Featured Writers 

Caitlin Reyes Brune: Mom's Purse

Sandwiched in the middle of a big Irish family, Caitlin Reyes Brune received early coaching on her writing from her Dad, who spent three and a half decades teaching high school English and coaching varsity football. Well schooled in revision, she nonetheless decided to major in English (and Psychology) at Georgetown University. Profound curiosity, naïve fearlessness, the restlessness of a gypsy, and deep love of the world have inspired travel and work assignments in a dozen countries. Currently, Caitlin writes from Santa Cruz, California, where the surrounding organic farms, magnificent Monterey Bay, and slightly off-beat community offer no end of inspiration. 

Caitlin recently joined The Writer's Journey and is a new member of the Wednesday writing practice class. This was her response to the prompt, "Tell me about someone else's wallet, bag or purse."

Mom's Purse

Always trailing out the back door at least five minutes later than my father found acceptable, the eight of us waiting not-so-calmly in the station wagon, my mom never left the house without her pocketbook. Not to give the impression that she had just one beloved, stylish tote. No, not at all. There was a bag for the weekday erranding and shuttling of children, containing ever-present wads of Kleenex, a hairbrush (round, with plastic-tipped bristles, of course), and assorted market lists tacked to envelopes bearing coupons. Lipsticks crowded the bottom reaches, clattering against each other like discarded bottle caps. There would be a sandwich baggie or two of Cheez-its or pretzels, to stave off bouts of whining. Her wallet, too, overstuffed with discount cards and gas credit cards, slips of paper dotted with mysterious measurements, and her well-organized checkbook. In this pre-cell phone age, that rounded out the weekday pocketbook’s inventory, though there was always room for the spontaneously added extra item, whether rubber band or clump of safety pins, yesterday’s newspaper or last Sunday’s church bulletin, or even the belated thank you card, as yet unwritten.

Amy McElroy: Missiles by the Monkey Bars

Amy McElroy, a Writing Assistant at Gavilan College and a yoga instructor, is a member of the Memory to Memoir Intensive writing class. Recently, her work has been published in Milk and Ink. She frequently contributes her voice and personal essays to First Person Singular on the NPR-affiliate KUSP in Santa Cruz. 

There’s a holy war raging on my children’s school playground, and I’m trying to teach my daughters to survive. 

Children crave identity.  Without an organized religion, I knew our kids would struggle.  Along with spiritual lessons--like why we help at the Thanksgiving soup kitchen and stop to watch clouds pass--we try to teach them about why some friends have menorahs, others don’t celebrate their birthdays, and the politics of religious freedom our country professes to enjoy. 

My husband’s family is Buddhist on his mother’s side, our kids one-quarter Japanese.  We’ve sampled spam musubi at the local temple’s annual festivals while powerful Taiko drummers pounded and wiped their brows.  In Hawaii, we attend services for deceased relatives, chanted in Japanese, where smoky incense floats to the exposed koa beams of the temple.   At annual graveside visits, the girls scrub bronze headstones, shine them with baby oil, and fill buried, metal vases with waxy, red flowers and water.

Deb Blackmore: Confirmation

Deb Blackmore is a member of the Friday morning feedback group. She wrote this piece in response to the prompt, "Tell me about a moment that changed your life."

I lost my faith on the day of my Confirmation. I had never been very religious, most Episcopalians aren’t, but until that day I gave the Anglican traditions at the Church of the Good Shepherd my whole heart. I loved the pageantry, the thrilling organ music, the old English verses from the King James Bible.  I memorized psalms, sang wobbly solos in the choir and ushered small children up the aisle when it was time to begin Sunday school lessons in rooms smelling of poster paint and paste.

My father stayed home most Sunday mornings with a thick New York Times, while mother shepherded all six daughters to weekly services. We knew that he would have a dozen powdered jelly doughnuts waiting for us when we returned and that kept us going.

The Confirmation Ritual was the culmination of a whole year of sober religious instruction and exciting overnight retreats for twelve-year-olds. We were eager to join the adult club by proving ourselves worthy of receiving the sacraments. The boys were keen to sample the dark red wine that stained our lips like sour cherry candy, but I was anxious about holding the host wafer on my tongue until it dissolved. Rumors circulated about what might happen if The Host, Body of Christ, was chewed. We were instructed to pause just long enough on the hassock, knees together with chin uplifted, for the congregation to observe our piety. I was certain that I had all of the particulars down pat.

Mira Michelle: Directions to My Heart