Lesa Quale Ferguson's Writing Samples

Waiting

I sit in my chair and pick up the loose scraps of paper. I should have a journal set aside for these notes but when the social worker from Adoption Star called, I scrambled for whatever paper I could find. Dave had just finished reading a story to our five year old son, Sam, and tucked him in. We never have this conversation in front of Sam. He’s too young. I wait for Dave to settle on the couch. I ask, “Are you ready?” I shuffle through the papers nervously. I want to begin at the most difficult part: "she's bipolar" or "she smoked crack." I want to begin there because I want to hear Dave say, "That's okay. The baby will be healthy. This birthmother will choose us. We'll meet her. We'll have a baby very soon." See the Whole Essay

Tiny Square Egg Noodles

I live in an apartment that the landlord originally built for the visitors of the 1962 World’s Fair. Flat roof, concrete deck, and a row of picture windows—motel-like. A place to visit, not a home. Outside, the dripping rain lures me into the kitchen to rout the wet chill with the hot steam of chicken soup. Besides water, the only ingredient in my apartment to make soup is a package of tiny square egg noodles. I take the tight plastic package from the cupboard and hold it as I write a shopping list—onions, carrots, eggs, celery, chicken, and Asiago cheese. The tiny square egg noodles go back into the cupboard unused; this package of noodles is the touchstone. See the Whole Essay

Magical Biology

Eight years ago this month, I moved to Buffalo by way of my Aunt Julie offering me a plane ticket and then I didn’t use the return portion. It was a move by impulse or maybe it was the first link in a chain. The decision not to return led to my brother moving to Buffalo, which led to buying the Golf Club, which led to me working there, which led to meeting Dave, which led to Sam. One missed return trip and I got the life I always wanted. I’ve wondered if destiny looks like impulse but is truly part of a greater plan (this would mean of course that all those Snickers bars have divine purpose); or alternatively if a bunch of random choices are put into play at once, the motion forward just looks like destiny.See the Whole Essay

The Friday Night Fish Fry

One Friday, in the Seattle, Washington seafood restaurant where I waited tables, a customer pushed away the menu and asked me, "Can I get a Fish Fry here?" I pointed to the bounty of fresh seafood on the menu, but he needed that fish fry like Dorothy needed ruby slippers to get back home. Finally I asked, "Where are you from in Western New York?" His eyes lit up, "Batavia. How did you know?" I'm from Buffalo and so I know the fame of the Friday Fish Fry--and its appeal. A Fish Fry is a Great Lakes, Catholic version of British Fish and Chips. I've served Fish and Chips for years. Fish and Chips did not appease the customer from Batavia because it was halibut and not haddock, but for me the type of fish is mere quibbling. See the Whole Essay