Hello All,
Happy Fall! I am personally not ready yet to give up the warmer temperatures... and my sinuses have had enough of the rise and fall of this weird weather we have been having as of late - 90 degrees one day - 60s the next...
Anyway, enough of that...
The Fall issue is packed with lots of fabulous content that my intern (yes, I have an intern) has graciously helped me go through and make it the best it can be. Have fun looking through it!
Remember - we are always looking for stories, artwork, etc. Email me at holidaycafe.nicole@gmail.com We are taking submissions for the Winter issue now...
Thanks,
Nicole
Monday, October 2, 2017
Musings for Moms: Driving - Fall 2017
Is it just me or have the people on the road started driving a whole
lot worse? People have no qualms about crossing the line while they are behind the wheel nowadays. I am not saying it’s primarily men or women, or new drivers versus experienced ones—as a whole, there are a lot of people that are on the road that shouldn’t be.
And the popularity of cell phones and the social media aspect of it all makes people that much more dangerous behind the wheel. When I first started driving 25 years ago, I had a cell phone but you paid per minute used (it was primarily for emergencies) and there was definitely nothing ‘smart’ about it.
Now we have evolved into a society that cannot put their phones down long enough to make sure we don’t run a stop sign or red light. There are cars that can get wifi because we can’t go on the road without being connected.
According to a Teen Driving Statistics website in 2012, 2,823 teens between the ages of 13 and 19 died in motor vehicle crashes. 48% of those crashes were single-vehicle accidents. Compare that to 1975 statistics and the number increased by 68%.
Driver error seems to be a big issue when it comes to accidents – but what does that mean? Is it because they took their eyes off the road a split second too long, over-corrected their steering wheels, zoning out?
Drinking and social media were the primary blames for a fatal accident over the summer that took the lives of several younger women. There was another accident on the parkway where a woman went the wrong way on an on-ramp and hit a family taking their newborn baby home from the hospital. The baby will need ongoing surgeries.
This summer while the family and I were coming home from the beach, there was a very large car carrier tractor trailer loaded with new cars – going way too fast – that didn’t slow down enough for the curve in the interstate and almost lost his load. Thankfully he was able to pull his shit together and not flip – because that would have caused a chain reaction of accidents.
Bottom line, if you go out and have a few drinks, call a taxi or Uber. Texting or social media apps – don’t do it while driving.
And the popularity of cell phones and the social media aspect of it all makes people that much more dangerous behind the wheel. When I first started driving 25 years ago, I had a cell phone but you paid per minute used (it was primarily for emergencies) and there was definitely nothing ‘smart’ about it.
Now we have evolved into a society that cannot put their phones down long enough to make sure we don’t run a stop sign or red light. There are cars that can get wifi because we can’t go on the road without being connected.
According to a Teen Driving Statistics website in 2012, 2,823 teens between the ages of 13 and 19 died in motor vehicle crashes. 48% of those crashes were single-vehicle accidents. Compare that to 1975 statistics and the number increased by 68%.
Driver error seems to be a big issue when it comes to accidents – but what does that mean? Is it because they took their eyes off the road a split second too long, over-corrected their steering wheels, zoning out?
Drinking and social media were the primary blames for a fatal accident over the summer that took the lives of several younger women. There was another accident on the parkway where a woman went the wrong way on an on-ramp and hit a family taking their newborn baby home from the hospital. The baby will need ongoing surgeries.
This summer while the family and I were coming home from the beach, there was a very large car carrier tractor trailer loaded with new cars – going way too fast – that didn’t slow down enough for the curve in the interstate and almost lost his load. Thankfully he was able to pull his shit together and not flip – because that would have caused a chain reaction of accidents.
Bottom line, if you go out and have a few drinks, call a taxi or Uber. Texting or social media apps – don’t do it while driving.
Artwork - Fall 2017
Artists statement
Artist statement
I’ve started to draw the city and the unique scenes it offers. As a hyper-realistic artist, there is plenty of detail and beauty to be found in this city which I plan on picking like a flower and showingto my audience. To me East Liberty is an example of the hidden scenic gems the city holds.
A Sport for the Uncoordinated - Fall 2017
Anyone who knows me will readily tell you that I am the furthest thing from athletic or coordinated that a person can be.
So when my husband spontaneously purchased kayaks last fall for our anniversary, I was hesitant to believe that the money he spent would be worth it.
I had kayaked a few times before – once in the sound side of the Outer Banks when I was about twelve or thirteen, and again several years ago at the North Park Boat House right before my husband and I got married. While I love to swim, I had an unreasonable fear of falling into the water on those first couple of trips, and was left with sore shoulders and a familiar feeling of athletic inadequacy after the short tours were over.
But I have been pleased to learn that over the last year, kayaking could easily become one of the only athletic activities my uncoordinated self may actually enjoy.
After the purchase of the kayaks, we were eager to get them into the water ASAP. Living close to The Waterfront in Homestead, we had heard of Duck Hollow and how it played host to fisherman, canoers, and kayakers. So it was a no-brainer to take the short fifteen minute drive, maneuver through the short span of woods, and carry the kayaks down to the riverfront.
Unfortunately, that was the easy part. Once in the water, the current made its presence known immediately. The initial part of the trip wasn’t very strenuous, but by the time we were ready to turn back against the current, I realized I was way in over my head. It had been years since I’d been in a kayak, and although I have a relatively regular routine of lifting hand weights at home while I watch my guilty pleasures on TV, my otherwise unused muscles were not prepared to propel my kayak against the Monongahela. As I watched my much-stronger and faster husband paddle seemingly effortlessly ahead of me, I became convinced that I was not moving at all. The tree line on either side of me looked the same after twenty minutes, and the giant barge gliding through the water thirty yards away from me was intimidating, its giant body causing more wake for me to battle against.
Somehow I eventually made it back to our launch spot. I was exhausted and recovering from a panic attack, but I didn’t want my husband to regret spending money on our new kayaks. Our first two adventures took place in the river, and I had to admit that the expeditions were entirely too strenuous and borderline scary for a panicky, weak-armed person like myself.
Since the river had proved to be more of a battle than anything else, we decided to head to North Park for our next adventure.
As soon as my paddle hit the water, I knew this was going to be better than fighting the mighty Mon.
Here, I could paddle at my leisure with as much or as little effort as I wanted. I could take breaks, letting the gentle wind slowly push me across the lake or spin me around for an alternate view of the park itself. I felt comfortable enough to remove my lifejacket, and even managed a few laughs as I accidently-on-purpose plowed my kayak into my husband’s. Not only was the water calmer and the actual experience more enjoyable and relaxing, but the launch from the sandy shore was easier and there were plenty of people around to assist in the unlikely event of an emergency.
Our most recent expedition found us at Lake Arthur in Moraine State Park. Years ago, we had taken a pontoon boat out on the lake, but this was our first time using the kayaks. Like at North Park, our launch from the sandy shores was smooth and easy, and I actually looked forward to spending the next hour paddling around the lake.
It was a gorgeous July day – blue skies, puffy white clouds, not too hot, not too cold. Wind gusted in every direction, setting the sailboats and kite-boarders for a thrill. Fishing boats and pontoon boats dotted the landscape, and couples walked along the shore with their dogs and kids.
After only a couple of minutes, I realized that the normally calm lake was actually quite choppy. The combination of the wind and the intersecting wake from all the boats was creating small waves that were large enough to crest over the sides of my coral colored kayak. I laughed when the first couple poured in over the sides, soaking my gym pants and tank top, and dug in deep with my paddle while my husband and I rowed to the shade of a bridge in the distance. By the time we got there, the two of us were pretty well-soaked. We were laughing and having fun, and while the choppy water was still no big deal in comparison to the strong current of the Mon, it was clear that this was not going to be the relaxing day on the lake like the ones we’d had at North Park.
Our journey back to the shore was the same as our journey out – our kayaks bucked and dipped, waves smacked us on our backs and on our sides, and our clothes and seats were wetter than they’d ever been on any other adventure. By the time we pulled back onto the soft sands of the grassy beach, we were laughing hysterically and dripping wet. It was at that moment that we realized we had forgotten towels.
I think it’s safe to say that we’ve found our groove as new kayakers. My husband is insistent that he wants to kayak someday to The Point, but I doubt my arms will ever be strong enough to carry us that far. In the meantime, we plan on trying out Keystone Lake and Twin Lakes Park for our next outings, and may even haul our little boats to the Outer Banks for our vacation in September.
So despite the fact that I can barely chew gum and walk at the same time, and certainly can’t call myself coordinated enough for a sport like softball or volleyball, I think kayaking may be a perfect fit for me.
So when my husband spontaneously purchased kayaks last fall for our anniversary, I was hesitant to believe that the money he spent would be worth it.
I had kayaked a few times before – once in the sound side of the Outer Banks when I was about twelve or thirteen, and again several years ago at the North Park Boat House right before my husband and I got married. While I love to swim, I had an unreasonable fear of falling into the water on those first couple of trips, and was left with sore shoulders and a familiar feeling of athletic inadequacy after the short tours were over.
But I have been pleased to learn that over the last year, kayaking could easily become one of the only athletic activities my uncoordinated self may actually enjoy.
After the purchase of the kayaks, we were eager to get them into the water ASAP. Living close to The Waterfront in Homestead, we had heard of Duck Hollow and how it played host to fisherman, canoers, and kayakers. So it was a no-brainer to take the short fifteen minute drive, maneuver through the short span of woods, and carry the kayaks down to the riverfront.
Unfortunately, that was the easy part. Once in the water, the current made its presence known immediately. The initial part of the trip wasn’t very strenuous, but by the time we were ready to turn back against the current, I realized I was way in over my head. It had been years since I’d been in a kayak, and although I have a relatively regular routine of lifting hand weights at home while I watch my guilty pleasures on TV, my otherwise unused muscles were not prepared to propel my kayak against the Monongahela. As I watched my much-stronger and faster husband paddle seemingly effortlessly ahead of me, I became convinced that I was not moving at all. The tree line on either side of me looked the same after twenty minutes, and the giant barge gliding through the water thirty yards away from me was intimidating, its giant body causing more wake for me to battle against.
Somehow I eventually made it back to our launch spot. I was exhausted and recovering from a panic attack, but I didn’t want my husband to regret spending money on our new kayaks. Our first two adventures took place in the river, and I had to admit that the expeditions were entirely too strenuous and borderline scary for a panicky, weak-armed person like myself.
Since the river had proved to be more of a battle than anything else, we decided to head to North Park for our next adventure.
As soon as my paddle hit the water, I knew this was going to be better than fighting the mighty Mon.
Here, I could paddle at my leisure with as much or as little effort as I wanted. I could take breaks, letting the gentle wind slowly push me across the lake or spin me around for an alternate view of the park itself. I felt comfortable enough to remove my lifejacket, and even managed a few laughs as I accidently-on-purpose plowed my kayak into my husband’s. Not only was the water calmer and the actual experience more enjoyable and relaxing, but the launch from the sandy shore was easier and there were plenty of people around to assist in the unlikely event of an emergency.
Our most recent expedition found us at Lake Arthur in Moraine State Park. Years ago, we had taken a pontoon boat out on the lake, but this was our first time using the kayaks. Like at North Park, our launch from the sandy shores was smooth and easy, and I actually looked forward to spending the next hour paddling around the lake.
It was a gorgeous July day – blue skies, puffy white clouds, not too hot, not too cold. Wind gusted in every direction, setting the sailboats and kite-boarders for a thrill. Fishing boats and pontoon boats dotted the landscape, and couples walked along the shore with their dogs and kids.
After only a couple of minutes, I realized that the normally calm lake was actually quite choppy. The combination of the wind and the intersecting wake from all the boats was creating small waves that were large enough to crest over the sides of my coral colored kayak. I laughed when the first couple poured in over the sides, soaking my gym pants and tank top, and dug in deep with my paddle while my husband and I rowed to the shade of a bridge in the distance. By the time we got there, the two of us were pretty well-soaked. We were laughing and having fun, and while the choppy water was still no big deal in comparison to the strong current of the Mon, it was clear that this was not going to be the relaxing day on the lake like the ones we’d had at North Park.
Our journey back to the shore was the same as our journey out – our kayaks bucked and dipped, waves smacked us on our backs and on our sides, and our clothes and seats were wetter than they’d ever been on any other adventure. By the time we pulled back onto the soft sands of the grassy beach, we were laughing hysterically and dripping wet. It was at that moment that we realized we had forgotten towels.
I think it’s safe to say that we’ve found our groove as new kayakers. My husband is insistent that he wants to kayak someday to The Point, but I doubt my arms will ever be strong enough to carry us that far. In the meantime, we plan on trying out Keystone Lake and Twin Lakes Park for our next outings, and may even haul our little boats to the Outer Banks for our vacation in September.
So despite the fact that I can barely chew gum and walk at the same time, and certainly can’t call myself coordinated enough for a sport like softball or volleyball, I think kayaking may be a perfect fit for me.
Stacy is a 2003 graduate of West Mifflin Area High School and has completed two courses with The Institute of Children’s Literature. She writes novels for teenagers and adults, both of which can be found on Amazon. Stacy lives in Munhall with her husband and fur kid, and besides writing, enjoys reading, Penguins hockey, and traveling.
Liberace in Lawrenceville - Fall 2017
It was the day that Kennedy died, and Liberace was crying all the way
to the Holiday House—sequined star, at forty-four the fair-haired boy
adored by unloved mothers and daughters. There was no show: respect
for the dead President (none for that other Lee, felled by a glistening Ruby).
Liberace worked a shuttered dressing room, cleaning sparkling costumes
with Carbona, known to TV repairmen and huffers—fire-resistant and sweet
as antifreeze. He was used to the fumes, like the buzz of a crowd. Next night,
standing room only for “Birth of the Blues” on twinkling ivories. A dizzy Lee
cut the concert short, collapsing backstage in a slick of his own vomit. They rushed
him to St. Francis. He was there anyway, his failing kidneys fluttering like birds
in the saint’s hand. While doctors shook their heads, sad metronomes, he ordered breakfast at Tiffany’s—the glitter that never fades—for his family and friends.
He was dying. But in that red brick house of pain, he felt his childhood Catholic
faith saving him. A gliding nun in white prayed to St. Anthony for something lost:
his innocence, perhaps. She whispered his boyish name, Walter. No one ever
knew who she was. The stained crosses in nearby St. Mary’s Cemetery began
cheering for him, in the oily rain of Extreme Unction. O Pittsburgh of Miracles.
O City of Machines. O artificial kidney, alien angel huge as a refrigerator,
doing the magic trick. An engineer named Mateer irrigated the star in crude dialysis.
Mid-December, a ghostly Lee waved the Sisters goodbye from his Hollywood car.
Twenty years later, he played Heinz Hall, buoyed by a bevy of hair-sprayed heads, mauve and cerulean, like the clouds of Catholic Heaven. Showered praise and cash
on St. Francis Hospital, whose remodeled Lawrenceville lobby would bear his name
and his gleaming portrait, that all-American-by-way-of-Poland-and-Italy smile.
Gone today. In the darkening days of St. Francis and Liberace’s reputation,
the nuns would move his portrait to an obscure aisle. Where is he now—
buried in rubble, or rising like Las Vegas in the rainbow grid of pick-up sticks
that fronts Pittsburgh’s fresh Children’s Hospital, shining gaily in his joy?
to the Holiday House—sequined star, at forty-four the fair-haired boy
adored by unloved mothers and daughters. There was no show: respect
for the dead President (none for that other Lee, felled by a glistening Ruby).
Liberace worked a shuttered dressing room, cleaning sparkling costumes
with Carbona, known to TV repairmen and huffers—fire-resistant and sweet
as antifreeze. He was used to the fumes, like the buzz of a crowd. Next night,
standing room only for “Birth of the Blues” on twinkling ivories. A dizzy Lee
cut the concert short, collapsing backstage in a slick of his own vomit. They rushed
him to St. Francis. He was there anyway, his failing kidneys fluttering like birds
in the saint’s hand. While doctors shook their heads, sad metronomes, he ordered breakfast at Tiffany’s—the glitter that never fades—for his family and friends.
He was dying. But in that red brick house of pain, he felt his childhood Catholic
faith saving him. A gliding nun in white prayed to St. Anthony for something lost:
his innocence, perhaps. She whispered his boyish name, Walter. No one ever
knew who she was. The stained crosses in nearby St. Mary’s Cemetery began
cheering for him, in the oily rain of Extreme Unction. O Pittsburgh of Miracles.
O City of Machines. O artificial kidney, alien angel huge as a refrigerator,
doing the magic trick. An engineer named Mateer irrigated the star in crude dialysis.
Mid-December, a ghostly Lee waved the Sisters goodbye from his Hollywood car.
Twenty years later, he played Heinz Hall, buoyed by a bevy of hair-sprayed heads, mauve and cerulean, like the clouds of Catholic Heaven. Showered praise and cash
on St. Francis Hospital, whose remodeled Lawrenceville lobby would bear his name
and his gleaming portrait, that all-American-by-way-of-Poland-and-Italy smile.
Gone today. In the darkening days of St. Francis and Liberace’s reputation,
the nuns would move his portrait to an obscure aisle. Where is he now—
buried in rubble, or rising like Las Vegas in the rainbow grid of pick-up sticks
that fronts Pittsburgh’s fresh Children’s Hospital, shining gaily in his joy?
Angele
Ellis’s latest collection is Under the
Kaufmann’s Clock: Fiction, Poems, and Photographs of Pittsburgh, with
photos by Rebecca Clever (Six Gallery Press). The author of four books,
Angele’s work also has appeared in sixty publications and thirteen anthologies,
including the forthcoming Unconditional
Surrender (Low Ghost Press), and Nasty
Woman & Bad Hombre (Lascaux Editions).
We
We nearly missed each other.
We bent down to pick up the silver coins scattered on the lawn.
We drank bottles of seawater.
We waited for the sun to heal the wound by itself.
We were tired of knives.
Our bouquets remained on a bench made of gray stone.
We graduated and reincarnated.
Our hearts were torn into pieces of the Sahara.
We read fire.
We dug the grave and whipped tranquility.
We, too far, too close.
We stood at the opposite ends of a rainy alley, showing indifference.
We embezzle others' kindness.
We, facing such lonliness, become vulnerable as a collapsing dam.
Meng Qi'Ang is currently a student majoring in English and philosophy at the University of Pittsburgh. This poem was written during his study abroad period when he enjoyed being in a total isolation in Cambridge, England.
We bent down to pick up the silver coins scattered on the lawn.
We drank bottles of seawater.
We waited for the sun to heal the wound by itself.
We were tired of knives.
Our bouquets remained on a bench made of gray stone.
We graduated and reincarnated.
Our hearts were torn into pieces of the Sahara.
We read fire.
We dug the grave and whipped tranquility.
We, too far, too close.
We stood at the opposite ends of a rainy alley, showing indifference.
We embezzle others' kindness.
We, facing such lonliness, become vulnerable as a collapsing dam.
Meng Qi'Ang is currently a student majoring in English and philosophy at the University of Pittsburgh. This poem was written during his study abroad period when he enjoyed being in a total isolation in Cambridge, England.
Sophia Hamilton - Interview - Fall 2017
Sophia Hamilton Interview
Sophia Hamilton is a contemporary romance author from Venice, California. Her debut novel, “The Stoplight”, is available now as paperback on Amazon, and as an e-book on Kindle, Nook, and Kobo.
1. “The Stoplight” is your debut novel. How did you begin writing?
I have always enjoyed storytelling through the written word. I have always found it easy to write papers and stories in school. I like being creative – writing always allows me to do that.
2. “The Stoplight” follows Dan through some pretty crazy circumstances. Where did you get the idea to write “The Stoplight”?
A friend of mine was telling me about this place that she goes to regularly to eat and I got the idea for my main character to run a restaurant. The characters are in no way a reflection of the place she goes, other than it being family owned.
3. Why did you choose to self-publish your book rather than go through a publishing house? Do you have any advice to give other writers about the self-publishing process?
I went back and forth with this quite a bit actually. I would have rather gone through a publishing house because they promote the books – it’s hard to promote yourself when you are new to the scene. But I also didn’t want them to totally change my book into something it isn’t. I have also seen authors who start out with the indie route and then get attached with a pub house and have conflicts because they don’t have the creative freedoms they once had anymore. I would rather have that freedom and build my fan base.
4. Do you have plans for any future novels?
I do. There is potential in the book for it to be at least a trilogy. I have a great idea for the next book and have literally started putting pencil to paper for it.
5. What advice do you have for other writers seeking to get their start in publishing?
Follow your dreams. If you love what you have written – and it is of good quality – then go for it. Don’t let someone tell you that you aren’t good enough.
6. Do you have anything else you would like to add?
It’s not always easy – but that doesn’t mean not to follow your dreams. Be true to yourself and there is nothing to worry about.
Contact Sophia on Facebook at Sophia Hamilton, on Twitter at @sophiah_author, by email at sophiahamilton618@gmail.com, or on her website at https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B075ZZZQFQ and https://www.sophiahamiltonauthor.blogspot.com.
Rachael Bindas is a freelance writer and editor from Pittsburgh, PA. She focuses mainly on fiction, but still harbors a deep love for poetry. Her work has been featured in Moledro Magazine, Aeons, The Curious Element Magazine, and The Holiday Cafe.
Sophia Hamilton is a contemporary romance author from Venice, California. Her debut novel, “The Stoplight”, is available now as paperback on Amazon, and as an e-book on Kindle, Nook, and Kobo.
1. “The Stoplight” is your debut novel. How did you begin writing?
I have always enjoyed storytelling through the written word. I have always found it easy to write papers and stories in school. I like being creative – writing always allows me to do that.
2. “The Stoplight” follows Dan through some pretty crazy circumstances. Where did you get the idea to write “The Stoplight”?
A friend of mine was telling me about this place that she goes to regularly to eat and I got the idea for my main character to run a restaurant. The characters are in no way a reflection of the place she goes, other than it being family owned.
3. Why did you choose to self-publish your book rather than go through a publishing house? Do you have any advice to give other writers about the self-publishing process?
I went back and forth with this quite a bit actually. I would have rather gone through a publishing house because they promote the books – it’s hard to promote yourself when you are new to the scene. But I also didn’t want them to totally change my book into something it isn’t. I have also seen authors who start out with the indie route and then get attached with a pub house and have conflicts because they don’t have the creative freedoms they once had anymore. I would rather have that freedom and build my fan base.
4. Do you have plans for any future novels?
I do. There is potential in the book for it to be at least a trilogy. I have a great idea for the next book and have literally started putting pencil to paper for it.
5. What advice do you have for other writers seeking to get their start in publishing?
Follow your dreams. If you love what you have written – and it is of good quality – then go for it. Don’t let someone tell you that you aren’t good enough.
6. Do you have anything else you would like to add?
It’s not always easy – but that doesn’t mean not to follow your dreams. Be true to yourself and there is nothing to worry about.
Contact Sophia on Facebook at Sophia Hamilton, on Twitter at @sophiah_author, by email at sophiahamilton618@gmail.com, or on her website at https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B075ZZZQFQ and https://www.sophiahamiltonauthor.blogspot.com.
Rachael Bindas is a freelance writer and editor from Pittsburgh, PA. She focuses mainly on fiction, but still harbors a deep love for poetry. Her work has been featured in Moledro Magazine, Aeons, The Curious Element Magazine, and The Holiday Cafe.
Rocky Mountains - Fall 2017
When his mother came to visit his family
From the other side of this world, Michael
Took her to Banff for the sight of blue glaciers
In Columbia Icefield, a tour among Rockies
Massive, mighty, magnificent as the human mind
Some looking like castles in a nightmare
Some like Titanics among icebergs
Others like the haunches of dragons, Chinese
Or otherwise, fighting on an ocean at dusk
How come the trees are all so small. Are they
Man-planted? Mother asked. No, because
Of the harshest climatic conditions here, they
Have only a couple of weeks to grow in a year
Explained the tour guide, when Michael’s mind
Was wondering in the more wintry wildness
Near northern lights, where he could see
Neither rocks nor mountains, where a single
Flake turned his thought into blue glacier
Yuan Changming, nine-time Pushcart and one-time Best of Net nominee, published monographs on translation before moving out of China. With a Canadian PhD in English, Yuan currently edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Yuan in Vancouver; credits include Best of Best Canadian Poetry (2008-17), BestNewPoemsOnline, Threepenny Review and 1319 others across 40 countries.
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