by Karin M. Gertsch
The rhythm of my early childhood was as regulated as the Swiss clock chiming on the wall in our foyer in Cologne. Then one day, when I was six years old, my grandmother was forced to change the course of our lives. Continue reading
by Russell Thayer
Maggie waited on a barstool, ready to enjoy a night of hot jazz. Another long day of restaurant work had ended, and she was finally free of her custard-yellow uniform, white apron, and the idiotic mutterings of her co worker, Eve. The thought of Ronnie Johnson’s Combo on stage soon at the New Orleans Swing Club made Maggie snap her fingers with excitement. She’d dance tonight if a man asked her. Someday she might even get up on stage and beat that old piano herself. Continue reading
by Sara Backer
During the war, my grandmother mailed springerle
to American soldiers in Germany. They could survive
the trip, their cookie lifespan equal to three hundred human years.
Two days to beat, to chill, to roll, to stamp, to bake their sugar,
flour, and eggs. She used a wooden mold of six pictures
carved by my great-grandfather in Dresden.