Topic: This year's topic focuses on overcoming obstacles. Here are some wise words to help you get started:

1. The Spirit of Cherry Pie, by Mary Lee Fulkerson, Reno NV (FIRST PRIZE!)
2. The Face in The Mirror, by Linda Hoye, Auburn WA
3. Glowworm, by Linda Sievers, Arcata CA
4. Morgan's Legacy, by Michelle Welch, Bakersfield CA

We know you will enjoy these stories as much as we do. Congratulations to our four winners! And look for an announcement of our next competition in June, 2010.

"It's easy, mom!" My daughter, Cathy, pushed the heavy door to my new domain: the University of Nevada art department. I smiled to hide my panic as Cathy hurried to class, unaware she was the reason for my dropping out 20 years earlier—colleges in the 50's did not welcome pregnant women. And now my wonderful daughter gave me the courage to return.

I smelled wet plaster and oil paint, and my fluttering stomach reminded me I was about to enter a realm where passion was again possible. But could I do it? Could I recapture that old bliss that gave my life such meaning?

At forty, I wondered if it was too late. The fearless girl who once raced a bucking horse alongside a clattering freight train, who tried to swim across Lake Tahoe in the nude—this wild girl was long gone, replaced by the dutiful Military Officer's wife, relegated to the status of temporary guest on any army post. Who, when stationed in Germany, needed her husband's permission to obtain a driver's license. Who became the perfect army wife, knowing when to remove one white glove in the receiving line and the correct number of calling cards to leave in the silver tray when calling upon the commanding general and his wife. The husband left two cards and the wife, one, for a lady (me) never, ever called upon a gentleman (the general).

I was through with that woman. She bored me to death.

I dodged my way down the crowded hall to sculpture class. I was majoring in art and minoring in journalism this time. I blushed when my advisor smirked that I was one of the oldest students in both fields.

Fortunately, I found Darlene, a fellow "oldie", and we discovered the miracles of sculpture together. We filed a block of plaster into a perfect egg and shared our terror of the welder's sparks. We had two things in common: our age and our ecstatic awakening to all possibility in art. Soon we were going for coffee together. I was curious about Darlene, since her colorful language put my tame and proper speech to shame. She would fingercomb her wispy mane of faded red hair and let loose with a line of cuss words that even the lumberjacks I knew in childhood never used. Every time she said the word "fuck" my face burned like a firecracker on the Fourth of July, and it was all I could do not to run screaming from the room. Yet she was, like me, desperate to learn, and I found myself drawn to her. We were two seekers discussing Louise Nevelson (her favorite) and Eva Hesse (mine).

One day Darlene mentioned her former job, and I asked about it.

"I was a hooker."

"Oooohhhhh." OMG, I was friends with a prostitute! As usual, there went my face, getting hot as all sorts of questions came forward. How could she? It must have been horrible. Or was it? But I, ever the polite military wife, didn't ask.

In the Journalism department, a new professor arrived. Bill Jones, an Associated Press reporter, wanted to produce a brilliant class. I loved his assignments, and when I wasn't sculpting, I scavenged the campus, interviewing women coaches and minority students for the controversial stories he wanted.

One day Bill presented the ultimate challenge: write an expose. A real one. Right away, Darlene and her former career popped into my head, so at coffee, I asked if I could interview her for my big assignment. Knowing how much this grade meant to me, she agreed to reveal all, but on one condition: I could not disclose her real name.

I agreed. "What did they call you back then? We'll use that."

"Cherry Pie."

What an interview! My reporter's notebook filled with the proceedings at Mustang ranch, the legal brothel east of Reno, where Darlene, a.k.a. "Cherry Pie", once worked. She told of the city fathers and civic leaders who received what she called "freebies" in exchange for favors to Joe Conforte, Mustang's infamous owner. She described the "pimps" who controlled the girls' finances, taking everything they earned from "turning tricks" and doling back a only few dollars, and of the physicians who would diagnose a disease even if there wasn't one, in order to receive payoffs from the girls. Her story was horrible and eye-opening. I discovered a new, unsavory world, and I wrote about it with all my heart and soul.

Professor Bill jumped on my story with a rush of titillated ecstasy. He called it the perfect expose and contacted the AP wire service; they were going to run it in newspapers across the country, with my byline.

Me—famous! And I'd make enough money to pay for the final semester of college! The only thing Bill needed, in order to verify the authenticity of the story, was the name of my source.

I smiled. "Oh, I can't give you that."

Bill rose up to his full stance as newspaper professional and thundered, "Mary Lee, we've got to have that hooker's name! You have a future in this business!" Bill promised to help me get a job anywhere I wanted. He simply needed the name of this one second-rate whore in order to expose the biggest story to ever come out of Reno, Nevada.

Shaking in my boots at this man who was every bit as important as a general, or maybe God, I quivered. I quavered. Then I slowly shook my head.

"I can't do that. I gave her my word."

The argument grew. Bill was determined, and his language and threats escalated. Fortunately, thanks to Darlene, I'd learned some new language as well. There in the hallway, jostled by startled passers-by, I stood face to face with my professor, firing his words back at him in loud, embarrassing tirades, and a part of me stood back and watched myself in shock. How could I be doing this? But I was. I did.

And the story of the Mustang Ranch was never revealed.

I didn't tell Darlene about the fight. She and I continued having coffee and talking art, but I knew that experience of defending a principle against a god had changed me. I began to question my art professor. I refused to accept his demeaning critiques of my work and defended it hotly. Surprisingly, he gave me A's. I began questioning the entire art department, an all male faculty, for expecting a female student majority to conform to their ideas of what art should be. Oh, I was righteous, and it felt so good!

The months raced by, and I was filled once again with the wild spirit of my childhood. A brand new beginning was at hand, and I would go on to a long, successful art career.

One day towards semester's end, I came to class and found Darlene's seat empty. I never saw her again. But my good friend, "Cherry Pie", without knowing it, had held up a window for me to gaze through and re-discover my true self.

I will remember her all the days of my life.

About the author:
Mary Lee Fulkerson makes contemporary baskets and has exhibited nationally. She is author of Weavers of Tradition and Beauty, about Native basket makers of the Great Basin, and A Basket of Blessings, a perpetual calendar. She is wife to one, mother to three, grandmother to five wonderful folks. Her work can be seen on her website.

It is morning. Classical music from my clock radio gently guides me to consciousness. The deep and regular breathing of my husband combines with the soft music in a melody that tempts me to linger in our sleigh bed sanctuary. Sleep is an elusive visitor these days and I am reluctant to leave her behind when she visits. Nevertheless I rise, still struggling to surface from the comfort of sleep, and stumble to the bathroom.

I stand before the mirror, nearsighted and without the help of contact lenses or glasses. All I see are blurry shapes, so I lean forward for a better look. As I gaze into the sleepy eyes of the woman in the mirror I whisper "where did you come from?" for I barely recognize the tired face looking back at me. The eyelids that seem to droop more with each passing day remind me of faded crepe paper left over from a party that lasted too long. The whites of her eyes are slightly bloodshot and the skin underneath is dark and puffy. Her skin is blotchy and there is a blemish near her eyebrow. A blemish, for heaven sake, at age fifty! Her lips are thin and tiny wrinkles fan out from them like spikes of the dracaena I planted yesterday. Her hair is short and darker than it was a few years ago.

I fill the sink with warm water and dip my washcloth a few times. Some women say that at a certain point in life they see their mother's face looking back at them when they look into the mirror. I never knew my own mother and so if she is there I don't recognize her. In fact, as I look at the face in the mirror I find that she reminds me of another woman I once knew.

I see myself at twenty years of age in the unwrinkled face of a young mother. She is tired from caring for a baby and yet her eyes still sparkle. She wears no makeup, save for black mascara, and her lips are full and turned up in an expectant smile. Her hair is long and blonde and falls straight over her shoulders. She feels somewhat trapped by the circumstances that have become her life, yet is hopeful that things will change. She is proud of the fact that she is often told that she is good for her husband, but sometimes wonders if he is good for her. "Be strong", I want to tell her. "Make the hard choices now and you will save yourself from heartache you can't even imagine". I know she won't heed my warning. She thinks she has it all figured out.

I lift the wet cloth to my face and hold it for a few moments.

Breathing slowly and deeply I take comfort in the warmth of the cloth and the sanctuary that it has made for me. Finally I remove it and my eyes open to another face in the mirror.

She is me at thirty and her eyes are clear and strong. The hope that was there at twenty has changed to hunger for a life that somehow seems just out of her grasp. Her hair is shorter now and is cut in a new professional style, for she has just finished college and landed the job of her dreams. She is working full time, raising two children, and coping with a heavy drinking husband. She wishes and prays for him to change but deep down inside she is beginning to lose hope. "It's not too late", I want to tell her. "Don't let go of your dreams." I can tell that she has heard snippets of my advice and is considering her options.

I take refuge in the warm, wet cloth once again breathing in the moist heat. When I look up, a face similar to the others gazes back at me. This time there is something different in her eyes.

She is forty and her eyes tell the story of pain and hard times that she has come through. She finally mustered the strength to leave her marriage and subsequently endured years of depression, guilt, stress and hopelessness. Eventually, she emerged wiser and is now on the path to a new life. She has recently remarried and feels like a young woman again. I'm proud of her, because for the first time in her life she did what she wanted and needed to do. Her face is beginning to show signs of her age, but she barely notices. She is enjoying her life.

Then she vanishes and the woman I am today remains. I am fifty and I look haggard in the morning light. It will take some makeup-magic to make me presentable to the world. Yet in the eyes that are beginning to disappear under sagging eyelids, I see a glimpse of the future. I see the bright eyes of my baby granddaughter.

I have no mother to compare my mature self with, but I have a son, daughter and granddaughter who may one day compare their own aging faces with mine. This thought inspires me to go forward and to follow my dreams. I owe it to the younger women who visited me in the mirror this morning. I owe it to my son and daughter, and I owe it to my granddaughter.

They say she has my eyes.

About the author:
I am an HR Business Analyst living in Washington state with my husband and our two Yorkshire Terriers. Last year, as I began to contemplate my upcoming fiftieth birthday, I thought about hopes and dreams that I had set aside in the past. Now, I have returned to my love of writing and I am working on a memoir. Story Circle Network has encouraged and inspired me to nourish this creative side of myself. For that, I am thankful.

She changed my life. The day I met her defined the next fifty seven years of my life. By her example I discovered a love for dance that would lead me into my careers as a dance professional and educator, providing me the opportunity to inspire lives as she had illumined mine.

Her name was Laetitia, Latin for joy. We students called her Miss Hoffman.

I was three years old in 1949 when my mother and I walked into her dance studio.

Miss Hoffman's raspy voice greeted me. "Why, hello there. Who is this lovely little glowworm all dressed in yellow? Do you know what glowworms do?"

Peeking from behind my mother I blurted, "They twinkle!"

"They certainly do. If you take my hand, we'll learn to dance and twinkle just like the glowworms."

Thick-boned and large-framed, she weighed nearly three hundred thirty pounds; a most unlikely dance teacher, yet, she was knowledgeable, rhythmic and versatile. Short, black curly hair framed her porcelain-rose face always adorned with a generous smile. Shelton Stroller dresses rippled around her well proportioned, ample figure, as essences of Chantilly wafted with her every move.

Challenging today's diet precautions, Miss Hoffman lived eighty four years on cheeseburgers, French Fries, beer, and chocolate peanut clusters. Laughter was her panacea for longevity. I don't ever recall seeing her sick.

Her apartment beneath the dance studio was profuse with antique furniture and dainty figurines. As we students tapped, flip-flopped, and jumped overhead, "Duchess," her beloved Sealyham terrier, waddled patiently amidst the rattle of delicate china statuettes.

Miss Hoffman had a keen instinct for making every child who came into her studio feel special. I was no exception. When I reached age twelve she invited me to demonstrate ballet, tap, and jazz material to her younger students. I felt excited and honored to be given this position of responsibility. I could hardly wait for the school dismissal bell to ring at 3:00 P. M. so I could race to the dance studio and envelope myself in a world filled with music and dance.

Through Miss Hoffman's example I learned to work congenially with children and parents. I answered the phone and took messages for other voice and piano teachers in her establishment. At recital time, I learned creative problem solving by constructing simple sets and props. I saw that loving your work meant never becoming burdened by work. Nothing was impossible. People who weighed three hundred thirty pounds could dance beautifully.

After high school, I left home to dance professionally. I performed in musicals and later, was a soloist and corps member in regional ballet and modern dance companies on both the east and west coasts.

Upon my return home, I attended an outstanding dance concert by a younger, more contemporary teacher in town. Having taken professional level classes while touring, I decided that this teacher offered challenges better suited to my career goals to teach young adults, but I was painfully torn between my love for Miss Hoffman, and my need for a professional environment in which to grow.

Laetitia Hoffman had been my teacher since I was a baby. She inspired me to dance. How could I make her understand that I would forever value what she had given to me, but her children's classes could no longer fulfill my needs? How would I feel years from now if I did not take this opportunity to pursue advanced study? Wasn't I supposed to expand the dream she had helped inspire in me by being free to make it my own?

With hesitancy, I broached the subject of my decision to study with the other teacher.

Miss Hoffman's demeanor changed, dramatically. Coldly, she said she understood taking professional level classes while I was touring out-of-town, but, how could I even consider taking classes with her competitor.

My heart stuck in my throat. I answered that it was because of her that I wanted to teach and to inspire others to dance. I did not want to teach children. I wanted to teach in a university. I needed more advanced training.

Miss Hoffman's eyes glared at me. She said her life's work had been with children. Her voice broke when she said she was deeply hurt to think that I no longer valued her expertise. She asked me to leave her studio.

I was devastated.

But, I was determined to pursue my dream to create a successful life based on my love for dance. I spent the next two years studying and performing with her competitor before leaving home permanently to earn two degrees in dance performance and choreography.

Fifteen years passed after that painful parting with Miss Hoffman, with no communication between us. I was teaching dance in a state university, working toward tenure.

During a visit home my mother encouraged me to call Miss Hoffman, who, surprisingly, wanted to see me. I feared our years of separation would strain our visit. I was nervous as mom and I drove across town.

Miss Hoffman opened her door. A soft whispering of Chantilly permeated the summer evening. Her raspy voice welcomed us. She served cold drinks. I could see her knees bothered her as she moved cautiously among her delicate antiques. We reminisced and laughed over shared experiences. She missed Duchess, who had died years ago. She asked if I liked teaching young adults. She offered to sell me her business. I thanked her, but said my life was well established in academia on the west coast. We never mentioned our parting. Soon it was time to leave.

My mother went to the car. Don't weaken, I thought to myself. I turned and held Miss Hoffman's eyes.

"Thank you for teaching me to love dance. It has illuminated my life."

In the soft evening twilight I followed her gaze as she scanned the Elm trees lining her yard. Then she looked at me and smiled.

"You credit me more than I deserve. I was unfair to you the last time we saw each other. I was hurt that I could not provide the training you needed. But I am honored to have been the first to teach you to love dance, and that you are sharing it now with others."

Ten years later, I received a letter from my mother who wrote that Laetitia had been hospitalized for surgery and was recovering nicely when suddenly, her heart gave out. Included with mom's letter was an obituary clipping. I still have it.

I feel blessed to have had a career doing what I deeply loved. For thirty years I taught in universities where I developed courses and curriculum for a dance major, choreographed student dance concerts, and mentored students into careers.

Repeatedly, students told me that they experienced an unexplainable, transcending, and soul connecting joy in my classes.

Remembering back to the scent of Chantilly and echoes of a raspy voice, to a world filled with music and dance, and a large, graceful woman, who inspired a dream that filled my life, I smile.

I will never forget Laetitia Hoffman, who radiated joy into my being the day she took my hand and turned me into a dancing glowworm.

About the author:
Born in Springfield, Illinois, Linda began dancing at age three studying ballet, tap, jazz, and acrobatics. She pursued her BA in dance at the Universities of Illinois and Maryland and received her MFA from the University of Utah. In 1980 she began teaching young adults ballet, modern dance, choreography, performance, and world dance at Humboldt State University in northern California. She served as chair for the Department of Theatre, Film and Dance before retiring in 2006.

Linda is married to artist Douglas Sievers. They have three daughters and three grandchildren.

Writing is a new, challenging, and enjoyable pursuit for Linda.

Sitting in the front row of the crowded conference room in Houston, I could only feel pride for my son, Mark, and a deep sense of humility as he stood to address the dignitaries assembled on stage, "Dr Christofanilli, honored guests, friends, and family. Today, with the dedication of the Morgan Welch Inflammatory Breast Cancer Clinic at M. D. Anderson Cancer Center here in Houston, we celebrate the beginning of the end of IBC..." Mark's speech was passionate as he shared of his love for his wife, Morgan, his hatred of the cancer that had stolen her, his dreams and hopes for the IBC Clinic that now would bear her name.

A bird landed briefly on the windowsill near me. My thoughts wandered to the last day in Morgan's hospital room. Her CD player issued the soft "whooshing" sound of ocean waves in her room, a recording that brought her beloved ocean here to the medical center. The sound of waves and seagulls bringing my 24-year old daughter-in-law closer in heart to the beaches she loved on the Florida Gulf Coast. She lay in bed, listening, clearly annoyed with the bird sounds.

With only two chairs in the private room, the seating was awkward. Mark occupied the chair near Morgan, gently coaxing her to sip a vanilla milkshake. Morgan's Aunt Cindy and her mother, Pam, shared the other chair, a sleeper/recliner. I sat perched on the deep windowsill at the back of the room. Pam's friend, David, paced uncomfortably in and out of the room.

Dr. Christofanelli was a commanding presence as he walked into the room in his white lab coat. Following him were five female clinicians from the breast cancer unit, each wearing a white lab coat with identification tags. Each team member carried a clipboard of papers. Each woman wore a stethoscope hanging from her pocket or at her neck. The medical team focused on their pale patient lying in bed.

"Good morning, good morning," Dr. C. spoke briskly, a soft and friendly familiarity in his voice. He had grown to know his youngest breast cancer patient well. She was his tenacious ally in the battle. "How are you feeling today Morgan?" he inquired gently, bending near her. Morgan's face and limbs were swollen, evidence of her lymph system shutting down. Wisps of inch long, patchy dark hair belied the thick raven locks that once had been her favorite feature. A pink makeup bag nearby was evidence that she had anticipated this visit with the best intention of being well groomed for a call. It was her Southern way.

The hospital bed hissed and buzzed softly beneath her. Morgan opened her tired eyes briefly, a nod to the doctor and a glance at her husband, my son, Mark, her response. She moved her lips slightly upward in a small, brave smile, and the team members smiled back, delighted. She was a fighter, and they knew it well. Mark gazed at her with heartbreaking tenderness.

In the back of the room, I felt I had invaded a deeply private moment. I glanced outside, watching the cars six stories below me driving into the parking garage. I considered that there is all the time in the world, or perhaps no time at all, for some of those people driving by.

Dr. C. sat down on the end of Morgan's bed in a fatherly gesture, "Morgan, Mark, I am so very sorry to tell you this news. Morgan, the metastasis is spread now to both lungs, and the tumors in your brain, there are too many, and we have not been successful in arresting them." Dr. C.'s Italian accent was thickening with emotion as he struggled for composure. "We have fought a very difficult and brave battle. I have no more to offer. I am so very sorry." He paused a moment, letting this news settle on the family in the room. I felt a knot rise in my throat.

Dr. C continued gently, "Your time is likely very short." Do you understand what I am saying, Morgan?"

Mark leaned nearer his wife, wrapping an arm around her as he spoke, "Do you understand, Dr. C., Morgan?"

Morgan opened her eyes, and looked at Mark for a few seconds, studying his face. Then nodding, she leaned into his shoulder as a tear slipped down her cheek. Mark continued, "Do you know where the cancer is, now honey?" He asked her gently. She responded slowly and deliberately, first nodding her head, and then bringing her hand to her chest and up to her head, tapping each lightly. She knew.

Mark held her long and gently, as if he were caressing a newborn. Then wiping his own tears and taking a deep breath, he turned to Dr. C. "What do we need to do now, sir?" Mark's US Air Force training over the past five years showed in his respect for his senior in command.

"Its time to ask Morgan what she wants to do," Dr. C stated gently. "Morgan, what do you want? Do you want to stay here or go home?"

Morgan pressed back into her pillows, the expression on her face showing deep concentration. I could only imagine her thoughts as she considered MD Anderson Cancer Clinic, which had become home much of the past 18 months. Mark had pushed her wheelchair through these halls on Valentine's Day as they had shared pink M&MS with the staff. They'd made crafts together in the art room to pass time. The highly private prank of sneaking Morgan's little dog into her hospital room for a visit had transpired here. Living in Florida had been such a brief part of their 20-month marriage. But it was still home. "Go home," she whispered.

Mark again leaned in and whispered, "Where is home, honey?"

Morgan focused again, her eyes still closed, and we were all leaning in now to hear her. "Fort Walton Beach." She uttered. "See my ocean... no seagulls." Mark smiled back at her through his tears, understanding her loathing for the birds and her love for the white sand beach of her childhood. "We will go home, babe. I will take you home."

***

The handsome Italian doctor was smiling now, eyes brimming as he stood at the podium embracing Mark, the two men sharing a moment of remembrance and, and hope and celebration.

Sometimes overcoming means winning at great odds. Sometimes it simply means giving your very best, doing the right thing even though the odds are stacked against you. Morgan and Mark had agreed from day one not to give up on cancer treatment. And they never did. More important, they never gave up on each other. They chose to be over comers of circumstance, and their love grew and flourished despite huge obstacles. Our loss of Morgan, albeit pain filled, birthed great gain and we have all been profoundly changed because of her. I will remember Morgan Welch, and continue the fight against IBC in her name.

About the author:
Michelle Welch lives in central California with her husband, Mark, and her little doxie mutt friend, Grace. She has three sons and a daughter and two grandchildren. Michelle enjoys writing as well as dabbling in water color painting, and she also posesses a passion for teaching others about IBC. To learn more, please visit the Erase IBC website.