About once a month we have writing group, which has in the past few years morphed into EATING WELL, writing, composing, painting group. This Saturday we met at Rosalind and Carl’s house on Ridge Top Lane for a great feed and stories written by Hub, poetry by Rosalind and Mary Jane, and a few paintings by me. I got permission from Mary Jane to include her poem here (see below the images). The group is, left to right, Rebecca, Carl, Rosalind, Mary Jane, Toby and Laura (both standing) and Hub. A close up of Mary Jane is below, along with her poem. 

Mary Jane Dickerson
What Were They Thinking
those teachers in that Cameron school, those
gentle women who spoke softly in the same rooms
where our fathers before us had learned
to read, when they organized class trips to
Dorthea Dix Hospital for the insane with drooping,
wraith-like figures wandering the grounds, to
the American Tobacco Company where minipacks
of Chesterfields were distributed for children of tobacco
farmers to take home to their parents and to
the Pentagon-like state penitentiary where, in small
groups, we were ushered into a starkly bare room
with the electric chair at center stage – its straps
loose but still rounded as if remembering the shapes
of those who ended up there.
What were they thinking
when in Raleigh, after the hospital and prison,
we were bused to the capital building,
lined up in orderly rows to march
through the governor’s office and shake his hand
as if sealing some mysterious pact.
What lives were we to lead
we, the children of small town merchants and farmers,
we, whose school calendar still kept to the rhythms
of the growing season, letting us out of school in time to hoe corn
pick dewberries, bring in the hay and pull tobacco,
and to pick fields of cotton in September before
the school year started up again, we, the children
whose dreams took place in the trees
we climbed and called our own.
Mary Jane Dickerson, May 2008