PortFire

Archives from 2011-2025

Author: ellery twining

  • The Neighborhood Fire

    during the 1970’s, even in my small riverside village,
    a certain social order revolved around
    what type of swimming pool
    was installed on your property.

    the scientist who installed the first
    solar panels i had ever seen
    did not have a pool.
    he filled a cheap plastic substitute,
    bought at the local discount store,
    with cold water from the garden hose.

    the businessman, who ran a recycling plant,
    installed a solar blanket,
    to keep their in ground pool
    at a consistent temperature.
    he openly invited us to swim
    and share what his children,
    who were our friends,
    were privileged to know.

    my best friends in the neighborhood;
    a set of identical twins,
    were the fortunate recipients of an
    above ground pool-
    twice the size my parents could afford.

    the Eastman’s house was exactly halfway between
    my house and the twins.
    they also had a pool. it was surrounded by a wooden deck,
    and a traditional slat fence where the Eastman’s
    had hung a few humorous signs dictated by that
    particular decade. the wooden signs were held
    by loose framing wire on exposed
    nails which were already showing signs of rust.

    “i don’t swim in your toilet-
    don’t pee in my pool.”

    my family, under some social duress,
    bought an entry level pool
    at the local discount store.
    i was surprised my parents felt a need
    to keep up with the Eastmans,
    or the Carpenters, or the Peters.
    were they actualizing equality,
    or an illusion?
    perhaps,
    it was about their own
    reconciliation.

    the local firehouse was located
    a city block from my childhood home.
    we were not in a city- however the opening of the firehouse doors,
    and the initial blare of the sirens,
    were intoxicating to us; the unknowing dictated our attention.
    everything would cease
    as we tried to catch a glimpse
    of the deep red vehicles
    as they exited
    under the perforated glass walls
    that would would ceremoniously rise
    after the alarm.

    the trucks never had to enter
    into our neighborhood.

    in the twilight of this evening,
    as i toweled off, pleading
    for one last minute in the pool;
    we heard the first siren.

    “they are coming down the Avenue.”
    stated my mother, with an unavoidably
    specific declaration.
    she was correct, as we heard the tires of the firetrucks
    grind as they took the right hand turn onto
    Overlook Avenue.
    ambulances from various districts
    began to appear,
    the Hoxie Hook and Ladder arrived in support.
    as we watched the distress unfold,
    we crept closer to the fire.

    “where is Jeremy? have you seen him?”

    i watched my mother ask my father
    a question
    he had no answer to.
    the sirens continued to commandeer
    the frequency of an emergency.

    i suddenly understood their temporary
    commitment,
    their vows.

    i followed my mother down the Avenue,
    as she began asking anyone in earshot, out of desperation,
    “have you seen Jeremy….?”

    “hey Mom, i’m over here…”

    he was standing next to one of the firetrucks,
    whose tires towered over him.
    “that tire could have killed you!”

    “i just wanted to watch…”

    i walked briskly past the Eastmans driveway,
    toward our house,
    toward what i anticipated was coming next.

    i overheard the Fire Chief ask Mr. Eastman if the Fire Department
    could drain his pool to fight the fire.

  • My First Christmas With Dad

    my father moved into a first floor apartment
    of an old Victorian house at the edge
    of the Thames River.

    i enjoyed the every other weekend
    arrangement of the divorce.
    his apartment was so unlike
    my home during the other
    twenty seven days of the month.

    the old, creaky floors provided a soothing comfort.
    the whitewashed plaster walls
    crumbling in slow motion, however,
    barely held the ancient
    sinks in place.
    my brother and i slept on two inflatable
    beach rafts in my father’s cramped bedroom, just off the kitchen.
    late night odors would wake me,
    when his roommate returned from a night out on the town.
    hastily heating frozen pirogi
    with a hint of
    buttered toast.

    my father and his roommate, Charlie
    were in strict observance of their
    commitment to watch televised games of the
    National Football League.
    Miller Brewing of Milwaukee, Wisconsin
    spent excessively, promoting
    their Lite Beer
    on those broadcasts.

    while staring jealousy at the
    inside cover art of the
    J. Geil’s Band’s “Full House” live LP,
    i overhead my father’s voice
    following a particular Lite Beer commercial.

    “we can win that contest! i have an idea that
    is foolproof!”

    the Milwaukee brewer had created
    a contest- the best holiday display
    integrating their product would win
    a year of free beer.
    the contestants had to submit
    their photographic proof
    by the 29th of November.

    the two of them decided to appropriate
    a shopping cart, on uneven wheels,
    from the local grocery store
    to house their harvest;
    and the possibility
    of an entire calendar year of free beer.

    the majority of an NFL season
    of Lite Beer cans
    were meticulously rinsed out,
    and placed in the grocery cart
    outside the backdoor,
    beside the rust ridden aluminum garbage cans.

    the weekend after Thanksgiving
    was a scheduled stay with my father.
    he and Charlie started decorating a small tree
    they cut down on the property of a co-worker
    who owned land in the quiet corner;
    with beer cans from a shopping cart
    to compete in a corporate contest.

    i watched as the two of them
    meticulously bent beer tabs
    into the proper position
    to hang the can with the same traditional ornament hooks
    my mother took care to recycle
    after each Christmas celebration.

    i could not remember a holiday season
    where my father actualized such an
    attention to the detail of holiday decoration.
    he was fully convinced of the importance of the contest;
    at one point he asked Charlie
    to adjust the string of lights
    to better reflect off of the aluminum cans.

    we spent Christmas Eve with a few co-worker friends of my mother;
    young girls working at the nursing home
    trying to get ahead in their nascent working lives.
    their small apartment was fashioned to feel celebratory,
    but i simply wanted to be alone
    with headphones and a stack of 8 track tapes.
    they gifted my brother and me
    a dart board set,
    which my mother immediately confiscated.

    during our way home from that event,
    my mother decided to take the long way to Mystic,
    circling back through the City of Groton
    to scout what may be happening at my father’s apartment
    on Christmas Eve.

    she was correct; which she consistently reminded us of.
    he was throwing a party,
    with his roommate,
    at the apartment.

    as we traversed the icy sidewalk
    from the car to the front door,
    i was running through the scenarios
    i would inevitably have to be in the middle of,
    when my father came face to face with my mother
    on this night.

    “you are hosting a party tonight?” she hissed through closed teeth.

    “yeah, why wouldn’t i?”

    “because it’s Christmas Eve, and you
    should have thought of your kids first.
    but you had to think of yourself first, again….”

    i could sense the tension throughout the room;
    the dissipation of the energy to
    have a good time,
    and the host who was being confronted
    by the mother of his children,
    with his kids present.

    “nice fucking tree!!!” were my mother’s
    last words to him as she escorted
    us across the threshold of the back door,
    which i always reminded myself
    not to trip over
    on weekends with my father.

  • The Realization of Shame

    my family moved to a neighborhood
    that sprouted up during the post-war period,
    around an elementary school
    that was built in 1953.

    the expansive playing fields of the school
    were our dominion.
    street hockey until the first snow,
    nerf football before class and at recess,
    whiffleball nearly year round,
    baseball after the Little League season ended.

    occasionally, a kid from the neighborhood
    would forget a baseball glove on the playground,
    which would still be there the next day.
    i’m sure a certain bicyclist regrets
    the distraction
    that allowed a particular bicycle
    to be left behind.

    it was a lazy autumn afternoon at the playground.
    other than my brother and me, there were only
    two other kids there that Saturday.

    the Judson brothers were notoriously
    known as “mischievous.”
    under no circumstance would we accept
    an offer of a Friday night sleepover,
    much less ask our parents for permission.

    we were halfheartedly competing
    at the tetherball court; the Judson brothers being fairly
    inept athletically. during an interruption in play, one of the Judson’s
    noticed a single bicycle, at the bike rack,
    unchained.
    “hey, is that bike unlocked?”

    my first thought was that he wanted to steal
    the bike, which seemed to be a disastrous position
    to take. even though i was only in the 7th grade, the implications
    of such a crime seemed inescapable.

    “let’s show them a lesson! let’s make them
    never leave their bike behind again!”

    a consensus was reached to
    vandalize the bicycle,
    under the stairs at the back
    of the gymnasium.
    i knew this endeavor was wrong,
    in spirit and letter,
    and yet i followed my brother
    and the Judson’s slowly rolling
    the bike up the incline
    to the dank, dirt floor cave
    below the gymnasium’s concrete steps,
    littered with
    beer cans and liquor bottles
    the school janitor hadn’t caught up to
    after an early 80’s teen summer.

    the bike was propped up
    on it’s kickstand
    when the kids went to work.
    i stood in silence, afraid to confront them
    which might result in them turning
    on me, in a similar manner in which
    they were unleashing unbridled violence
    onto this inanimate object.

    a loose brick deflated the tires
    and mangled the spokes and rims.
    a broken bottle shredded
    the soft foam seat,
    metal cans scraped at the factory paint.

    i did nothing to stop it.

    my bus stop in seventh grade was at the end
    of Overlook Drive, at the junction of Capstan Avenue.
    the Judson’s house was within sight at that corner.
    the Tuesday after the bike incident, at 8AM,
    while i was waiting for the number 7 bus,
    i watched as two Town police squad cars
    pull into the Judson’s driveway.

    i quickly surmised there were two possibilities;
    one would be defined by police evidence,
    that the Judson brothers were guilty.
    the other was they were going to blame it on me.

    in the two hours between getting on that bus
    and hearing my name over the intercom,
    i had thought through every possible
    scenario.

    “Ms. Rogers, could you please
    excuse Ellery Twining to the Principals office?”

    “Yes, of course.”

    the gaze of my classmates was intrusive
    and inescapable, as they were in disbelief that “little Ellery”
    might face disciplinary action.
    i, however, knew something that
    they did not.
    there would be police officers
    in that office
    when i arrived; slack shouldered.

    when i arrived at the small
    cinder block office, with industrial desks
    and battleship swivel chairs,
    my mother was waiting for me.

    “get your fucking ass in the car…..”
    she hissed.
    her tone suggested an equivalent definition of her anger,
    were we not in public.
    my younger brother was already in the VW Bug,cowering
    behind the driver’s seat.

    “i get a phone call at work from the Town police?
    at work? on a fucking Tuesday?!?
    the goddamn police
    called me at work
    because of YOU TWO!”

    i knew intrinsically
    what YOU TWO meant.
    i was the guilty party.
    i should have stopped it.
    i should have never let my brother
    be exposed.
    the entire episode;
    it was obviously my fault.

    as we entered the police station,
    a uniformed officer guided us into the
    proper interrogation room.
    there were four people present-
    my brother, my mother, the
    investigating officer,
    and me.

    “we have already questioned the Judson brothers,
    so i need you to tell me the truth. ok?”

    “i was there, and i didn’t do anything to
    stop it.” i replied.

    “so, you personally did not damage
    the bicycle in question?”

    “no, i didn’t. but i didn’t stop them either…”

    “does that imply that your brother was involved?”

    “i didn’t stop him….”

    “ok, we’re done here for now,
    but i don’t ever want to
    see you again.”

    “you will not” i replied

    following my step-father’s funeral,
    family secrets were revealed.

    “do you remember Mark from Montville?”

    “mom, what did the police tell you after
    the bike episode
    with the Judson brothers?”

    “they knew you were innocent, that your brother
    and those kids initiated it.
    but they wanted to scare you, and you were
    such an easy target.”

    that lesson taught me the value of invisibility.

    because i wanted them to destroy the bicycle.
    i wanted to witness the event.
    i wanted to punish the kids who could afford
    to forget their bike at school.

    as the blows from the brick
    were applied to the tires,
    i was fully aware that this was the definition
    of shame.

  • The Initiation of Conscription

  • The Manager

    The Manager

    on game days, my mother would fill paper grocery bags
    with popcorn cooked on our kitchen
    stove. the pots were lined with a thin layer
    of vegetable oil, heated to the point
    where kernels popped on contact.
    these bags of popcorn kept the kids
    distracted during the tedious
    company softball games.

    my father had achieved the position
    of manager for the company team.
    it was a desirable position within the
    Pfizer Athletic Department;
    and he was quite aware of that.

    the Pfizer team participated in tournaments
    throughout Greater Southeastern Connecticut.
    my brother and me
    spent many weekends in
    Baltic, Norwich, and Stonington;
    collecting empty soda and beer
    cans in exchange for soda and bubble gum
    at the concession stand.

    my mother’s first boyfriend
    after my father walked out,
    loved his Coca-Cola.
    he bought it in 40 oz. bottles,
    a quarter inch thick, with impeccable
    label printing. the deposit value was
    clearly marked on the paper banded neck.
    “40 cent deposit”

    he would give my brother and me
    five empty Coke bottles
    every Friday night.
    that worked out to $1.00 for each of us.

    we applied this approach on the
    gravel parking lots of various
    municipal recreation areas.
    maximize the potential.
    the tournaments were a temporary
    sentence;
    we tried to make the best of it.

    i kept thinking someone would ask us:
    “hey, why are you kids going through the garbage?”

    during our search for
    returnable
    soda
    cans

  • Our Final Phone Call

    my mother had her first date
    with the man who would become my step-father
    on a sweltering July night.
    i was playing basketball in our driveway, the aging hoop
    dangling above the garage door
    by rusty nails we kept banging back in that would one day
    be rebuilt by him.

    “he is going to be here in five minutes!”
    yelled my mother from the front porch.
    “you better watch out so he
    doesn’t hit you in the driveway!”

    on our quiet street, we could hear a vehicle
    lumbering toward the house.
    the collected kids from the neighborhood
    scrambled into the garage
    and quickly closed the overhead door.

    a sleek, silver van slowly rolled
    to a halt on the oily pavement.
    a rather large man with curly brown hair
    and a working man’s belly exited
    from the driver side door.

    “he’s three times bigger than your mom…..”

    we shuffled to our right
    to catch more than a glimpse of him as he walked
    across the lawn, torn up
    as a result of my mother letting us use it
    as a football field following the divorce.

    i was in my second floor bedroom
    when he arrived for their second date.
    one of the windows faced the driveway,
    and this time he had another car, not the silver van,
    but an enormous four door sedan.
    i thought that was a good sign, as none of the other men
    in my mother’s life
    owned two vehicles.

    at their wedding, a year later,
    my nine year old brother was plied
    with canned beer by the uncles and cousins
    in attendance. they found it fascinating
    that a little kid could drink beer
    like a teenager.
    i drank cola over ice, a habit i picked up
    from my mother.

    my step-father introduced us
    into a world we could hardly imagine.
    his family owned a ski cabin in the Maine woods,
    as well as a lake front cottage
    closer to home.
    having secondary property
    up to that point
    was my mother allowing us to bring
    dirty, old couches into our basement
    during neighborhood bulky waste disposal.

    the diagnosis left little room for error.

    “it is an incredibly aggressive, invasive form
    of melanoma. we might have to get your permission
    for clinical trials.”

    he granted his permission.

    my visits to the house
    of my childhood, during his rehabilitation
    dovetailed
    with the presidential election of 1992.

    “you both need to vote for Clinton!
    the last twelve years have been
    a disaster!”

    “Clinton is a phony. we are voting for Perot.”

    “do you seriously
    think a billionaire
    has the best interests of the people
    at the forefront of his policies?”

    “yes. we need a businessman
    to run the country like a business;
    with responsibility, with accountability.”

    i was arguing Presidential Politics
    with my step-father,
    as he endured radical radiation
    treatments.

    when our friends arrived at my parents house
    to hang out as my high school rock band practiced,
    they were greeted by my mother,
    taking off the headphones i had purchased for
    two of them,
    as well as a small chalkboard
    they could write messages to each other,
    in an effort to not completely
    interrupt
    their lives.

    “i just think they are adorable! i hope i end up
    watching TV with my partner and a chalkboard.”

    the band checked in to the motel
    in Lancaster, Pennsylvania.

    before i left town, my mother
    called me and asked
    that i call my step-father
    on the Friday night
    we were due to arrive in Lancaster.
    the band had two shows that weekend.

    she had her doubts about him being
    alive by the time i returned.

  • the Night my Father was Robbed

    my father’s first relationship,
    following his divorce from
    my mother,
    was with a gentle soul.
    she had no idea what she was
    getting herself into.
    i was too young to articulate
    my inherent reservation.

    when she finally called it off,
    my father parlayed a manipulative
    relationship with her parents.
    they agreed to let him house sit
    during a cross country excursion
    that was their initial realization of retirement.

    my younger brother and me
    visited our father due to a court order,
    every other weekend. our routine was perfected
    in short shrift.
    he would pick us up at our mother’s house,
    and we would hear the sigh of relief
    from the back of her throat
    as i opened the door of his faux sports car.
    he couldn’t afford his desired Corvette, so he settled for a Capri.

    the car parked at the apex
    of the horseshoe driveway.
    we carried the snacks
    our mother would never have allowed us to purchase,
    over the threshold of the outdoor patio,
    into the elegant kitchen.

    we began to unload the groceries.

    my father asks us to listen to him, for a moment.

    the two of us are taken aback at his
    deference to something
    seemingly serious.

    “someone broke into the house this week….”

    he then regaled us with a tale of
    educated thieves;
    who knew the owner of the house
    was a very successful businessman,
    selling TV sets
    during the golden age of television.

    the thieves came to steal the
    vintage sets he had accumulated
    while owning a retail store.

    i believed him. i believed my father.

    i convinced myself
    that he was telling me the truth. surely,
    this was an isolated incident.
    and yet, every time i was at that house for a
    weekend with my father,
    i was petrified.

    he went to the grocery store
    early, one saturday morning-
    to get cereal he had neglected to account for
    the previous night.

    a few minutes after he left, the house lost all power.
    my only thought was to find my brother
    and get somewhere safe.
    the thieves were back.

    we crouched behind a stone wall;
    half covered in a pristine green moss,
    gazing toward any proof of
    entrance, shivering in the damp
    March morning. my father drove up
    to the property
    and witnessed us
    crouched behind a farmer’s boundary, where the driveway
    met the street.

    “what are you guys doing out here?!?!?!?!?”

    “there was a sound in the basement, and then the power went out.
    i thought the thieves were back….” i replied, in a defiant tone.

    “c’mon guys, get in the car….”

    we did.
    and my father drove the twenty yards
    to the back door of the house.

    he lied to me.

    someone was owed money.
    he was targeted for a reason beyond
    a vintage television market volatility.

  • It Takes A Nation of Millions

  • reunion

    Friendship may fade,
    as the lives of people
    we know create trajectories
    that shape a present tense.

    The reunion of my graduating class
    is to set to commence
    in two weeks, when i receive
    a phone call
    from my close friend Thomas.

    “You need to go to the reunion.”

    “No, actually you do. The Loner’s wife is on the committee and
    you need to go.”

    The Loner was a long time friend
    of Thomas, but was only an acquaintance of mine.

    “Ok, I’ll go. But if i have a bad night
    it’s on you.”

    “Hahahaha, Ok Kid. I’ll take that bet.
    We got along with everyone at the time.”

    “It’s about time you walked over here to talk to me…”

    Caroline was way ahead of the curve in the 1980’s.
    She held a multi-band concert
    in her parents backyard
    in late August 1985.
    It was my first
    proper gig as a musician.

    At the reunion, Caroline asks me a question.

    “Why are you not on Facebook?”

    I reply, “I am. I use a fake name.”

    “So, who are you?”

    “It’s under Ellery Twining.”

    “Why is that?”

    “Well, you can’t search for my real name
    on the platform for anything.”

    “Do you have something to hide?” she asks,
    simultaneously coy and probing.

    “Of course not! But, someday, you will
    regret using your real name
    on social media.”

    “oh, Ellery, some things don’t change…..”

    A month later, i receive
    an email from Caroline.

    “Hey ELLERY! My friends and i think
    it’s so funny
    that you use a fake name
    on Facebook!”

    My reply was simple.

    ” I find it hard to believe
    that you, and all of your friends
    have three name profiles:

    Joyce Burr Carpenter
    Caroline Williams Smith
    Sage Scott Anderson”

    Our conversation eventually
    led to a humorous
    evaluation
    of a shared morality.
    Caroline invited me
    to attend a dinner
    at her summer rental~
    a house at the end of
    Cedar Point Road.

    The evening immediately dissolves into
    predictable tropes.
    The women congregate on the patio.
    The men gather on the
    first floor deck.

    “I have an incredible picture of this waitress from
    my last business trip. Do you guys want to see it?”

    He turns his phone to an angle
    where we could all see the image.

    “Will you look at that… hooo boy!”

    Thomas and i I looked directly at each other.

    I immediately knew
    i had to suppress
    this information,
    as something i could not reveal.

    I thought I was protecting Caroline.

    I was not.

    I was afraid.

  • the end of the patriarchy