“Forsooth and Forsythia”
I still have one official practice book, my name inscribed in a loopy 11-year-old hand, with occasional accent marks over syllables or penciled notes to help me remember tricky words. The edition is from 1970 for the 43rd National Bee, nearly a quarter-century before ESPN first broadcast this ‘educational competition’. I was a spelling-bee-wannabe(e), 36 years before Akeelah came along and made spelling bees seem almost cool for a minute.
“When the World Was a Grocery Store”
Today, grocery stores know more than we wish they did about our lives, our preferences, our purchasing patterns, even our bank accounts. But before scanners, credit and debit cards, and data analysis were invented, grocers like my grandfather knew even more about their customers. They knew them by name and, as neighbors, they knew a great deal about their personal lives.
“Happy Groundhog Day”
So late in 2004, when rumors of the latest public affairs “reorg” began to circulate, I assumed it wouldn’t have any lasting effect on me. I imagined this exercise would be pretty much the same as all the others: Shave away a little dead wood. Give out some new titles. Shake up the chess pieces and rearrange them on the board, more or less in the same configuration they’d had two reorganizations ago. Explain that we had to realign to better serve external and internal customers, to create new synergies, to enhance competitiveness, to focus on core competencies, to be sure the right people were in the right jobs at the right time.
“Suburban Soundscape, April 2020”
Rain fell, and wind blew—familiar sounds, but this April was an especially cruel one for storms. I felt bad weather keenly, since the only escape I got from solitude most days (not counting online and telephonic encounters) was to take a brisk walk (or two, or three). When storms came, they were doozies; the wind shuddered and rasped, sometimes for days at a time. Windows shook. Birds fluttered in and out of the gutters; I could almost hear them sipping stale rainwater.
https://theravensperch.com/suburban-soundscape-april-2020-by-eileen-cunniffe/
“Everything I Need to Know I Am Still Learning from Mary Richards,” a podcast available on PenDust Radio
I kept watching those reruns until Mary and the gang came full circle, back to their now-famous group hug. With Monday-through-Friday episodes, they sped through the 1970s in a time-warping way, even as they stayed stuck in the past.
“Bogside Tutorial” in Global City Review
We were greeted by a ruddy-faced, middle-aged man with a thick, well-worn binder tucked under one arm. He introduced himself as Michael. We introduced ourselves, too. And, as if to establish our credentials—or at least our willingness to slog through Derry in the rain, Angie and I explained our familial connections to his corner of the world. Michael smiled at our enthusiasm, then led us into the Guildhall and upstairs to a large room, where our second history lesson of the day began.
“Dear Santa Fe” in Funny Pearls
In a flash, she popped back into her little shop and out again onto the sidewalk, and started following us down the street while waving a thick syringe in her dainty, possibly French, hand, and wearing (I am certain of it now) a white lab coat, and stilettos.
“Honor Among Commuters” in Emrys Journal Online/Medium
It’s amazing how many bad memories the mind can conjure in an emergency–which to me, this had just become.
“Shall We Dance?” in The RavensPerch
We drifted toward the dance floor in ones and twos. We found each other—brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews, in-laws and cousins—in the midst of all the other happy people gathered for the wedding of Erin and James.
“Somebody Almost” in Still Point Arts Quarterly
Ms. Shange looked so frail it was hard to believe she was only ten years older than me; I learned later that she’d had a series of strokes about a decade earlier. But her voice was still strong, and her words, although I hadn’t actively sought them out in many years, still had the power to yank me back to an earlier time—in my life, in the world, in my evolution as a reader, a writer, a woman.
“The Writing on the Wall” in The RavensPerch
But the truth about that long-ago episode was now indelibly written into our family lore, in thick, wet letters. An event that had been buried for decades had resurfaced, and from then on, references to shoe polish and backwards Ns peppered family conversations and got woven into the punchlines for other stories.
“Happy Hour” in Gravel
The old dinner bell rang out through the neighborhood, calling our scattered tribe home to the brick house in the middle of the block, the house labeled “441.”
“The Granny, the Grocer and the Cobbler” in bioStories
Mom’s voice wavered on the word “granny,” and even from 3,000 miles away I could tell there was an urgency to this call. I knew something about her discovery didn’t quite add up. My grandfather left Ireland after his mother died—that much I knew, and little more about his early life. How could my mother have a grandmother who was still alive, a grandmother none of the Irish relatives had mentioned before?
“When the Bough” in Emrys Journal Online
Late April, my little corner of the world is still recovering from that first, worst storm and three other snowy Nor’easters that followed in rapid succession, none of which has coaxed the broken bough to earth. How, I wonder, have thousands of feathery green baby buds missed the memo announcing the demise of this particular branch?
“Not Too Much to Ask” in The Voices Project
Regardless of the occasion, we all know what’s coming. At some point, over the chatter and the laughter; over the clatter of cutlery and plates being passed around; over the scraping of chairs and the running of water as the teakettle is filled, Mom will lift her voice above it all and issue a singular, regal command, sometimes with one arm raised above her head for emphasis:
“Bring me the sun, the moon and the stars.”
Not Too Much to Ask (Or search for it using the publication date of August 14, 2018.)
“Independence Day” in Wanderlust Journal: A Narrative Map and Lowestoft Chronicle
The sign over the archway that led into this nearly deserted courtyard in an otherwise bustling quarter of the city read Casablanca. In our quest for a memorable meal on the last day of our journey, we’d opted for one of the outdoor, bead-curtained canopies with low, plush sofas, even though we would have been much warmer at an inside table—and it would have been far easier to reach the table and the soup, too.
“Spring Feast” in Hedge Apple, the literary magazine of Hagerstown Community College
So on the first warm spring day of this year, as happy as I am just sipping a cup of tea and solving a crossword puzzle on my newly re-opened porch, I know what must be done. I’ve been saving a recipe I discovered over the winter for just this occasion. As quickly as I can slip into sneakers, I am off, on foot, to the local produce shop. Two words form a mantra in my head as I walk: Asparagus, arugula. Asparagus, arugula. Asparagus, arugula. Blessedly, the produce shop has both—the bright thin stalks and the dark green leaves. The woman at the register nods her approval at the canvas tote I brought along for my vegetables. Ten minutes later, I’m home, happily cluttering up the kitchen counter with everything I need for my impromptu spring feast.
“Sibling Revelry” in Windmill, from Hofstra University
And there on the playroom ceiling, a whole new world opened up–a land of shadows, projected through the branches of the tree, tinted by the red and blue and green and yellow bulbs. Dad wriggled in among us and pointed to a spot just to the left of the treetop. “Up there,” he said, “is a road that leads into the forest. I see a group of boys and girls walking along that road. I wonder where they might be going.”
“Revision, Like Launching a Marble Boat” in Subprimal Poetry Art and Superstition Review
Lately, I’ve been feeling like making myself sit down to start a revision is like trying to make a marble boat float: impossible. The longer I wait, the more I convince myself I’ll be disappointed with my writing—and, because mostly I write personal essays—with my life.
“When Someone Knows” in TheRavensPerch
A flurry of arrivals, une carafe de vin rouge, and the play begins.
“Leaving Inishmurray” in The RavensPerch
The ruins of the ancient monastery had made quite an impression. The blessing altar, the cursing altar, the beehive cells, the cemetery, the holy well, the two small churches. But as we left Inishmurray, I found myself more taken with the recent ruins—the roofless, crumbling stone and concrete walls from fifteen small homes dating to the 19th century, but lived in as recently as 1948.
“Everything I Need to Know I Am Still Learning from Mary Richards” in Bluestem Magazine
In more ways than one, I’d grown up with Mary Richards, who landed that job at WJM when she was 30 and I was nearly 12. Mary and the gang at WJM…kept me entertained throughout my formative years, often on nights when I had babysitting gigs and had to be sure to put the kids to bed before Mary came on.
Everything I Need to Know I Am Still Learning from Mary Richards
“Famous Pink Raincoat” in The Voices Project
On the last business trip of that chapter of my life, I fell for a pink, belted, double-breasted, knee-length raincoat from Jones New York, in the crowded racks of Filene’s Basement in San Francisco. I folded it into my suitcase for the flight home to Philadelphia, thinking how au courant I would look on the vacation I’d planned with my friend Lorraine.
“Trouble Making” in Superstition Review
The problems Mom creates are different from mine. She’s a visual artist, and her works are almost always abstract paintings. I’m a writer, and my works are almost always creative nonfiction. So in many ways we live at opposite ends of the storytelling spectrum.
Also see: www.rmcunniffe.com
“Stitches In Nine” in Referential Magazine
…and though there never will be more than a tacit acknowledgement that we are each glad to have the other nearby, we know we are in this thing together. We are listening to a staticky late-night broadcast of a Phillies game from the West Coast, in the distant 1970s when most of our baseball experiences were transmitted through that radio.
“Necessary Things” in Wild Violet Magazine
I’m writing this backwards, I suppose. The diamond earrings were tucked away in a drawer long before Erin came to visit. Gray Bunny didn’t disappear for some months after that. In fact, Erin and Gray Bunny crossed paths during the college-tour visit, although Grace did not have an occasion to see the soccer cleats — which is too bad, because she would have delighted in their utter pinkness.
“Interior Spaces” in Superstition Review
It felt good to be swinging a hammer, good to be working my body, giving my mind a rest. I felt busy, productive. And oddly satisfied to be breaking things down, splintering wood and dismantling the dark-stained desk, the uneven shelves, the flimsy cabinets. Out with the old.
“Alternate Routes” in Imitation Fruit
From the first time I rode the trolley and the El, I was hooked. I was hooked a little bit on the trolley—a swaying, one-car conveyance where passengers and drivers cordially greet each other and the experience has the feel of a small-town outing. But mostly I was hooked on the El, and all it has to offer, to a theater-loving commuter from the suburbs who no longer travels alone.
“Me and Van Morrison” in Superstition Review Blog
Writing always was my Plan A. Anything else I’ve ever done on the way to becoming a writer, I stumbled into more than sought out, thereby proving—if you follow my logic—that I never had a Plan B.
“Baby Soup” in Journal of Microliterature
Like any two-year-old, Ben knew how to express—in subtle and not-so-subtle ways—the concept of “no.” One day after he stepped into the small garden at the back of my parents’ yard, I lifted him out and suggested he ought not to step on Grandma Rosie’s nice flowers. He held my gaze for a moment, letting me know he understood what I’d said. Then he wriggled away and traipsed right into one end of the same flower bed and out the other side, laughing all the while, just to be absolutely certain I knew he knew what I’d said.
“Dear Phillies” in Hippocampus Magazine
I know the deadline for applications for Ballgirl positions for the 2012 season has long since passed, and I know you explicitly asked for a video to support each written application. But I’m not sure a video would help my chances of becoming a Ballgirl, even if I had the technological wherewithal to videotape myself looking all perky and dodging ground balls while proclaiming the merits of adding me to your lineup.
“Ghost Story” in Prime Number Magazine
Spontaneous applause rippled through the hotel ballroom in waves, a new one breaking even before the last had receded. The audience had already been primed as they made their way through the breakfast buffet. The anticipation had been palpable as the thousand or so swarmed into the ballroom after breakfast and made their way noisily into tiers of banquet seats arrayed along collapsible metal bleachers. The bleachers surrounded an impressive but temporary stage that had been erected overnight by a production crew using simple risers, aluminum piping, black drapes and lighting. All part of the magic, appropriately taking place just a few miles from Disney World.
“Consignments” in Superstition Review
One fine day last spring, I assigned myself the task of making my peace, once and for all, with the little red dress. I set apart time to spend with the dress, to see it for what it is: a mere few yards of polyester, lined with a few more yards of polyester; purchased for a not-too-considerable sum after more-than-considerable window shopping and dressing-room angst; worn once, ten summers ago, for one unenchanted evening at the end of what had seemed a promising week; then consigned to a closet, an attic and finally—or so I thought—a second-hand shop.
“Sifting Through It” in Ascent
For years I’ve been faithfully following this recipe, happily sinking my hands nearly wrist-deep into a floury mess to meld slivers of softened butter—one quarter-pound per loaf—into the dry ingredients. And for years I’ve shared the recipe with anyone who asks for it, happily inscribing Aunt Susie’s name at the top of every index card. In keeping with the spirit of the recipe, I always copy it over by hand, sifting each word through my fingers every time.
“Jake’s Sweet Blue Ride” in SNReview
Jake was not in the mood for his morning ritual. And who could blame him for balking at having his bladder emptied through a catheter, being strapped into leg braces then helped into his clothes, being served a breakfast that most likely would not stay down, having to swallow the pink and blue medicines and then puff three times on an inhaler? Along the way his short blond hair was styled into “spikes” and many smears were wiped from his eyeglasses. And all before 7:30, so Jake could pull himself into the bright blue wheelchair with a Power Ranger backpack draped over the handles, then roll through the kitchen door and down a ramp to the compact yellow school bus with a hydraulic lift.
“That Breathless Charm” in Philadelphia Stories
Some girls are a foot taller than their partners, requiring the boys to tilt their heads at awkward angles to maintain eye contact and avoid staring into the budding breasts of classmates. While some dancers blush, others can’t stop grinning. While some glide, others shuffle. Some audibly count steps, while others hum along to the music. The boy in blue is one smooth dancer; the periwinkle shoes saunter through the slow steps and sprint through the fast ones.
“The Great Butter Caper of Chartres”
- First published in Wild River Review
- Recognized by Travelers’ Tales Solas Awards, Gold Winner in “Travel and Food” category
As has frequently been my experience in France, we arrived in town just moments after the clock struck two, thereby forfeiting any chance at a freshly prepared midday meal. While the Detroit contingent lounged in their rooms, we strolled to the town center and settled for café au lait and pre-fab Croque Monsieur sandwiches, which tasted like the plastic they were wrapped in. Our dinner plans began to take on greater urgency we’d been in France since dawn and had yet to experience the least little thrill over what we’d ingested.
“Pilgrimages to the Edge”
- Recognized by Travelers’ Tales Solas Awards, Silver Winner in “Most Unforgettable Character” category
- Published in the Travelers’ Tales anthology A Woman’s World Again
If I hadn’t been spooked by a newspaper headline, I wouldn’t have found myself in an ambulance on Achill Island, off the coast of Ireland. Of course I wouldn’t have met Pat either, and that would be my great misfortune. The bold headline, glimpsed over the shoulder of a fellow passenger on a Galway-bound bus from Shannon International, read as follows: 10 DEAD IN ROAD ACCIDENTS IN ONE WEEKEND. Hardly encouraging news the day before I was to collect a rental car and begin working my way up Ireland’s jagged west coast.
Eileen Cunniffe 
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