Elements of Nature

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From our gardens to our weather, the great outdoors tests and defines us. I'm Meg Wallitzer. Brave the elements and stay with me. We're listening to Selected Shorts where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction, one short story at a time. Sometimes the setting of a story can matter as much as the characters, creating challenges for them, helping to define them and giving the reader a visceral context for the narrative. On this program we share four stories in which nature has an impact. I am not someone who spends a lot of time in nature and as a result I don't have too many nature metaphors to rely on when I write fiction. Instead, my fiction tends to include nature's indoor parallel by which I mean families in their native habitat gathering around the dinner table or sitting on the grassy plains of the shag carpeting in the den. But I do appreciate writers who make the actual natural world vivid and original, using it in ways that amplify the emotional tension in a scene. Landscape can sometimes be the most memorable character of all. Several of the stories on this program were part of a show we presented with Cash Arts and Utah Public Radio KUSU FM. In the first, a comic duel between a woman and her garden. In the second, a border crossing reveals outer and inner landscapes. In the third, mastering one of the elements. And in the fourth, the upside of bad weather. The artist Jenny Allen, the author of the collection Would Everybody Please Stop, Reflections on Life and Other Bad Ideas, has mastered the art of disappointment. You name it, boyfriends, tie-dyes, slumber, she's tried it, it hasn't worked, and she wants to share her pain. This time it's her garden. How doth it grow? Well, let's just say time to go to the supermarket. Reading this essay about Allen's not-so-green thumb is Kirsten Vangsnes. It's known as Computer Whiz Penelope Garcia on Criminal Minds. She is also an accomplished playwright, performance artist, and podcast producer. Here she is with Jenny Allen's Garden Growing Pains. Garden Growing Pains. Now that it's harvest season, I'm curious. How did your garden grow this summer? Was it a thrilling? In those early days to what your vegetable patch began to come alive? To step into your garden in the dewy dawn and see what magic had transpired during the night, how each brave green shoot had grown a little taller, and then, after only a few weeks to spot adorable tomatoes and green peppers no bigger than you might find in a dollhouse kitchen? You peek under a fuzzy leaf and encounter a shy cucumber the size of a pea? To gasp at the appearance of bugle-shaped squash blobsoms, the cheerful orange of school buses, or there were no blossoms, none the day before. But then something happened. The cucumbers grew bigger slowly and steadily, but when they finished growing, many were only the size and shape of golf balls. You rushed to the garden each morning to see if the golf balls had elongated at all, had taken on anything that resembled a cucumber shape. No, still golf balls. Others of your cucumbers started out shaped like tiny crescent moons and stayed that way. At full maturity, they resembled cashews. Was there some warning on the plastic label that came with the seedlings which you stupidly threw out that you missed? You mentioned mini cucumbers? Did oh the squash. The squash vines grew as thick as hot dogs, the squash leaves as broad as butter plates, and yet the squash, a pallet yellow grew no bigger than a white bulb. Also your yield was three. Maybe these vegetables underwent a kind of spontaneous genetic mutation in your garden and you invented a whole new strains of wee food. Maybe you could sell them to some researcher at MIT to study. Maybe the nut-sized cucumbers could be marketed as a cocktail snack. Cashew Cucs. They sit. Your garden is filled with the vegetable equivalent of failure to thrive infants. It hurts to look at them. But you cared for them. You fortified the dirt with huge sacks of very expensive loamy soil from Maine. So heavy that you pulled a muscle lugging them from your car. You lovingly watered every day and yet here they are, puny and stunted. Those vegetables that are not puny are non-existent. Like good for you to have tried your luck with artichokes. Very adventurous and whoa, those leaves are two feet long and spiky, just like the pictures online. You've been googling photos of artichokes to see where the artichokes are supposed to be. On top of a stalk in the middle of all the spiky leaves. But you put your face work down in there and there's no stalk. So the artichokes were a bust. Why are you so negative? Your tomato harvest was a success. Copious plum tomatoes, sweet cherry tomatoes, dust-colored heirloom ones. The green peppers turned out good too, a little on the small side but close to regular size. You had so many that you kept foisting them onto your friends who had turned out also had a bumper crop of green peppers in their gardens. They probably gave your green peppers away to other friends until finally all the peppers rotted and got thrown away. And remember earlier in the summer when your lettuce came up, that was fun. Ray, the lettuce was delicious. After you ate it all you could have planted norwood in a groan and had a whole second crop. Maybe even a third. Why didn't you do that? Oh, that's right. Because each head of lettuce took seven hours to clean. Even after you washed each leaf individually under the faucet then added them dry with paper towels, entire forests died to make the paper towels you used to blot one head of lettuce. The leaves still had invisible specks of unpleasantly crunchy dirt in them. Also some of the leaves had revolting slugs stuck to them and you had to walk those leaves outside so you could lick off the slugs. Years of watching your Buddhist friends gently coke spiders onto pieces of paper and carrying them out doors have made you feel guilty about killing living things, even gross ones. And if the whole reincarnation thing has any credence, which you doubt, but you know, stranger things have turned out to be true, any slug could be your second grade teacher. Mrs. Trevante, who you love. Oh look, Google says there's still time to plant Swiss chard before the first frost. Hmm, do you like Swiss chard? Does anyone? True, there's probably a Swiss chard committee at work right now around some kitchen table and green point plotting to do for Swiss chard what they did for kale. So we can look forward to Swiss chard chips and smoothies and salad. They will taste bitter and terrible because Swiss chard tastes bitter and terrible. But they will be full of fiber and antioxidants and the promise of living to a hundred. In your opinion, the last welcome addition to lettuce choices was arugula. Why couldn't they have stopped with arugula? Arugula wasn't up. And even if you planted Swiss chard and it grew to a normal size and you cooked it to death so it tasted less awful, you'd still have to clean it with a million paper towels and there'd still be that grain of dirt in it waiting to ambush your molars. Now better to put the garden to bed for the winter. Possibly forever. Thank you. Thank you. Kirsten Vangsnes performed Garden Growing Pains by Jenny Allen at the Ellen Eccles Theater in Logan, Utah. I'm Meg Wallitzer. I really enjoyed Allen's trope here. It's bad enough that everything is freakish or non-existent. Most gardens deliver those disappointments. Allen behaves as if her produce is a family of underachieving children. I am not a gardener myself, but I think I know what kind I would be. When people give me flowers, they don't last long. I cut the stems on a diagonal and I add the little packet of whatever they give you. Is it salt? So if you're ever going to give me something, I am really a fan of good olive oil. I'm also a fan of Jenny Allen. And we know one place to look for her if we need her, outdoors in her garden doing her best. Our second work, Borders, is by prolific indigenous writer Thomas King, whose titles include Indians on Vacation and Sufferance. This work was first published in 1993 in King's Collection, One Good Story, That One, and then adapted into a critically acclaimed graphic novel. Borders presents the idea of nature in a very different context and on a very different scale from Jenny Allen's playful essay. In this powerful piece that joins family dynamics with identity politics, the vast Canadian landscape is both a goal and a witness to conflict. Reader Kimberly Guerrero is making her selected shorts broadcast debut with this piece, which was also presented as part of our Logan, Utah live show with Cash Arts and Utah Public Radio. She was also the host and reminded her audience of her work in shows such as Seinfeld, Reservation Dogs, and the animated series Spirit Rangers. When I was 12, maybe 13, my mother announced that we were going to Salt Lake City to visit my sister who left the reserve, moved across the line and found a job. The tisha had not left home with my mother's blessing, but over time my mother had come to be proud of the fact that Letitia had done all of this on her own. She did real good, my mother would say. Then there were the fine points to Letitia's going. She had not, as my mother liked to tell Mrs. Minifingers, gone floating after some man like a balloon on a string. She had when stuck out of the house either and gone to Vancouver or Edmonton or Toronto to chase brain bows down alleys and she hadn't been pregnant. She did real good. I was seven or eight when Letitia left home. She was 17. Our father was from Rocky Boy on the American side. Dad's American, Letitia told my mother, so I can come and go as I please. Send us a postcard. Letitia packed her things and we headed for the border. Just outside of Milk River, Letitia told us to watch for the water tower. Well, when the next rise, it's the first thing you'll see. We got a water tower on the reserve, my mother said. There's a big one in Lethbridge too. You'll be able to see the tops of the flag poles too. That's where the border is. When we got to Coots, my mother stopped at the convenience store and bought her and Letitia a cup of coffee. I got an orange crush. This is real lousy coffee. You're just angry because I want to see the world. It's just the water. From here on down, they got lousy water. I can catch the bus from Sweetgrass. You don't even have to lift a finger. You're going to have to buy your water and bottles if you want good coffee. There was an old wooden building about a block away with a tall sign in the yard that said Museum. Most of the roof had been blown away. Mom told me to go and see if the place was open. There were boards all over the windows and doors. You could tell that the place was closed and I told Mom so, but she said to go and check anyway. Mom and Letitia stayed by the car. Neither one of them moved. I sat down on the steps of the museum and watched them. I don't know that they ever said anything to each other. But finally, Letitia got her bag out of the trunk and gave Mom a hug. I wandered back to the car. The wind had come up and it blew Letitia's hair across her face. Mom reached out and pulled the strands out of Letitia's eyes and Letitia let her. You can still see the mountain from here, my mother told Letitia in blackfoot. Lots of mountains in Salt Lake. Letitia told her in English. The place is closed, I said, just like I told you. Letitia tucked her hair into her jacket and dragged her bag down the road to the brick building with the American flag flapping on the pole. When she got to where the guards were waiting, she turned, put the bag down and waved to us. We wait back. Then my mother turned the car around and we came home. We got postcards from Letitia regular and if she wasn't spreading jelly on the truth, she was happy. She found a good job and rented an apartment with a pool. And she can't even swim, my mother told Mrs. Manyfingers. Most of the postcards said we should come down and see the city, but whenever I mentioned this, my mother would stiffen up. So I was surprised when she bought two new tires for the car and put on her blue dress with the green and yellow flowers. I had to dress up too, for my mother did not want us crossing the border looking like Americans. We made sandwiches and put them in a big box with pop and potato chips and some apples and bananas and a big jar of water. But we can stop at one of those restaurants too, right? We maybe should take some blankets in case she gets sleepy. But we can stop at one of those restaurants too, right? The border was actually two towns, so neither one was big enough to amount to anything. Coots was on the Canadian side and consisted of a convenience store and gas station, the museum that was closed and bordered up, and a motel. Sweetgrass was on the American side, but all you could see was an overpass that arched over the highway and disappeared into the prairies. Just hearing the names of those towns, you would expect that Sweetgrass, which is a nice name and sounds like it is related to other places such as Medicine Hat and Moosh Jog and Kicking Horse Pass, would be on the Canadian side and that Coots, which sounds abrupt and rude, would be on the American side. But this was not the case. Even the two borders was a duty-free shop where you could buy cigarettes and liquor and flags, stuff like that. We left the reserve in the morning and drove until we got to Coots. Last time we stopped here, my mother said, you had an orange crush. You remember that? Sure, I said. That was when Letitia took off. You want another orange crush? That means we're not going to stop at a restaurant, right? My mother got a coffee at the convenience store and we stood around and watched the prairies move in the sunlight. When we climbed back in the car, my mother straightened the dress across her thighs, leaned against the wheel and drove all the way to the border in first gear. Slowly, as if she were trying to see through a bad storm or riding high on black ice. The border guard was an old guy. As he walked to the car, he swayed from side to side, his speech sec wide apart, whole straw on his hip, pitching up and down. He leaned into the window and looked into the back seat and looked at my mother and me. Morning, ma'am. Good morning. Where are you heading? Salt Lake City. Purpose of your visit? Visit my daughter. Citizenship? Blackfoot, my mother told him. Ma'am, Blackfoot. It would have been easier if my mother had just said Canadian and had been done with it, but I could see she wasn't going to do that. The guard wasn't angry or anything. He just smiled and looked towards the building and he turned back and nodded. Morning, ma'am. Good morning. Any firearms or tobacco? No. Citizenship? Blackfoot. He told us to sit in the car and wait, and we did. In about five minutes, another guard came out with the first man. They were talking as they came, both men swinging back and forth like cowboys headed for a gunfight. Morning, ma'am. Good morning. Cecil here tells me you and the girl are Blackfoot. That's right. Now, I know that we got Blackfeet on the American side and the Canadians got Blackfeet on their side, so can we just keep our records straight? What side do you come from? I knew exactly what my mother was going to say and I could have told them if they'd asked me. Canadian side or American side? Asked the guard. Blackfoot side. She said, It didn't take them long to lose her sense of humor. I can tell you that. One guard stopped smiling altogether and told us to park our car at the side of the building and come in. We sat on the wood bench for about an hour before anyone came over to talk to us. This time it was a woman. She had a gun, too. Hi, she said. I'm Inspector Pratt. I understand there's a little misunderstanding. I'm going to visit my daughter in Salt Lake City, my mother told her. We don't have any guns or beer. It's illegal technicality, that's all. My daughter's Blackfoot, too. The woman opened a briefcase and took out a couple of forms and began to write on one of them. Everyone who crosses our border has to declare their citizenship and here's what I'll do. You tell me and I won't put it down on the form. No one will know but you and me. Her gun was silver. There were several chips in the wood handle and the name Stella was scratched into the metal butt. We were in the border office for about four hours and we talked to almost everyone there. One of the men bought me a Coke. My mother brought a couple of sandwiches from the car. I offered a part of mine to Stella but she said she wasn't hungry. I told Stella that we were Blackfoot and Canadian but she said that didn't count because I was a minor. In the end she told us that if my mother didn't declare her citizenship, we would have to go back to where we came from. My mother stood up and thanked Stella for her time and we got back in the car and drove to the Canadian border which is only about a hundred yards away. I was disappointed. I hadn't seen Leticia for a long time and I had never been to Salt Lake City. When she was still at home, Leticia would go on and on about Salt Lake City. She'd never been there but her boyfriend Lester Talbould had spent an entire year in Salt Lake at a technical school. It's a great place, Lester would say, nothing but blondes in the whole state. Whenever he said that, Leticia would slug him on the shoulder, harden up to make him flinch. He had some brochures on Salt Lake and some maps and never so often the two of them would spread them out on the table. That's the temple, it's right downtown, you've got to have a pass to get in. This is Liberty Park and it's got a zoo. There's good skiing in the mountains. We've got all the skiing we can use, my mother would say. People come from all over the world to ski a bath. Cartston's got a temple, if you like those kind of things. Oh, this one's real big, Lester would say, they got armed guards and everything. Lester and Leticia broke up but I guess the idea of Salt Lake stuck in her mind. The Canadian border guard was a young woman and she seemed happy to see us. Why, she said, you folks sure have a great day for a trip. Where are you coming from? Stand off. Is that in Montana? No. Where are you going? Stand off. The woman's name was Carol and I don't guess she was older than Leticia. Wow, you're both Canadians? Blackfoot. Really? I have a friend who went to school with someone who was a blackfoot. Do you know Mike Harley? No. He went to school in Lethbridge but he's really from Browning. There was a nice conversation and there were no cars behind us so there was no rush. You're not bringing any liquor back are you? No. Any cigarettes or plants or stuff like that? No. Citizenship? Blackfoot. I know said the woman and I'd be proud of being blackfoot if I were blackfoot but you have to be American or Canadian. When Leticia and Lester broke up, Lester took his brochures and mapped with them so Leticia wrote to someone in Salt Lake City and about a month later, she got a big envelope of stuff. We sat at the table and opened up all the brochures and Leticia read each one out loud. Salt Lake City is the gateway to some of the world's most magnificent skiing. Salt Lake City is the home of one of the newest professional basketball franchises, the Utah Jazz. The Great Salt Lake is one of the most natural wonders in the world. It was kind of exciting seeing all those color brochures on the table and listening to Leticia read all about how Salt Lake City was one of the best places in the entire world. That Salt Lake City sounds too good to be true, my mother told her. It has everything. We got everything right here. It's boring here. People in Salt Lake City are probably sending away for brochures of Calvary and Lethbridge and Pinscher Creek right now. In the end, my mother would say that maybe Leticia should go to Salt Lake City and Leticia would say that maybe she would. We parked the car in the side of the building and Carol led us into the small room on the second floor. I found a comfortable spot on the couch and flipped through some back issues of Saturday night and Alberta report. When I woke up, my mother was just coming out of another office. She didn't say a word to me. I followed her down the stairs and out to the car. I thought we were going home, but she turned the car around and drove back toward the American border, which made me think we're going to go visit Leticia and felt like Siri after all. But instead, she pulled into the parking lot of the duty-free store and stopped. We're going to see Leticia? No. We're going home? Pride is a good thing to have, you know? Leticia had a lot of pride and so did my mother. I figured that someday I'd have it too. So where are we going? Most of that day, we wandered around the duty-free store, which wasn't very large. The manager had a name tag with a tiny American flag on one side and a tiny Canadian flag on the other. His name was Mel. Towards evening, he began suggesting that we should be on our way. I told him we had nowhere to go, that neither the Americans nor the Canadians would let us in. He laughed at that and told us we should buy something or leave. The car wasn't very comfortable, but we did have all that food and it was April, so even if it did snow as it sometimes does on the prairies, we wouldn't freeze. The next morning, my mother drove us to the American border. It was a different guard this time, but the questions were the same. We didn't spend as much time in the office as we had the day before. By noon, we were back at the Canadian border. By two, we were back at the duty-free shop parking lot. The second night in the car was not as much fun as the first, but my mother seemed a good spirit in all and all. It was as much an adventure as an inconvenience. There wasn't much food left and that was a problem. We had lots of water as there was a faucet on the side of the duty-free shop. One Sunday, the teacher and I were watching television. My mom was over at Mrs. Minifingers. Right in the middle of the program, Latisha turned off the set and said she was going to Salt Lake City. That life around here was too boring. I had wanted to see the rest of the program and I really didn't care if Latisha went to Salt Lake City or not. When mom got home, I told her what Latisha said. What surprised me was how angry Latisha got when she found out that I had told mom, you got a big mouth. That's what you said. What I said is none of your business. I didn't say anything. Well, I'm going for sure now. That weekend, Latisha packed her bags and we drove her to the border. Mel turned out to be friendly. When he closed up for the night and found us still parked in the lot, he came over and asked if our car was broken down or something. My mother thanked him for his concern and told him that we were fine, that things would get straightened out in the morning. You're kidding, Mel said. You think they could handle the simple things. We got some apples and a banana, I said, but we're all out of ham sandwiches. You know, you read about these things, but you just don't believe it. You just don't believe it. Hamburgers would be even better because they got more stuff for energy. My mother slept in the back seat. I slept in the front because I was smaller and could lie under the steering wheel. That night, I heard my mother open the car door. I found her sitting on a blanket leaning against the bumper of the car. You see all those stars? She said, when I was a little girl, my grandmother used to take me and my sister out on the prairies and tell us stories about all the stars. Do you think Mel is going to bring us any hamburgers? Every one of those stars has a story. You see that bunch of stars over there that look like fish? He didn't say no. Coyote went fishing one day. That's how it all started. We sat out under the stars that night and my mother told me all sorts of stories. She was serious about it too. She'd tell them slow, repeating parts as she went, as if she expected me to remember each one. Early the next morning, the television vans began to arrive and guys in suits and women in dresses came trotting over to us, dragging microphones and cameras and lights behind them. One of the vans had a table set up with orange juice and sandwiches and fruit. It was for the crew, but when I told them we hadn't eaten for a while, a really skinny blonde woman told us we could eat as much as we wanted. They mostly talked to my mother. Every so often, one of the reporters would come over and ask me questions about how it felt to be an Indian without a country. I told them we had a nice house on the reserve and that my cousins had a couple of horses we rode when we went fishing. Some of the television people went over to the American border and then they went to the Canadian border. Around noon, a good looking guy in a dark blue suit and an orange tie with little ducks on it drove up in a fancy car. He talked to my mother for a while and after they were done talking, my mother called me over and we got into our car. Just as my mother started the engine, Mel came over and gave us a bag of peanut brittle and told us that justice was a damn hard thing to get, but that we shouldn't give up. I would have preferred lemon drops, but it was nice of Mel anyway. Where are we going now? Going to visit Letitia. The guard who came out to our car was all smiles. The television lights were so bright they hurt my eyes. If you try to look through the windshield in certain directions, you couldn't see a thing. Morning, ma'am. Good morning. Where are you heading? Salt Lake City. Purpose of your visit? Visit my daughter. Any tobacco, liquor, or firearms? Don't smoke. Any plants or fruit? Not anymore. Citizenship. Blackfoot. The guard dropped back on his heels and jammed his thumbs into his gun belt. Thank you, he said, his fingers patting the butt of the revolver. Have a pleasant trip. My mother rolled the car forward and the television people had to scramble out of the way. They ran alongside the cars we pulled away from the border and when they couldn't run any further, they stood in the middle of the highway and waved and waved and waved. We got to Salt Lake City the next day. Letitia was happy to see us and that first night she took us out to a restaurant that made really good soups. The list of pies took up a whole page. I had cherry, Mom had chocolate. Letitia said that she saw us on television the night before. During the meal she had us tell her the whole story over and over again. Letitia took us everywhere. We went to a fancy ski resort. We went to the temple. We got to go shopping in a couple of large malls, but they weren't as large as the one in Edmonton and my mom said so. After a week or so, I got bored and I wasn't at all sad when mother said that we should be heading back home. Letitia wanted to stay longer, but my mom said no, that she had things to do back home and that next time Letitia should come up and visit. Letitia said she was thinking about moving back and mom told her to do as she pleased and Letitia said that she would. On the way home we stopped at the duty free shop and my mother gave Mel a green hat that said Salt Lake across the front. Mel was a funny guy. He took the hat and blew his nose and told my mother that she was an inspiration to us all. He gave us some more peanut brittle and came out to the parking lot and waved at us all the way to the Canadian border. It was almost evening when we left Coots. I watched the border through the rear window until all you could see were the tops of the flag poles and the blue water tower and then they rolled over a hill and disappeared. APPLAUSE Kimberly Guerrero performed Borders by Thomas King. I'm Meg Wallitzer. King tackles big subjects here, Indigenous rights, tribal pride, bureaucratic red tape, family dynamics. But the whole event is filtered through the eyes of a child. Letitia's sister recognizes the stakes but can't help seeing this thwarted road trip as an excellent adventure through a beautiful if contested landscape. When we return, Kirsten Vangs-Ness flies and Jane Curtin takes shelter. You're listening to selected shorts, recorded live in performance at Symphony Space in New York City and at other venues nationwide. When life gets hectic, energy ups and downs are all you need. If you're seeking energy reassurance, Eonnext can help. From smart tech that helps you take control of your energy future to always staying below the price cap with Nex Pledge. We're here for whatevils next. Just one of the reasons why we're rated excellent on TrustPilot by our customers. Find out more at eonnex.com. Nex Pledge variable rates are always below the often price cap. 25 pounds exit fee per fuel applies. Nex Pledge, utility and season season apply. TrustPilot February 2026. I'm in the kitchen with Charlie Bigum. So what have we got here Charlie? My brand new pan-fry pad thai noodles. Noodles? But you're Mr Fish Pie Guy. Guilty. And while ovens rule at roasting. The pan is king of noodling. Whether it's pad thai, yakisoba or laxer, finding that perfect texture is a bottomless noodle rabbit hole. But all I have to do is stir it in the pan for six minutes, right? Bingo! Try the new Charlie Bigum's Asian Pan-fry Noodle Range, handmade in my kitchen. Pan-fried in yours. Welcome back. This is Selected Shorts where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction. One short story at a time. I'm Meg Wallitzer. On today's show, stories about nature. If you're an outdoorsy type, this show will resonate. And even if you're an armchair nature lover, we have plenty of stories in our podcast that will allow you to experience the elements from home. Just go to SelectedShorts.org or search for us wherever you get podcasts. And while you're there, subscribe to the show so that you'll always be with us wherever you are. And speaking of wherever you are, you too can be part of the Selected Shorts family and can see the actors and hear the gasps and laughter live in a theater near you. While most of our stories are recorded at our home theater of Symphony Space in New York City, every year we pack our bags and take the show on the road. We go coast to coast to find fresh audiences for our live show, and we'd love to include you. To see the current lineup of Selected Shorts dates on the road and at our home theater of Symphony Space, head to SelectedShorts.org for the latest tour dates and ticket information. And did I mention our podcast? Of course I did. But I also wanted to let you know that that's where you'll find bonus episodes and backstage conversations with actors who perform in the show. If you like what you hear, please write us a review and tell your friends how much you love Selected Shorts. Our third story about nature and its elements comes from writer Alice Miller. Her work includes the collections Sweet Love, Water, and the Nature of Longing. This whimsical piece has one obvious theme which is right in its title, Flying. But it also touches on aging and dreams. And here's the versatile Kirsten Vangsnes back to try her hand at Flying instead of Gardening. Flying. When Allie Lester was six years old, her cousin Mack taught her to fly. Once they were airborne, the act seemed as natural as humming, the distance between sky and earth and infinite chasm. Clouds were now just a stretch of the hand away. The microscopic world below struck her as laughable, too tiny to matter. Afterward, back on the ground, her ears still tingling from cold, Allie studied Mack's disbelief. How long have you known how? She asked as they stamped their feet and huddled together out of the wind behind her aunt's shed. Well, what are you talking about, Allie? I've always known how to fly, you know? Boys. I'm a boy. All boys can fly? Allie wanted to know. Mack glanced over his shoulder to ensure they were out of earshot. He hunkered down on his heels, the collar of his blue jean jacket standing straight up against his neck. The tips of his ears were still red. Allie, he said, he was five years older than she. She thought he might be poking fun at her, but his expression was more one of concern. When Mack scratched out the word, yes, with the end of a pointed stick and the dirt at their feet, she realized he was trusting her to keep a secret. Allie had no brothers, just a younger sister. Mack knew how to do everything. Before flying, Mack had showed her how to leap from a log onto the stream that ran below the slope of this family's property. On another visit, Mack had taught her to drive a tractor. Even though her feet couldn't reach the accelerator, she had steered through a field of mustard with Mack crouched below her, shifting and manipulating the pedals until she ran the front up against an old elm tree. Don't tell anyone. He wouldn't instruct her. Each time he taught her something new. I won't. She always promised. Savoring their secrets like gifts. And he cautioned over and over. Don't ever try to fly without me. You get hurt. He told her then about Prometheus, who stole the God's fire and gave it to man, and how Prometheus was punished for his betrayal. His liver cruelly worked over by the beak of an eagle. Understand? He said. For a long time, Allie thought Mack meant that she would be punished. But later, as she grew up into a young woman, she realized he feared for herself. The memory of flying simmered inside her for years after, and often on her way home from school, she gazed enviously up at the sky, her mind expanding to accommodate the lack of limits. Suddenly, the sheer muscle of consequence, if she disobeyed, wrenched her back to earth. Methodically, she planted her feet one in front of the other, following the linear way home. Allie always believed Mack and never tried to fly again. As the years wore on, she sometimes imagined it was only a dream. By the time she was old enough to be able to distinguish between fantasy and reality, she still had her doubts about the memory of flying with Mack. Now she wants to write him an ask, but he is busy with work and a family, and she hasn't seen him in ages. Allie thinks often about flying. She flies in her dreams, soaring away from her earthly body, returning just in time to hear the alarm, to feel her husband reaching for her, to answer the cries of her children. She knows better than to mention flying to anyone. When normal people fly, they buy tickets and sit in airplanes. Allie has done that too, but it's a cheap trick. Sometimes, as she takes the children down to the beach to watch the hand gliders, she can't imagine being strapped such a contraption, but she watches anyway, reading their faces for hints as they rise off the cliff edge just like Icarus. She wonders if they ever come here alone, secretly at night, with no one around, without all the equipment to soar through the air unhindered. Allie does not regret being a wife and a mother, choosing one thing for another. The closest she has ever gotten to that feeling of flying years ago has been in labor, just as the babies had pushed out. She's about binoculars to study birds, to watch them fly through meadows and forests, but she has no real interest in the birds themselves, and no desire to learn their names or find out about their habitats. The children are growing rapidly, two sons and a daughter, and she suspects they would understand if she confided to them that she had flown. The feeling has begun to grow stronger these days. Not only the certainty that she and Mack actually flew, but that she can do it again. She considers psychological counseling but sees no point in being analyzed. This is no metaphor. She wants to fly. That is all. This is not about unfulfilled desires and creative urges. A stifling marriage, a slow emotional death, it is about memory and experience and wanting to trust in both. One windy afternoon, Ally steps into the backyard with the thought in mind that perhaps she can test out her impulses, maybe lift off the ground a few inches, not really go anywhere, certainly not leave her children. She pulls an orange crate from the garage, stands on it, feels the wind sifting through her hair. She raises her arms, extends, curves, and straightens them. The neighbor is watching, calls the police. She glances around, no sign of anyone on either side of their house. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and begins to flap her arms. It is moments before she realizes she is air rising. After a few moments after that, she actually begins to ascend. She keeps her eyes tightly shut and imagining how the world below must be disappearing. She pushes through a mist of clouds. She can feel the vapor still higher until the air is so thin she can hardly catch her breath. She hadn't intended to go this far as she slowly opens her eyes. She sees she is higher than that day she flew with Mac. Never let them know you can fly, Mac said. She circles above weightless. Her sense of ease restored. She twists in and out of clouds, drifts down slowly until she is low enough to distinguish buildings. She finds as she lets the wind takers, she can float through the air like a swimmer in water. After a time, she turns in the direction of home, wondering how to calculate her landing. Grateful to Mac years ago for having taken her up, but now wishing he had told her how to get back down. She closes her eyes. She feels herself falling ever so gently out with the sky like a leaf. Downward she swallows lazily, catching the currents, pausing to rest in a pocket of still air. When she lands, there is only the soft thud of her feet touching the earth. At dinner that night, she sits flushed at the table, surrounded by her three children and Nick, all of whom she loves. She is all hurlately elated and sad because she cannot tell them where she has been. But her desire to fly is still not satisfied. Over the next few days it grows. One night, when the children sleep, she tiptoes into their room. She moves past the bunk beds where the boys breathe in unison and across the floor to her daughter. Allie pauses at the foot of the single bed, studying the pattern of light and shadow cast by the aspen tree outside the window. It shivers. A wind is stirring. Allie listens. Nick is still downstairs reading. She looks out the window into the backyard. The orange crate shimmers in the middle of the lawn. Allie isn't sure of what she does next is right or how to calculate the risk. She lifts her sleeping daughter into her arms. The child is heavy, her breath warm on Allie's face. Lange, the child murmurs through the thickness of sleep. Shhh shhh shhh shhh shhh. Says Allie. I want to show you something. But you must promise not to tell the boys. The child nods drowsily. Allie descends the back stairs, keeping her footsteps light all the way down. She is gripped with excitement that the child has no idea what she has agreed to. Applause That was Kirsten Vangsnes reading Alice Miller's Flying. I'm Meg Wallitzer. To complete this quartet of stories about forces of nature and how they shape us, we're bringing back a favorite from our archives. Writer Kate Chopin lived from 1850 to 1904 and is considered a bellweather of early feminism for her devastating novel The Awakening. But she's also able to advance her agenda in subtler ways. In the storm, the upheaval in nature finds its analog in the emotions and acts of the characters. Reader Jane Curtin is known for work in iconic television shows like Saturday Night Live and Kate and Allie, and has had a rich theatrical career as well. But for us, she's an icon unto herself, veteran of many selected short readings. And here she is in one of her best, Kate Chopin's The Storm. Applause The leaves were so still that even Beebe thought it was going to rain. Bobono, who was accustomed to converse on terms of perfect equality with his little son, called the child's attention to certain somber clouds that were rolling with sinister intention from the west, accompanied by a sullen, threatening roar. They were at Freedheimer's store and decided to remain there till the storm had passed. They sat within the door on two empty kegs. Beebe was four years old and looked very wise. Mama'll be afraid, yes, he suggested, with blinking eyes. She'll shut the house. Maybe she got Sylvie helping her this evening. Bobono responded reassuringly. No, she ain't got Sylvie. Sylvie was helping her yesterday, part Beebe. Bobono arose and going across to the counter purchased a can of shrimps, of which Calyxta was very fond. Then he returned to his perch on the keg and sat stolidly holding the can of shrimps while the storm burst. It shook the wooden store and seemed to be ripping great furrows in the distant field. Beebe laid his little hand on his father's knee and was not afraid. Calyxta at home felt no uneasiness for their safety. She sat at a side window, sewing furiously on a sewing machine. She was greatly occupied and did not notice the approaching storm. But she felt very warm and often stopped to mop her face on which the perspiration gathered in beads. She unfastened her white sack at the throat. It began to grow dark and suddenly realizing the situation, she got up hurriedly and went about closing windows and doors. Out on the small front gallery, she had hung Bobono's Sunday clothes to air and she hastened out to gather them before the rain fell. As she stepped outside, Alicea Laballier rode in at the gate. She had not seen him very often since her marriage and never alone. She stood there with Bobono's coat in her hands and the big raindrops began to fall. Alicea wrote his horse under the shelter of a side projection where the chickens had huddled and there were plows and a harrow piled up in the corner. May I come and wait on your gallery till the storm is over Calyxta? he asked. Come long in, Monsieur Alicea. His voice and her own startled her as if from a trance and she seized Bobono's vest. Alicea, mounting to the porch, grabbed the trousers and snatched Bibi's braided jacket that was about to be carried away by a sudden gust of wind. He expressed an intention to remain outside but it was soon apparent that he might as well have been out in the open. The water beat in upon the boards and driving sheets and he went inside, closing the door after him. It was even necessary to put something beneath the door to keep the water out. My, what a rain! It's good two years since it rained like that exclaimed Calyxta as she rolled up a piece of bagging and Alicea helped to defrust it beneath the crack. She was a little fuller a figure than five years before when she married but she had lost nothing of her vivacity. Her blue eyes still retained their melting quality and her yellow hair, disheveled by the wind and rain, kinked more stubbornly than ever about her ears and temples. The rain beat upon the low shingled roof with a force and clatter that threatened to break an entrance and deluge them there. They were in the dining room, the sitting room, the general utility room. Adjoining was her bedroom with Bibi's couch alongside her own. The door stood open and the room with its white monumental bed, its closed shutters, looked dim and mysterious. Alicea flung himself onto a rocker and Calyxta nervously began to gather up from the floor the lengths of a cotton sheet which she had been sewing. If this keeps up, do you say if a levee's gonna stand it, she exclaimed? What have you got to do with the levees? I've got enough to do and there's Bobano with Bibi out in that storm if he only didn't left free timers. Let us hope, Calyxta, that Bobano's got sense enough to come in out of a cyclone. She went and stood at the window with a greatly disturbed look on her face. She wiped the frame that was clouded with moisture. It was stiflingly hot. Alicea got up and joined her at the window looking over her shoulder. The rain was coming down in sheets obscuring the view of far off cabins and enveloping the distant wood in a gray mist. The playing of the lightning was incessant. A bolt struck a tall china berry tree at the edge of the field. It filled all visible space with a blinding glare and the crash seemed to invade the very boards they stood upon. Calyxta put her hands to her eyes and with a cry staggered backward. Alicea's arms encircled her and for an instant he drew her close and spasmodically to him. Bonte she cried releasing herself from his encircling arm and retreating from the window. The house would go next if I only knew where Bibi was. She would not compose herself. She would not be seated. Alicea clasped her shoulders and looked into her face. The contact of her warm palpitating body when he had unthinkingly drawn her into his arms had aroused all the old time infatuation and desire for her flesh. Calyxta he said, don't be frightened. Nothing can happen. The house is too low to be struck with so many tall trees standing about. Aren't you going to be quiet? See, aren't you? He pushed her hair back from her face that was warm and steaming. Her lips were as red and moist as pomegranate seed. Her white neck and a glimpse of her full firm bosom disturbed him powerfully. As she glanced up at him the fear in her liquid blue eyes had given place to a drowsy gleam that unconsciously betrayed a sensuous desire. He looked down into her eyes and there was nothing for him to do but to gather her lips in a kiss. It reminded him of assumption. Do you remember? In assumption, Calyxta, he asked in a low voice broken by passion. Oh, she remembered. For in assumption he had kissed her and kissed and kissed her until his senses would well-knife fail. And to save her he would resort to a desperate flight. If she was not an immaculate dove in those days she was still in violet. A passionate creature whose very defenselessness had made her defense, against which his honor forbade him to prevail. Now, well, now her lips seemed in a manner free to be tasted, as well as her round white throat and her whiter breasts. They did not heed the crashing torrents and the roar of the elements made her laugh as she lay in his arms. She was a revelation in that dim, mysterious chamber, as white as the couch she lay upon. Her firm elastic flesh that was knowing for the first time its birthright was like a creamy lily that the sun invites to contribute its breath and perfume to the undying life of the world. The generous abundance of her passion without guile or trickery was like a white flame which penetrated and found response in depths of his own sensuous nature that had never yet been reached. When he touched her breasts they gave themselves up in quivering ecstasy inviting his lips. Her mouth was a fountain of delight and when he possessed her they seemed to swoon together at the very borderland of life's mystery. He stayed cushioned upon her breathless, dazed and enervated with his heart beating like a hammer upon her. With one hand she clasped his head, her lips lightly touching his forehead. The other hand stroked with a soothing rhythm his muscular shoulders. The growl of the thunder was distant and passing away. The rain beat softly upon the shingles inviting them to drowsiness and sleep but they dared not yield. The rain was over and the sun was turning the glistening green world into a palace of gems. Clixta on the gallery watched Alcy ride away. He turned and smiled at her with a beaming face and she lifted her pretty tin in the air and laughed out loud. Bobino and Beebe trudging homes stopped without it the cistern to make themselves presentable. My Beebe what will your mama say? You ought to be ashamed. You ought not put on those good pants. Look at them and that mud on your collar. How you got that mud on your collar Beebe? I never saw such a boy. Beebe was the picture of pathetic resignation. Bobino was the embodiment of serious solicitude as he strove to remove from his own person and his sons the signs of their tramp over heavy roads and through wet fields. He scraped the mud off Beebe's bare legs and feet with a stick and carefully removed all traces from his heavy brogons. Then prepared for the worst, the meeting with an overscrupulous housewife, they entered cautiously at the back door. Calyxta was preparing supper. She had set the table and was dripping coffee at the hearth. She sprang up as they came in. Oh Bobino you back my but I was uneasy. Where you been during the rain and Beebe he ain't wet. He ain't hurt. She had clasped Beebe and was kissing him effusively. Bobino's explanations and apologies which he had been composing all the way died on his lips as Calyxta felt him to see if he would dry and seemed to express nothing but satisfaction at their safe return. I brought you some shrimps Calyxta offered Bobino hauling the can from his ample side pocket and laying it on the table. Shrimp so Bobino you too good for anything and she gave him a smack and kiss on the cheek that resounded. Je vous réponds, we'll have a feast tonight. Bobino and Beebe began to relax and enjoy themselves and when the three seated themselves at table they laughed much and so loud that anyone might have heard them as far away as Labalier's. Alcy Labalier wrote to his wife Clarice that night. It was a loving letter full of tender solicitude. He told her not to hurry back but if she and the babies liked it at Biloxi to stay a month longer. He was getting on nicely and though he missed them he was willing to bear the separation a while longer. Realizing that their health and pleasure were the first things to be considered. As for Clarice she was charmed upon receiving her husband's letter. She and the babies were doing well. The society was agreeable. Many of her old friends and acquaintances were at the bay and the first free breath since her marriage seemed to restore the pleasant liberty of her maiden days. Devoted as she was to her husband their intimate conjugal life was something which she was more than willing to forgo for a while. So the storm passed and everyone was happy. Jane Curtin read Kate Chopin's The Storm. I'm Meg Wallitzer. The story really brings that stormy weather to us and we can also hear hints of Chopin's bilingual heritage. She grew up speaking both English and French. What's lovely about this playful story is how everything is just suggested and how beautifully Curtin conveys an almost cat-like sense of pleasure in transgression without ever crossing the line of propriety. For her that's natural. So four stories that ask us to extend our ideas about nature and its impact on us. Sometimes it's a thing we try to make do our bidding. Sometimes it's a backdrop to the ways in which the places we start from and those we hope to reach define us. And sometimes it's a source of unexpected joy. I'm Meg Wallitzer. Thanks for joining me for Selected Shorts. Selected Shorts is produced by Jennifer Brennan and Sarah Montague. Our team includes Matthew Love, Drew Richardson, Mary Shimkin, Vivienne Woodward and Magdalene Ropleski. The readings are recorded by Miles B. Smith. Our programs presented at the Getty Center in Los Angeles are recorded by Phil Richards. Our theme music is David Peterson's That's the Deal performed by the Deirdorf Peterson Group. Selected Shorts is supported by the Dunn-Gannon Foundation. This program is also made possible with public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts, with the support of Governor Kathy Hockel and the New York State Legislature. Selected Shorts is produced and distributed by Symphony Space. At 2E we give you more. More outfit choices with 20 kilograms of luggage allowance as standard. More hotels built around what you love like that swim-up suite. More luxury and luxury. More luxury and luxury. More luxury and luxury. More luxury and luxury. 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