she loved to dance. Many times she told me of the many ballrooms she had danced in when she was single. It always brought a wide smile to her lips. In fact, one night, very late, I awoke from sleep hearing a noise in the living room. I opened my door a crack to take a peek. Two candles were lit, the radio was playing softly and my mother was dancing.

Although she was a dedicated mother and always said she was happy, I sometimes wondered if she really was. One day I came home from school and she was sitting on the
sofa in the living room in her best dress and high heels. Her make-up was carefully applied and she wore a different hairstyle.
“Why are you all dressed up?” I asked. “Where are you going?”
“Nowhere,” her voice cracked a bit “absolutely nowhere.” Later that evening she cried…
As the years progressed, and I grew up and left home, she stopped smiling completely, became depressed, and neglected her rose garden. It became overrun with weeds.
Not long ago I stopped by on Mother’s Day to bring her a dozen roses. The house smelled strongly of cigarette smoke. I commented that she shouldn’t smoke so much. She ignored the comment by taking a long puff of her cigarette. A cloud of smoke encircled her from the trail of cigarette smoke weaving from her yellow fingers. Her hair had been cut very short, cropped around her ears, and streaked with gray. She had lost weight. Her arms and legs were thinner than I had ever seen them; her once beautiful dark eyes had lost their brilliance. She coughed quite a bit, explaining that she had been nursing a cold for quite a while. She said rum and tea usually helped, but this time it didn’t. We talked for awhile about ordinary things—how old I was, that she would be fifty-six years old soon, and where did the time go.When it was time for me to leave, she thanked me for coming and bringing the roses. She picked one rose out of the bouquet, smelled it, and isolated it in its own vase. Then I kissed her good-bye.
Now I stand here, clutching a single rose. The buzzing of the voices is growing louder. How long have I been standing in front of her? She lay motionless in front of me with her best dress; her make-up carefully applied, and she is wearing a different hairstyle. I want her to speak to me—to talk about ordinary things. The stifling sweet smell is growing stronger in the room. It nearly takes my breath away. I look around. Roses are everywhere.

Sharon Palmeri
Copyright Library of Congress 1987
Published Spirits Magazine 1990, 2002
Hoosier Horizon Literary Magazine 1990

**The above printed material is copyrighted, is registered with the Library of Congress and is the property of Sharon Palmeri. Permission is needed before use. Thank you! *S* **

Emotions ooze
through
tunnels of night;
my mind flows free
no need to fight.

Restrictions leave,
reality dies;
my soul’s released
to murky skies.

Sharon Palmeri
©Copyright Library of Congress 1990
Hoosier Horizon Magazine 1992

**The above printed material is copyrighted, is registered with the Library of Congress and is the property of Sharon Palmeri. Permission is needed before use. Thank you! *S* **

Inside, there was not much furniture
which made more space to skip and play –
Then I saw my room.

It was just a small place in the west corner.
The walls were calamine pink, and made of raised
stucco that would stick me if I brushed too close.
Next to my bed the two long windows were draped
with faded brown material. A slight protrusion
in the ceiling above my head created the silhouette
of an ugly witch that tormented me nightly until
my Mama brought me warm milk.

With her short black hair and doe-like eyes
Mama always smelled like red roses
when she kissed me goodnight.

I remember other nights that I remained restless
because after the lights were out, Gargoyle
monsters would peek and snicker at me
from my closet
when the door was left ajar.

Because of these moments, and the
roaring thunderous nights, Mama hung a lit
Jesus picture on the wall next to my bed
to protect me.

but she had no Jesus picture next to her bed –
Who protected Mama?

Sharon Palmeri
Copyright Library of Congress 1989/01

**The above printed material is copyrighted, is registered with the Library of Congress and is the property of Sharon Palmeri. Permission is needed before use. Thank you! *S* **