Ian M. Anderson

El Dorado Avenue. When Mrs. George thought about it, that name fit only if your eyes were right; the street was not paved with gold, nor did it lead to a golden city. But it did lead somewhere, somewhere she'd been, somewhere she tired to show others who happened by her place. Beginning at the western edge of Kittle Park, perpendicular to First Street, El Dorado snaked away to the west, narrowed, and ended in a tangle of weeds and tall grass; the river passed on close by. Houses had not been planned but seemed to spring up here and there out of the very ground; most of them predated Mrs. George, and she'd been there from time immemorial. The only house that could be seen from First Street, and the only house worth looking at, was hers, and it sat like a lighthouse on the corner. Its front faced the park and First, and the southern side reached down into El Dorado. Made of wispy willow branches, Mrs. George's chair comforted her; from the corner of her wrap-around porch sh

Ice taps my helmet and overlarge goggles, and the sting upon my neck is clear and biting; it is here -- in the snow, the ration truck's lights trailing away, disappearing -- here I decide this is my final portion. Without permission (for who gives permission now?), I remove my protection, my gloves, my headgear, my coat. Snow and sleet fall as before, as they have, as they will, and in the midst of the cold I burn. This I do to make ready. Slowly, my boots shuffle of their own accord through the frozen slush to the shelter and the fire within that must never go out. It is signal; it is life. And yet the wood-gathering hours are few. We are few.  Sitting now in front of the fire, the strong heat of its flames on my face, I'm reminded of a time from long ago. The flickering shadows on the hearth, they replay an image for me: It was summer, a morning in July, and the sunlight filtered onto our living room floor through the leaves of a large flowering pear tree that grew just outsi