We were the rescue league of words, as we sat listened and reflected, in communal testament that a writer with an offering of words will, like a shepherd or a minister, find their flock, says the author about cinnamon's salon

Bypassing rocks and debris fallen on rural roads, circling around a rogue cow or horse or on winter days, driving by piles of snow packed high on each side in menacing stares; they keep going. From towns with the ancestral names of Rogers, Pharsalia, Bowman, New Berlin or over the canal, the writers, poets and creatives are determined to be on time to the weekly meeting. They plan for the trains that edge the town, and the warning gates that drop when the long line of cargo crosses at what seems a leisurely pace. These men and women come in sun, rain or snow in weather challenging upstate New York. They pass the old historic theater restored to half its glory, past the unique old Round Barn, four floors high, the Opera house and the Manor, used as a stop on the Underground railroad. Arriving in downtown Oxford, they may unfortunately be stuck behind the trolley. The bright green trolley rumbles by full of passengers, ready to shop the town’s three blocks of stores on Main Street and a few hidden gems on the side streets. Although the delays usually only occur at holiday time.

One of the stops is near Cinnamon’s Beauty Shop, where they may come upon poets and writers of every genre, who come faithfully one night a week. Cinnamon’s small store front sits between an old ornately trimmed theater, and a modern intimates apparel shop, where mannequins are dressed with colorful, sassy wear. The half old and half young who have suffered losses and savored love, who still enjoy a laugh or cry, bicker and console, come prepared with their notebooks and tablets. They bring weighty burdens and precious gifts on print outs, to share with witnesses they trust.  The caring village of kindred souls, who will cradle, critique and guide their beginnings through ends.

There is the old hippie, the young mother who takes a night off, the father who brings his autistic son, who in turn sits quietly at a safe distance and listens, the guy on probation, the bartender, the librarian, the demure Christian, and a changing cast of extras who listen to stories and verse. Sometimes the offerings are so lyrical, so musical that the audience may spontaneously tap their feet and clap.

I am fascinated, nourished and renewed by this weekly meeting. I drive almost an hour to join this group of committed writers in almost all kinds of weathers. There are times when I must sadly draw the line, like winter storm nights or family commitments. I am a girl raised to the sound of trains and an opera of disharmonious voices, but I am drawn to the voices that echo in this room.

My mentor Ruth turned me on to this group. She is definitely the mother of all hippies. A professor of English, she was the leader of our storytelling group on campus and joined the writing group after she retired. She had long hair barely streaked in gray, her sun lined face, always wore a beautiful large smile, almost as large as her breasts. Her voice was soft, her candor strong, her determination to enjoy life was made of grit and butterflies, and she was one stubborn woman. In her office she had a claw foot bathtub, layered with pillows and furs. This was where she went to meditate, until her knees said no, not anymore. The group of creatives that came to Cinnamon’s were almost as interesting as Ruth, the mother figure of my life at the time. When she told me of the group, I almost said, “Whither thou goest, I will go,” but I didn’t say it, I just went. (Ruth 1:16-17).

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Ruth had four children, one ex-husband who fathered all four, a slew of grateful friends, and had settled in with her lover, an old retired commercial fisherman. This did not stop her, from occasional strolls where she picked up a stray or two. She flew to a remote village in Alaska, on a one engine plane, to study indigenous stories, shortly before her retirement, securing a grant for some of her expenses. She was kind, joyous, and forthright, and sometimes she riled me up, but she was pretty much spot on with whatever she pointed out, which pissed me off and made me love her more. I prided myself on being unique, my own person, and she was the only person who dared tell me that I was at heart a traditional family woman, with a few flairs. How the fuck did she figure that out!

Everyone in the group respected Ruth and most loved her. Except maybe, the religiously, demure writer, who only wore dresses or skirts. She seemed almost afraid of Ruth and never made eye contact with her. Ruth was convinced that Mary had a crush on her. Mary was an excellent writer who invented a world where a tiny girl is raised by a loner who is unusually tall, ruggedly strong and had a face only a mother would love. The tiny girl slowly reveals that she has unusual powers, and they both decide to keep her magic a secret. The origins of both are slowly revealed as the story unravels their history and their growing sense of kinship.

There was the ex-con, who shared his elegantly crafted poems on loss and love. The hippie who came with his guitar and sang his own compositions which were clearer than his abstract verse. The father of the autistic son, who offered tender poems and stories that spoke to a heart and soul that had been both broken and restored. The owner of the salon was talented with hair and words. She was a poet who sometimes stopped combing hair to jot down a few thoughts. Her sister also participated and was a very talented writer of stories. They both came upstate from Brooklyn, New York as children. Their writing, filled with snappy phrasing and observations, reflected this early nurturing.

On writing night, we all sat in salon chairs or whatever extra chair we found between the clippers, dryers, sinks and occasional stray hair, in the back of hairy Cinnamon's, as the insiders lovingly joke. We were the rescue league of words, as we sat listened and reflected, in communal testament that a writer with an offering of words will, like a shepherd or a minister, find their flock.