EXPRESSIONS Selections
From The Varenna Writers Club
Vol. 1 No. 1
2011
CONTENTS Dorothy Herbert
Varenna
A Poem to Celebrate
The Old Rocking Chair
Karin R. Fitzgerald
Fade to Orange and Black
Sally Tilbury
A Good Scout
Helpless
Nancy Humphriss
A Horse is a Horse, of Course, of Course
The Turkey and the Chicken
Jack Russ
The Pink Letter
Elisabeth Levy
Is There a Wolf in the House?
Maybugs
John H. C. Riley
An Embarrassing Success
Renee McKnight
The Party
The Decision
The Trees
Bernice Schachter
Homage to Pietra Santa
Loisjean Raymond
The Tree in the Middle of the Garden
The Inner Me
Shirley Johnson
A Class on Demand
Susan Bono
Go Fish
Words from the Wise
Dolores Giustina Fruiht
More Contemplating
A Nostalgic Drive
Joyce Cass
Up in Smoke
Here and Now
Dorothy Herbert
Dorothy Herbert was born in Cleveland, Ohio in 1924. Her childhood was split
between Ohio and Southern California. She graduated from the University of California,
Berkeley. This was followed by a year of training in laboratory technology at Western
Reserve in Cleveland. Her career as a lab tech allowed her to spend two years in
Dhahran, Saudi Arabia and later, a year in Oxford, England during her boss‟ sabbatical.
After her retirement from UCSF, she happily settled in Sonoma and then Santa Rosa,
California.
Varenna Dorothy Herbert
While young, yet viewing advancing age,
I sensed that I was all at sea,
Riding the waves as fortune might decree,
Driven at will by currents of fate,
Lacking means or desire to navigate.
Now I‟ve evolved and become more sage,
Tired of floating as in the past,
I searched for a port . . . until at last,
I am cast ashore, as if by chance,
On a beautiful island of elegance,
VARENNA!
A Poem to Celebrate Fellow 1924-ers on the Occasion of Our 80th Birthday
Dorothy Herbert
It all began in twenty-four,
And now it‟s been a neat four score,
Since that eventful date of yore,
When all of us were given birth,
And still we grace this lucky earth.
We must admit to slowing down,
Which gives us time to look around,
To seek the knowledge yet unfound,
To understand and contemplate,
This wobbling world‟s uncertain fate.
Younger folk will seek advice,
When books and gurus may suffice,
They willingly pay any price!
How can this be? Can they not see,
Not even asked, we give it free!
As collagen and fascia fail,
In turn will gravity prevail,
And as we climb the bathroom scale,
There is no longer any doubt,
We‟re way too thin or far too stout.
TV and pamphlets entertain us,
Saying exercise will sure maintain us,
And proper diet can sustain us,
So if we walk and drink Ensure,
It‟s in the cards—we shall endure.
When all is done and all is said,
We‟ve ended where Dame Fortune led,
And now renewed we surge ahead,
No looking back—but onward go,
Lunging toward the great nine-o.
The Old Rocking Chair
Dorothy Herbert
The old rocking chair had lion heads on the ends of the arms. It resided at my
grandparents‟ when we were all quite small. We took turns rocking and putting our
fingers in the lions‟ mouths. The chair eventually ended up in my possession and a
procession of young nieces and nephews rocked happily as part of their childhood.
Eventually I passed it on to a niece to calm her two little boys during manic moments
and lull them to sleep. The benefit to me was that on visits to their home I could still
claim time rocking back and forth as visions of my younger days and of my
grandparents renewed happy memories. It was a nice continuum as life hastened on.
Karin R. Fitzgerald
Karin R. Fitzgerald was named Rose Karin after her German and Swedish
grandmothers, and called “Rose” by her family. She knew at a very young age
that “Rose” didn‟t fit her, but a given name is a lot like a porcupine quill: once
embedded, it‟s hard to remove. She tried unsuccessfully to ditch the “Rose,” but
the name stayed with her like an unwanted house guest. Love solved the
problem when student nurse Rose Karin met handsome law student James
Martin Fitzgerald. For sixty-one years of marriage, darling James called her
Karin, and so did everyone else.
Fade to Orange and Black
Karin Fitzgerald
It‟s eight in the morning, Michigan time, and I‟m looking forward to another
blissful August day swimming and boating in the pristine waters of Lake Huron. I‟m
the pampered guest of my daughter, Denise, and son-in-law, George. Sharing the
comfort of their wonderfully cozy summer home on Marquette Island is always a pure
delight. I settle back into an old blue wicker chair, take my first grateful sip of coffee
and gaze out the wide windows of the screened-in-porch. That‟s when the first tiny
blip of orange catches my eye as it disappears into the trees. I am immediately on high
alert as another and then another blur of orange is swallowed by the forest.
I stand up for a better look and hope that what I have just seen might be the
forerunners of the migrating monarch butterflies. Everyone wants me to experience
this incredible phenomenon before my vacation ends. Through the screen door I hear
the phone ring, then my daughter‟s excited voice. “Mom, they‟ve arrived! Grab your
jacket, we‟re leaving in five minutes!”
The three of us hurry down the winding path to the dock and jump into the
boat. George revs the motor and we leave a churning wake as we head across the water
to Point Brule, the lovely mainland home of George‟s sister, Cara, and brother-in-law,
Fred. The anticipation grows. We cruise into the boat slip, tie up and climb the ladder
to ground level. Fred and Cara are waiting for us.
They lead the way. Up ahead is a grove of enormous cedar trees. No one speaks
as we step into the shade and quiet of these giants. I stop dead in my tracks. Nothing
has prepared me for this. I see thousands of swirling orange and black shapes. They
float silently in and around the cedar branches, fluttering by our faces and bodies, as if
to offer a silent benediction. The air is soft and warm. A slight mist curls and drifts
languidly through the trees. This contributes to my sense of having stumbled into a
different dimension. I‟m awestruck and honored to be a witness to one of nature‟s
most magnificent wonders.
I float up out of my reverie. Fred taps my arm to get my attention. “Do you
know what the monarchs are doing now?” I shake my head. “They need liquid to keep
hydrated. They can‟t regulate their body temperature and dry out so easily. They suck
up moisture on the foliage with a little flexible tube like a sippy straw.” He holds out
his hand. A butterfly alights just long enough for me to peer at something that looks
like a leg, except it‟s curled under the tiny head. Fred is looking at his hand too. “That
curled thing is called a proboscis. It unfolds when a butterfly needs to drink.”
Grateful for the explanation, I realize that everyone else wants to tell me what
they know as they gather around. The snippets of information are delivered in
whispers because we all feel like we are in a leafy chapel. As we slowly walk beneath
the trees, I learn that the female monarchs look for milkweed plants to lay their
fertilized eggs. Once that‟s done, both the males and females die. Their busy lives only
last two to six weeks, but make way for the next generation of monarchs to carry on. I
find out from George and Cara who have grown up in this part of Upper Michigan that
one generation of butterflies east of the Rocky Mountains will migrate to Mexico and
one-generation west of the Rockies will migrate to Pacific Grove, California.
I feel like a human sponge, soaking up these whispered insights. I want to fill up
with monarchmania and squeeze it out later to enjoy. The gentle rain from a late
summer shower starts to fall. We stand together and look up, blinking away the light
drizzle, anxious about the butterflies and reluctant to leave. The monarchs quickly
begin to light on the branches and fold their wings. Satisfied now, as if we are the
caretakers and know that our little charges will be fine, we turn toward the house. I
look back. A few of the little beauties still dip and turn, soar and glide in all their
orange and black elegance.
Once in the house, Fred fires up the computer, finds a good website and prints
information that I can save and read at my leisure. I‟m happy about this because there
seem to be so many generations of monarchs, such a huge family, and I am not at all
clear which relatives live and which die. The computer pages are passed around. Many
of the facts are known by the initiated four, but some of them are new, even to them.
They are very surprised to discover that the milkweed plant the egg-turned-caterpillar
feeds on delivers a potent poison to protect the adult monarch from being eaten by
birds and small mammals like mice. Nature does a great job keeping her most fragile
creatures safe.
All too soon the wonderful afternoon has slipped away. I gather up the stack of
printouts and we take our leave with affectionate hugs all around. We three move past
the cedars, empty now except for the sighing breeze. We board the boat; it‟s cold now
on the Bay. Back home on the island, we sit down to a relaxed dinner and decide to
retire early. Denise and George each have a favorite book and I have the many, many
pages of monarch information. I settle down on the big comfortable bed, pillows
propped up behind me, the occasional hoot of an owl an appropriate introduction to
my reading.
I know from the afternoon tutorial that four generations of monarchs are born
each year. The stunning finale to this unique life cycle extravaganza is the wildly
wonderful, mind-blowing fourth generation of butterflies born in September. These
creatures do not die in two to six weeks, but live for six to eight months. Called the
“Methuselah generation,” these “Methuselahs” are destined to become the senior
citizens of the butterfly world. It‟s these same young and innocent butterflies who will
make the dangerous 2,700 mile, two-month long journey to reach their Mexican
hibernation colonies. Their November arrival in the evergreen forests of Mexico‟s Sierra
Madre Mountains must be a thrilling sight as the Methuselahs fold their wings and
cover the trees by the thousands.
Five months later, these same Methuselahs will receive an urgent message with
the tick-tock of their biological clocks: “Wake up, find a mate and lay the eggs.” In a
short time these eggs will become a new first generation of monarch butterflies. The
fabulous Methuselahs, old and tired now, their work complete, will be taken into
Mother Nature‟s arms and this new generation of monarchs will start their northward
trek. Once again the magical monarch migration will begin. I yawn as the pages slip
from my hand and I fall asleep with a smile on my face.
Sally Tilbury
Sally Tilbury and her husband worked in the family business prior to
retirement. Beverly Hills Travel, Inc., a commercial travel agency, had five
offices, with their flagship office in the Beverly Hills Hotel. She moved with her
husband to Sonoma County in 1990, and upon her husband‟s death, she came
to live at Varenna. She has three daughters, six grandchildren, and six great-
grandchildren all living in Northern California.
A Good Scout Sally Tilbury
He was squeaky clean. He smelled of soap, strong soap, almost like
naphtha. It was obvious his haircut was the homemade "sit on the kitchen stool
and do not move" type. His hair had been slapped with Dad's ancient pomade. I
could see the tracks of the comb through his hair, his ears scrubbed red. What a
joy to sit in the pew behind him and members of his troop.
An expert mom had ironed his uniform. Those pants had not just been
pulled from the rumbling dryer. They had knife-sharp pleats. This great-
grandmother did not know there were any expert ironers left.
What a lift in these worrisome world-weary times, the rock-throwing, the
hate. He represented something decent to me, something outdoorsy, young and
hopeful. It made me so proud to sit behind his troop.
Each of the boys was to receive an award this day. It would be a
document with a gold star on it. Each of the boys had created a book of
writings about Scouting, its virtues, principles, kindness to others, peace and
love in the world. I prayed their lives might be fruitful and peaceful.
It was only when he turned around that I noticed the fresh black eye.
Helpless A Drabble by Sally Tilbury
Two large men wearing green scrubs placed her on the gurney and began
to roll toward the surgery. Our four-year-old daughter appeared to be a small
bundle on the cart. I was terrified. She had been born with strabismus, or
crossed eyes. Early surgical intervention was so that her eyes and brain could
work together. This was her second surgery.
As the doors of the scary elevator closed, the small bundle raised her
finger toward one of the men and said, "I'm not going to do this today, but I'll
come back tomorrow."
The elevator door clunked shut.
Nancy Humphriss
Nancy Humphriss grew up in the small town of Northampton, Massachusetts.
After graduating from the University of Massachusetts, she married her
hometown sweetheart, raised a family, and followed her husband to seven
different states, Sydney, Australia for four years, and one year in Jerusalem. Her
teaching career began with first graders in Florida. After earning her Master's
Degree in Comparative Literature from Indiana University, Nancy ended her
career teaching foreign students for 17 years at San Jose State University. She
and her husband retired to Santa Rosa in 1997, and moved to Varenna in 2009.
She feels very fortunate to have had such a satisfying life.
A Horse is a Horse, of Course, of Course Nancy Humphriss
My sister and I lived with our parents on a modest five acre spread in a small
town in Massachusetts. Although he had a regular job, my father was a farmer
wannabe. Therefore, he was delighted when my older-by-five-plus-years sister showed
enthusiastic interest in owning a horse. He bought her one, and she quickly became
very proficient in handling and caring for Topsy, as she named her. Thus began several
years of memories, not all positive, but many funny.
Part 1: The Horse and I
I watched with envy as Shirley developed her horsemanship, entering contests,
riding with friends, and spending much time grooming and pampering her new horse.
She was thirteen and I was eight, so she decided she would teach me the techniques of
being a horsewoman. The first time I sat myself on the saddle, Topsy quickly decided I
was not her master, so she headed at a vigorous trot toward the barn, planning, of
course, to behead me and free herself from what was on her back. In panic, I managed
to slip from the stirrups onto the ground, shaken but not yet cowed.
The second attempt proved no less frightening, since now Topsy noticed the
clothesline was much closer and therefore quicker. Again, I failed, falling in a heap.
After a few days and some more verbal and “watch me” lessons, I was ready to try
again. This time Topsy realized there was an even quicker and easier way to rid her
back of me, so she lay down and began to roll over. Obviously, this ended in the same
way. Crying, stamping my feet, and hurling hard words at my sister and her horse, I
ran upstairs to my room, slamming the door behind me. At this point both my mother
and I decided I needed to find another sport, something not involving horses!
Part 2: The Horse and My Mother
Not long after my dad bought Topsy, she presented us, unexpectedly, with a
baby horse, a foal. My sister named him Teddy, and he was darling, left free to roam
around, usually following his mother. After a few months he began to be a bit
aggressive, nipping our hands and trotting after us. Soon he revealed his even stronger
male tendencies, and my mother, who loved gardening, became a bit intimidated by
Teddy, but she still felt in control. One day, as she was taking dry laundry off the line, I
saw her, clothes basket in hand, swinging it at the angry colt. She finally took off
running with Teddy close behind. She made it to the porch and into the house,
slamming the door on Teddy, who stood on the porch, nose to the glass window,
peering in at my terrified mother. At this point my dad decided one horse was enough,
and Teddy was sold to a stable owner where my sister had visiting rights for the
duration.
Part 3: The Horse and the Wagon
Shirley wanted to be able to take her friends for buggy rides, so she borrowed a
cart and hooked Topsy up. Off she went with her friend, down the lane and out of
sight. How cute they all looked, like a storybook picture. After fifteen minutes or so,
we saw Topsy galloping at full speed, dragging a very broken wagon, wheels coming
off, and no Shirley or friend. Topsy ran into our yard, across my dad‟s carefully tended
lawn and into the flower garden, wreaking havoc all the way. Nor did she stop there,
but continued through my dad‟s corn field, making a swath three feet wide before
disappearing down the hill. Fear and panic ensued, but soon my sister and friend
appeared, looking bedraggled and defeated, but not harmed. Needless to say, when
Topsy was found, safe but tired, she knew she had won again. No more pulling carts
for her!
Part 4: The Horse and the Porch
My sister took very good care of her charge, and keeping her clean, shod, well
fed, and loved came naturally. One day Shirley decided Topsy needed a bath, so she
tied her to the post of our back porch and approached her with a bucket of warm
water, soap, curry comb, and towels. Topsy gave my sister a baleful eye, then began to
rear and buck until the post gave way, along with the roof of the porch.
The whole back porch more or less caved in, and Topsy once again took off,
dragging the post behind her. Shirley managed to find her, calm her down, and bring
her home. How well I recall sitting on the steps of our now demolished porch, waiting
for my dad to come home from work. I secretly found some ill-willed delight in
knowing I was not in any way to blame, and that whatever followed wouldn‟t involve
me. But my father was a relatively understanding and gentle man, so the “punishment”
was simply not to ever again hitch Topsy to anything, be it a post or a wagon.
Part 5: The End of the Story
We had Topsy to the end of her years, and Shirley rode her almost daily until
the horse was put out to pasture and retirement. My sister continued her love of riding
and horses until her age, 80, prevented her from participating in her favorite sport.
Although I never was able to enjoy horseback riding, I certainly did enjoy watching
from the sidelines, and these remain some of my favorite memories of my childhood
on the farm.
The Turkey and the Chicken Nancy Humphriss
It seems to me that the world is getting more and more angry, threatening,
chaotic, disturbing and violent than I ever remember it being before. The news
continues to emphasize our need to be more tolerant of those with whom we may
disagree, more understanding of other‟s ideas and viewpoints, and, in general, more
civil. This little vignette I am about to relate is no great expose or even “big deal,” but it
spoke to me in its small, rather simple way.
I was sitting in the chair in my beauty salon, awaiting a haircut, gazing out the
side window at the sidewalk, when suddenly a magnificent turkey gobbler came into
view. Alongside him, trotting to keep up with the long strides of the turkey, was a
beautiful black and white feathered rooster. Stopping to look around, something
interested them and they ambled over to a glass door on the other side of the
sidewalk. They peered together into the glass door, appearing to wait for someone.
Obviously they were together in the sense of companions or friends, and while I may
be assuming more than was actually happening, they looked as if they were enjoying
each other and were somehow communicating as they stood there. One of the hair
stylists had granola she had brought for her lunch. She grabbed a handful, carefully
opened the door, and gently scattered the food along the sidewalk. The poultry couple
lifted their heads, not at all alarmed at the sudden appearance of a human, and
considered the idea of eating the granola. Evidently they agreed to go for it, and they
both began to peck, more or less taking turns. Someone in the salon took out her cell
phone and photographed the scene.
It was an episodic minute that somehow shouted the much needed point, to
quote the clichés of the past: “Make love, not war;” “Opposites attract;” “Celebrate
diversity,” etc.
I know turkeys and chickens are not mortal enemies like mountain lions and
deer, but this little scene, sweet, unusual, and very, very pertinent considering the
current state of the world, seemed to speak to those of us witnessing it. It saddens me
to think how different the world would be if we could only learn from the turkey and
the chicken.
Jack Russ
Jack Russ shifted his writing focus to fiction in 1999, after years of
professional non-fiction. He earned awards for three short stories and
published his first novel, In Dangerous Waters, in December 2010. For three
years he served as President of the Mt. Diablo Branch of the California Writers
Club, and concurrently formed and promoted the Tri-Valley Branch of CWC.
Jack holds a MA in Management and is a retired Navy Captain and carrier pilot.
He and his wife Arlene moved to Varenna in May 2011.
The Pink Letter Jack Russ
Steve stepped into the red gloom of the aircraft carrier‟s ready room, sweaty and tired
from the night‟s second mission over Vietnam. A short, by now routine mission debrief
helped him escape the ready room‟s somber atmosphere and the absence of the usual
chatter.
Steve checked for mail from Becky at the Duty Officer‟s desk before heading for
a shower, food and overdue sleep, in that order. His only letter was junk mail offering
a credit card. What would he do with a credit card at sea?
“Guess you‟re taking care of these for Brick now,” the Duty Officer said. He
handed three envelopes to Steve.
Steve stowed his pilot‟s flight gear next to the empty peg for helmet and
harness assigned to his roommate, John “Brick” Goretti. He downed a paper cup of the
last of the quick-mix lemonade, and left for his stateroom.
Steve tried to ignore the ominous silence of the cramped stateroom. Brick
usually had his tapes going full blast. One of their ongoing hassles had been Brick‟s
insistence on playing his tapes loud. Steve‟s distaste for Brick‟s choice in music gave
them something to argue about other than their missions and the deadly routine of
round-the-clock combat operations.
Steve‟s eyes couldn‟t escape Brick‟s three letters. He‟d dropped them on their
shared desktop with the other magazines and stuff he‟d promised himself he‟d clean
up one of these days. He hesitated. Would he be violating Brick‟s privacy if he opened
the letters? What would Brick do in his place?
The top letter was more junk mail. Steve tore open the envelope to be sure and
trashed it. The second was from a sporting goods company advising they‟d sent the
boots Brick had admired in a recent catalog. Steve made a note to expect a package
sometime in the future.
He stared at the last letter, the pink one. No need to turn it over. It was another
from Brick‟s fiancée, Trish. There had been many of the same pale pink envelopes
since they had left San Diego five months before. Steve remembered Trish as the
gushy, southern belle type. He had only met her once, at the squadron‟s pre-
deployment party. A pretty girl, blonde with pale freckles, and barely up to Brick‟s
shoulders. They made an interesting couple on the dance floor. It was quite a sight to
see the ex-football linebacker from Alabama twirling a miniscule partner less than half
his weight. But give them credit. Their dancing was show-stopping. Her feet were in the
air more often than on the floor. Brick hadn‟t been considered graceful before. He took
on new stature that night.
He reached for the envelope but stopped before touching it. Was he ready to
deal with another man‟s mail? A quick check of his watch showed he still had time to
get into the early sitting in the wardroom. He couldn‟t think clearly on an empty
stomach. He‟d deal later with the pink letter.
Later turned out to be after a quick lunch, a short nap, and a special intelligence
briefing for an upcoming mission. The pink envelope, like a magnet demanded his
attention each time he entered or left the room.
He and Brick had enjoyed a special bond. It hadn‟t involved reading each other‟s
mail, although they talked about people and events and things their infrequent mail
contained. Steve had pictures of Becky and his baby son Bobby taped to the bureau, the
son he‟d never held. He would though, and soon, unless their deployment was
extended again.
Brick‟s few pictures were of his mom, dad and sis, a picture of Brick and Steve at
one of the squadron parties at the Cubi Point Officer‟s Club early in the deployment,
and a couple of snapshots of Trish taken before they left San Diego. Brick was the neat
one, a relative term, Steve decided, looking around the cramped stateroom.
Trish‟s letter was postmarked nine days ago, March 21, 1967. Not bad,
considering how slow some mail had been. From the heft of the envelope there
couldn‟t be more than a couple of sheets in it. He laid it back on the desktop. Should
he open it? Would he object if he and Brick changed places? Probably not. He paused
again, unsure. After all, he had been designated to clean up Brick‟s affairs.
The “Dear John” opening gave him pause. Hadn‟t Brick always chuckled at the
way she began her letters? He‟d read some of the openings to Steve, things like, “My
Dearest,” or “You Big Hunk.” He suspected some letters opened in a more intimate
tone. Brick hadn‟t chosen to share those.
Trish‟s first paragraph didn‟t sound like much of a love letter. Becky‟s letters
usually started off with something like how much she missed him.
Trish began with “Hope you are well and getting your sleep.” Brick had
mentioned that he told her of their back-to-back missions during the past month. That
tempo had everyone dragging. There‟d been some let-up since, but not much.
Trish wrote that she‟d talked with Brick‟s mom the day before and all was well
there. His dad had to go in for some dental work. His kid sister was looking forward to
her senior prom. Trish hadn‟t seen her dress. She said his sister described something
in pale blue and slinky on the phone. Steve remembered the skinny teenager and
thought the kid is really growing up.
Page two, a half page long, must have been written later because the ink was
different. He thought he detected a slight change in the handwriting.
“This is very hard for me to tell you. Please don‟t think unkindly of me,” it
began.
Steve stopped reading. He really didn‟t want to get into Brick‟s truly personal
affairs. Maybe he should slip the sheets back in the envelope and hold them. But, hold
them for what, and for how long?
“You remember my neighbor, Dick Lambert?” her letter continued. “You knew
he works in the building next to mine. We went to lunch once about a month after you
left. We began seeing each other more often. Well, to cut it short, he‟s asked me to
marry him. I didn‟t know what do. Guess I should have told you sooner. I‟m sorry.
You‟ve been gone so long, and well, Dick kept pushing. Besides, mother likes Dick. Last
night he gave me a ring, and I told him yes. Please forgive me for not telling you
sooner. I love Dick and believe I‟ve made the right choice. Thank you for all the good
times. I hope your life is full and happy.”
Steve stared at the sheets for a full minute, hands flat on the desktop, letting his
anger subside so he wouldn‟t succumb to an urge to crumple the letter and toss it. He
stared at Becky‟s picture. What would she advise him to do?
He stuffed the pages back in the envelope and resealed it. Across the front he
wrote,
“Return to Sender. New address is
Hanoi Hilton Prison,
Hanoi, North Vietnam.”
Elisabeth Levy
Elisabeth Levy was born, raised and trained as a registered nurse in
Switzerland. In 1958 she immigrated to the USA, working a few months in
Portland, OR, Galveston and San Antonio, TX before settling in San Francisco,
CA. She worked in Dermatology with her husband, Dr. S. William Levy until he
died in 2005. She always liked to write, and in 2006 started getting serious. She
joined the Oakmont Writers and published Destiny, a translation of her friend‟s
life as a paraplegic and several essays in the yearly Oakmont Writers
Anthologies. She helped get the Varenna Writers off the ground.
Is There a Wolf in the House? Elisabeth Levy
In a small village in Switzerland, in a big 200-year-old house, lived Heidy with
her parents and three older sisters.
The living quarters were on the second floor. At the top of the creaky wooden
stairs, a glass door opened into a long stretched-out hallway. To the right was the
kitchen with the pantry. In the corner sat the living room. The main attraction in the
living room was the large blue tile stove with a tiled bench, a great place to relax and
read any time of the year. In winter it was truly appreciated, as it kept the room nice
and warm. Heidy loved to hold her hands on the tiles. It made her feel good and the
warmth went through her whole body. There was a little opening for keeping those 12”
x 12” cotton bags filled with cherry pits warm.
The bags were recycled flour bags, soft to the touch. Grite, the maid, would
wash them, cut them to size and sew them together. At cherry season the family would
carefully collect the pits, wash and dry them, and fill the bags.
At bedtime, Heidy would grab a bag and put it into her cold bed. It warmed the
sheets until she was ready to slip under the covers. The only problem was that
sometimes the cotton bags broke and the cherry pits spilled into the bed. Heidy had a
ritual; before she put the bag to her feet, she would hug it and feel the warmth next to
her heart.
This monstrous tile oven was heated by shoving two-foot long sticks bundled
together into the oven opening in the kitchen. Heidy loved to watch the sticks burning
and becoming glowing embers. At that time Grite would shut the valve, and like a
miracle, the heat would penetrate the tiles and warm the living room.
On the south side, adjacent to the living room, was the bedroom Heidy and her
older sister Erika shared. It had three doors, one to the living room, one to the hallway
and one to their parents‟ bedroom. In the hallway between the two bedrooms was a
small coal stove, heated only when the outside temperature was below freezing. Across
the hallway, tucked in the corner, was the separate toilet and next to it the bathroom.
To enter the bathroom was like going through a dark little alley containing an old
wooden toddler‟s bed and a chest of drawers. A door with opaque glass separated it
from the actual bathroom, which had a sink and a tub. Every Saturday evening Mother
would heat the bathroom oven for their weekly bathing time. She would scrub the girls‟
backs and made sure they did not linger and have fun for too long.
In the hallway, across from Heidy and Erika‟s bedroom, were four wardrobes,
one for each girl. They fit exactly between the bathroom and Margrit and Lily‟s
bedroom, which was adjacent to the glass door leading down the stairs. This long
hallway had only one light bulb down by the kitchen and living room. The other end
with bathroom and toilet was dark. Most of the time there was no heat except in the
living room.
At the age of five or so, little Heidy loved to hear stories. She had just started to
read stories on her own. She loved the Grimm‟s fairy tales, like “Little Red Riding
Hood,” “Snow White,” “Cinderella,” and others. Grite was a good storyteller. Sometimes
she even made them up, like the one of Mrs. Milk. As the two of them watched the milk
coming to the boiling point, Grite would say, “Mrs. Milk and her children were on their
way to catch the train. All of a sudden, they heard the train coming. They ran, but of
course, they always were too late.” If the milk did not flow over, Grite told her, “Mrs.
Milk and her children had no chance.” Other times, the theme would vary. Maybe those
stories spurred Heidy‟s imagination.
When it came to the Grimm‟s stories, her imagination ran wild. Little Red Riding
Hood? That wolf with its gray unkempt furry coat and his huge white teeth, could he
hurt her? Where did he hide, somewhere in the house?
During the summer Heidy had no problem. It was light when she had to go to
bed and the wolf had no place to hide. The winter was another matter. During those
long winter evenings the family would gather in the heated living room. Heidy learned
to knit. They would listen to radio plays and music. All seemed well, except now Heidy
had a problem.
Going to the bathroom was scary. She had to leave the warm, brightly lighted
living room, enter the long shadowy hall and pass the dark little room behind the row
of closets before she could reach the toilet. It was so dark, like in the forest, and she
was sure the wolf was hiding in that dark room. She tried to be very quiet and tiptoe to
the toilet. When she thought nobody would notice, she would sneak out of the living
room, leaving the door open, just a little. But soon she‟d hear an angry voice: “Don‟t
leave that door open; we are freezing.” Usually by that time she was far enough, she
could run the rest of the way to the toilet and be momentarily saved. The way back was
not so bad. She could quietly sneak out of the toilet and run into the light, reaching the
living room safely. Her sisters never asked her why she wanted to leave the living room
door open, and she was sure if they knew, they would mock her and laugh.
A few years later Heidy had a little brother. Poor Heinz, one day when he was
three years old, their oldest sister opened her closet and showed him a mask she had
used a few days before to entertain a group of seniors. He got such a shock, screamed
hysterically and called the mask “the wicked doll.” In contrast to Heidy, he would not
pass Lily‟s closet and the dark little room to go to the toilet by himself, day or night,
summer or winter. Their mother even burned the mask and showed him the empty
closet, but it didn‟t help. The damage was done.
MayBugs Elisabeth Levy
Memories happen to come back. Susan Bono, our writing group facilitator, gave
us twenty minutes to write about a summer morning. Only when the class was over did
lightning strike me: the maybugs, of course. And here is the story.
During my childhood in Switzerland, I remember how every three or four years
we had a maybug invasion in May or June. They would make themselves at home in
oak, fruit, and other trees and feed on the new and tender leaves. After about five to
seven weeks they became larvae, dug themselves into the soil and played havoc with
root vegetables and fruit, such as strawberries. We would hear their churning-
humming sound in the evening before they went to sleep. Needless to say, it was very
important to catch these one-inch long creatures with their hard brown shells
promptly.
For the fun of it and to make sure that my memories were more or less correct, I
checked with my sister, a friend from the same village, two friends from neighboring
villages, and my cousin. We all clearly remembered similar experiences.
Every village was responsible for collecting as many maybugs as possible. A
bulletin instructed the villagers how, when, and where to deliver them. Collecting was
mandatory for every family who had trees in their backyard. The farmers were
required to deliver a certain quantity of bugs and only got paid for the surplus. People
like my family who had just a few trees got paid for all the bugs they delivered. The
evening before the designated day, our parents made sure we knew the importance of
following the protocol.
I heard my Mother‟s voice, “It‟s time to wake up.” It was 4:00 a.m., and not even
daylight. My clothes were ready on the chair. I dressed quickly, put on shoes and off I
ran down the stairs to the back of the house. My Father had already put heavy sheets
under the first tree. Mother had gotten the big kettle of boiling hot water ready.
“Come on, kids, let the fun begin,” my father said in a low voice. He didn‟t want
to wake up the maybugs.
We gathered around the first tree and started shaking it as hard as we could. We
began to hear this crackling sound as the sleeping maybugs came tumbling down. As
they favored the new leaves, they were mostly closer to the ends of the branches. We
shook the tree until the noise stopped. Next, we had to be very quick, fold the sheets,
hold them closed, and empty the bugs into the hot water before they woke up. One or
two escaped, crawled out of the cloth and flew away.
My sisters and I were fascinated, but had no time to loiter. We had only enough
time to shake our heads to get rid of the maybugs in our hair before we started
shaking the next tree. The same thing was repeated a few more times until we were
done.
My parents gave a sigh of relief and told us we did a good job and earned the
money we were about to get. We looked into the hot water kettle. It was hard to figure
the amount of bugs swimming in there. Soon the bugs and the smell began to bug us
and we decided the sooner we got rid of them, the better off we‟d be. By now it was
daylight and the whole village was on its way to the designated collection place, a
farmhouse with a big barn on the main street. We loaded our kettle on the cart and
pulled it the few blocks up the street. The arriving villagers were all in party mood.
The men chosen by the city council, plus the owner of the farm, were prepared.
It really was a well-organized affair. One man lifted the kettle, poured the water
through a strainer, weighed the bugs, called out the number of pounds. Another one
took the smelly bugs to the back of the barn, while another calculated how much
money was owed us. It was not much, maybe a penny or two per pound, but we were
proud to put the money into our savings, knowing we did an important job. Fewer
larvae would dig into the ground and destroy the roots of the new harvest of
vegetables and fruit.
As a final note, there was no waste; the maybugs were ground up and used as
fertilizer.
Alexa Rhoads
John H. C. Riley
John H. C. Riley was born in Glasgow, Scotland, and moved to Canada as a
young boy. During World War II he served in the Canadian Navy. A 40-year
career in the newspaper industry in Canada and the USA followed. An active
athlete until recently, John played for Charles Schulz‟s Diamond Icers Hockey
Team for 30 years and was Master of Ceremonies for Snoopy's Senior World
Hockey Tournament for 37 years. He and his wife Mary Louise, whom he met on
a university tennis court, were recently honored by the Schulz family and the
Redwood Empire Ice Arena for their service to the tournament.
Embarrassing Success John H. C. Riley
My parents were in their mid-forties when a Canadian snowfall piled
snow four feet high on their driveway in suburban Toronto, Canada. Well may
you ask the whereabouts of their only son when they needed him!
Courtesy of Canada‟s federal government, I was participating in an all-
expenses paid cruise to that northern pile of coral in the Atlantic Ocean known
as Bermuda. But there‟s always a catch, isn‟t there? Instead of fascinating shore
excursions, each day would entail that navy routine known as “work-ups”—the
process of putting a new naval vessel (in this case, a frigate) and the crew
through all its paces: engines, all armament including depth charges projectors,
ASDIC and radar, and all communications equipment. All this, of course, was
supervised by highly skilled training officers.
As the gunnery officer, my men and I were under the scrutiny of a
warrant (i.e. non-commissioned) officer. He deserves some sympathy for his
behavior during the incident I am about to relate. He was a permanent navy
individual who, along with almost every member of the very small Canadian
navy at the beginning of World War II, had become submerged by a host of
volunteer reserves who had joined the navy after the start of the war in
September 1939. The spectacular growth of Canada‟s navy to the status of third
largest navy in the world meant that the permanent force formed roughly less
than fifteen percent of all of Canada‟s naval personnel on active duty. This was
a source of occasional resentment—not always concealed. The day on which the
focus of attention was on the twin four inch guns provided an illustration of
this.
Today‟s training with offensive weaponry is done with “high-tech” virtual
reality computerized equipment. World War II‟s equivalent for big guns
amounted to a large box with an aperture by which the trainee could see a
model of a submarine on the surface of the ocean and the fake splashes of a
shell hitting the water in front of or behind the broadside of the submarine.
The trainee, having been given a broad range in yards in which the submarine
was located, proceeded with a fake attack based on the traditional artillery
procedures. The distance estimate was changed up or down appropriately until
the projectile crossed the target again. The reversal of range and change of
range up or down continued until the target was hit.
At last, the big moment had arrived when the big twin four-inch guns
would open fire for the first time since being installed on the new frigate. This
was the real thing, certainly no puppet show. I got a range estimate from radar,
checked the wind, response of the ship to the ocean and gave the order to fire
the already loaded dummy shells. Surprise! The first shot hit the target.
Result—momentarily stunned! Brief mental paralysis! Never, never, never in all
the puppeteering “virtual reality” practices did the trainee hit the target with
the first shot!
Pause. What to do? Inadvertently—almost automatically—I gave out the
instruction I had used so often in the puppeteering practices, “Down 200!” Now
I was embarrassed on top of stunned! I kept the binoculars glued to my eyes as
the warrant officer volleyed a six word epithet at me. The first two words
lowered the level of my intelligence considerably and the other four insulted
my mother. “Rapid salvoes!” I blurted out correctly. My gun‟s crew obliged and
shattered the rest of the target.
That worn-out phrase, “All‟s well that ends well,” applies. I had an
embarrassing success. Meanwhile, the warrant officer was unaware, as I was
also, that the admiral in charge of operations in the Bermuda area had come
aboard the ship to see how the “work-ups” were going. He was standing behind
the warrant officer and me during the warrant officer‟s somewhat less than
complimentary description hurled at me, and later dealt with the
insubordination. Best of all, over a few days, my father and mother removed all
snow from the driveway in time to access the street coincidentally with the
snow plow‟s clearing of the street by the city employees.
Renée McKnight
Renée McKnight, a recent arrival to Varenna in Santa Rosa, was born in New
York, but has lived most of her life in California. She is a mother of four sons,
grandmother of ten, and a tennis player. She has always loved to keep house
and cook and bake for her family. She has traveled extensively with her dear
husband Ed and her family. She has never written anything before, but plans to
continue writing and learning. She hopes these little vignettes will be
entertaining.
The Party Renee McKnight
It was a surprise party for me at my house, with all my family, and I wasn‟t
supposed to know about it. However, I soon found out and arranged things accordingly
in the dining room with the dishes, silverware, napkins, etc., and eagerly awaited the
rest to come.
About three o‟clock in the afternoon the bearers of wonderful food started to
arrive, and one by one began to assemble their goodies. There was the smell of seafood
stew simmering at the stove as Debbie quietly stirred things together; Tiffany put her
stuffed peppers into the oven to heat, a green and red vision to behold. You could
almost taste them already. From Cov‟s kitchen came his homemade chili in a deep pot,
ready to entice with rice on the side. The salads were glistening on the table, green
with lots of vegetables, pasta salad made by Sue and Nancy, and platters of cheese and
crackers and a savory baked brie cheese with brandy and brown sugar by Becky. There
was even a fabulous fruit salad made by my grandson Kyle, which really surprised and
delighted everyone. The desserts were things of beauty: cakes and pies and cookies
made by Monica and her mother, Sally. Everything was colorful on the white tablecloth
and it smelled wonderful. The sound of the others doing the cooking in my kitchen
was music to my ears and what a symphony it made.
After eating all this wonderful food, I didn‟t mind so much that today I turned
eighty.
The Decision Renee McKnight
We were at the train station, full of excitement and trying to get the next train to
Paris. We had just turned in the canal boat after an adventurous week of traveling the
small canals of France, discovering and enjoying France all by ourselves, my husband
Ed, his son Cov, his wife Suzanne, and me. It wasn‟t easy at first, but we soon got the
hang of it, and it turned out to be a remarkable experience, one we will never forget,
worth every moment of anxiety and pride in our accomplishments along the way.
We had already turned in the rented car after leaving the boat and found our
way to the local train station, hoping to be in Paris in a few hours. There we were,
looking a bit worn, and trying to read the signs on the platform. Everything was written
in French, of course, and the word “Paris” was mentioned on several signs, only
confusing the issue.
“How are we going to choose the right sign?” That was the dilemma. After
taking a two-month course in the language from Alliance Francaise at home, I seemed
to be the only one able to speak and understand a little French. I was immediately
looked upon as the “knowing one” and I have to say it elevated my standing
momentarily! All of a sudden I was supposed to get us to Paris with my vast new
knowledge!
There was no one around us on the platform to ask for help, so I intensely
studied each sign, hoping to find a clue for the correct route. All the while, everyone
was yelling and talking and giving me their advice, until I shouted in frustration, “Shut
up and let me think!”
There was complete silence as I made my decision, all the while shaking in my
shoes and praying they wouldn‟t notice that I was unsure. We boarded the train and sat
down, cautiously looking around to find some clues until I was able to ask a fellow
passenger if this train was going to Paris. The answer was, “Oui, Paris, oui!” A big sigh
of relief was heard all around and smiles remained on our faces all the way to Paris. It
felt good to have made the right decision.
The Trees Renee McKnight
As I sit and look out through the sliding glass doors of my kitchen and beyond
the deck, I see a stately group of Redwood trees, just four to be exact. They have been
there since 1994, almost seventeen years, and I have watched them grow from tiny
plants, no more than a foot high, to become such a proud and magnificent group.
My husband Ed and I planted them after the Oakland Hills fire in 1991, where
there wasn‟t a shrub or a tree left on the burnt and barren hillside. It was a very sad
sight to behold. A very kind gentleman from Berkeley offered six “baby” trees to us,
four redwood and two oak. We happily accepted his gift and couldn‟t wait to begin
digging. It wasn‟t easy on the dry hillside, but for us, it was a joyful labor of love to be
able to replace what was lost.
I now look upon these wonderful gifts from nature, the redwoods now about
forty-five feet high, giving me privacy and a sense of peace, and remembering that
lovely time spent with my husband.
Bernice Schachter
Bernice Schachter was born in Elizabeth, New Jersey and lived in the town of
Linden until she moved to Southern California in 1973. When her two children
were in college, she completed the college education that had been interrupted
by WWII and a 25-year marriage. She earned a master‟s degree in sculpture
from Goddard College in Vermont, studied Art History at California State
College in Northridge, and taught sculpture part-time at Everywoman‟s Village
in Van Nys for twenty-five years. She spent summers in Pietrasanta, Italy
teaching the Italian method of stone carving. After retiring to Laguna Woods
Village, Bernice found the time to write two books, The Masks of My Muse and
The Creative Quest.
Homage to Pietrasanta Bernice Schachter
Bruno Lucchese, a world famous sculptor, agreed to accept the role as my
faculty advisor while I was working for my master‟s degree. When he learned of my
interest in stone carving, he said in his charming Italian accent, “We go Pietrasanta
with mio amico Isolanni, from Pratt Art Institute in New York. I meet you there in the
summer.”
Bruno spends every summer in Pietrasanta at his charming villa in the shadow
of the duomo in the town‟s square. For centuries, the city of Pietrasanta was the Mecca
for sculptors from every part of the world who came to learn sculpture from the local
craftsmen working in bronze and marble. Long after Michelangelo built the roads to
the quarries, great sculptors such as Henry Moore, Isamu Noguchi, Fernando Botero,
and countless others great and small, lived and worked in this small city at the foot of
the great marble quarries. All found a welcome and inspiration in the beautiful region
of Tuscany. There we experienced a sense of community, found the material to work
with, and studios to work in for both students and professional artists.
I had hesitated about going to Italy for the first time until my dear friend Sally
booked us both on a trip to Europe. She promised to put me on the train to Pietrasanta
in time for the Pratt Art Institute Summer School. In spite of my fears of joining a
group of twenty-plus college kids all thirty years younger, it all worked out after I
moved from the crowded shared dorm to the local pensione nearer the town‟s square.
There I found a new home with friendly faces of adult sculptors who had the same
passion for stone carving. We thrived on wonderful Italian feasts for ten dollars a day
that included a single-bedded private room.
Sem Ghelardini, the local artist, was the unofficial ambassador to all who came
to work in the arts. He originated the slogan that still stands today, “Pietrasanta: City
of Art and Artists.” He took an interest in the Americans attending the School of Stagio
Stale and arranged transport to the great Henraux quarry where we first faced the
marble at its source. Sem selected a pure piece of statuario especially for me and
assured me it would carve well. This was the first piece I ever carved in marble. It
became “The Fallen,” symbolizing the many soldiers who died in Viet Nam.
The School of Stagio Stale was an industrial school for the young Italian
students who were learning to perpetuate the trade of marble workers and artisans.
While they were away during the summer, Pratt arranged to use the facilities. It was
there I learned how to use the tools and machines that would lift, cut, shape, turn,
bore, and polish marble. We were assigned the space and were required to turn in a
finished project at the end of the summer semester. On seeing Botticelli‟s “Venus” for
the first time on a field trip to Florence and the Uffizi Gallery, I found my inspiration
for my class project. It was an abstract form in black Belgian marble standing three
feet high. I spent the mornings utilizing the machines at the school and became
proficient with the use of the pneumatic air hammer (the Italian invention that
revolutionized the art of marble carving.) I was able to complete the finished sculpture
polished and mounted on a marble base by the end of the three months.
I called it “Venus Rising.”
But there was more learning to be had. Every afternoon, after my class at the
school on the outside of the town square, I mounted my rented bicycle and pedaled
over to the Tomassi Foundry to work beside Bruno to learn the techniques of sculpting
in wax and casting in bronze. As the casting was very expensive and far more than I
could afford, I did small works that taught me all I needed to know about the
intricacies of mold making and the lost wax process. I completed a group of small
sculptures in bronze that was the beginning of a Mythological series that I continued
to work on from time to time. .
At the completion of the program and a good evaluation from Bruno, I knew I
had to return to Pietrasanta. I made plans to rent a studio to teach the Italian
Method of Stone Carving on the completion of my Master‟s Degree. My thesis
involved research into the Venus figures in sculpture from the cave goddesses to
contemporary Feminine forms. Going home to Linden was not a happy time. I
missed my two kids who were now living in Southern California. My daughter
expressed the desire to present me with my first grandchild. This made me anxious
to find a new life in California as a grandma and an artist.
With a separation agreement from my marriage in hand, I moved into The
Casa De Vida (the Good Life Apartment) in the San Fernando Valley. My sister
Phyllis, who lived nearby in Encino, helped me make a new beginning. I was able to
find a part-time job as a sculpture teacher in a school called Everywoman‟s Village
in Van Nuys that was a featured story in Life Magazine. I knew this would be the
place for me. I spent the next twenty-five years on their staff. This allowed me to
take three months off every summer to go back to Pietrasanta with new and eager
students to learn about the joys of stone carving in Italy. Despite the noise, dust,
sweat, some blood and tears, all who went with me loved the experience. Many of
my students returned to Pietrasanta time and time again as I did for the next
twenty-four years. Each summer was filled with the excitement of new discoveries
for myself and the people who joined me in their creative quest. It was there in
beautiful Tuscany I completed my legacy carved in stones.
Loisjean Raymond
Loisjean Raymond, born on a cold January afternoon in Great Falls, MT, was
baptized Lois Eugenia Balyeat. Before she graduated Ukiah High School, she had
attended ten schools and lived in sixteen houses. She got married the day she
graduated from UC Berkeley (1948). She and her husband, Bob, had five
children and lived in Little River, CA for 40 years. After Bob‟s death in 2009, she
moved to Varenna. She was active with Varenna Writers until she re-connected
with her friend John Simmons, a widower. The two are married and making a
new life in Ukiah.
The Tree in the Middle of the Garden Loisjean Raymond
The tree there in the middle of the garden . . .
I must not touch nor look upon to see.
I‟m free to feast on every fruit around it,
But can‟t enjoy that single, center tree.
A plentitude of riches—oh, such bounty
And all the gifts God freely gives to me!
Such magnitude, my human nature baffles!
And I recognize my own perversity.
For do I focus full upon my blessings
Or lust, instead, for that which cannot be?
What spirit in me turns my eyes upon it,
To gaze upon that one forbidden tree?
The Inner Me Loisjean Raymond
Read on, my friend, feel free to see,
About the thoughts of “Inner Me,”
The “Me” of me that seldom shows,
That very rarely I expose.
I always try to keep “the pace,”
And scarcely share that secret place,
That inner heart that wants to bloom,
But never finds the “elbow room.”
Perhaps, if reading to the end,
You may identify a friend,
That “Me” of me I tend to hide,
May be like you, yourself, inside.
Shirley Johnson
Shirley Johnson studied Foreign Languages at the Universities of Minnesota
and Wisconsin. After marrying and having three children, she taught Spanish in
a California community college for some twenty years. While always a constant
reader, she didn‟t write until she joined a memoir group while living in Carmel.
Using materials from those memoirs, she put together the story of her life in a
self-published book for her children and grandchildren. When she arrived
among the first group of residents at Varenna, she was happy to find others
with similar interests and joined the writing group.
A Class on Demand Shirley Johnson
In the twenty-some years I taught Spanish at Monterey Peninsula College,
a community college that prided itself on its location and on being responsive
to student and community needs, I had a number of different assignments, but
the strangest one came about at the height of the Civil Rights Movement, after
sit-ins and strikes at many major universities in the country were already old
news. The ideas that fueled the unrest at those institutions had arrived at ours,
and our president, Bob Faul, was faced with student demands for Black Studies.
He found teachers for a Black History class and one in Black Literature, but
when he was confronted by a delegation of young, angry black students dressed
like African warriors in fake tiger skins, carrying fake spears and demanding
that he also provide them with training in Swahili (the language of their
ancestors), he was caught off guard.
That Swahili was not a tribal language but the lingua franca used
generally for government and business was not of concern to them. Swahili
spoke to their romantic notions of “roots,” of great African cultures on the
continent lost during European enslavement. So, being a smart administrator
aware of experiences on other campuses, he wisely agreed to their demands.
The students simmered down, and he set about to find a teacher. He knew a
young Kenyan student on campus who spoke Swahili, but he still needed a
credentialed teacher.
I entered the picture when one evening I walked into a dinner party where
Bob Faul was a guest. As I was about to greet everyone, he suddenly exclaimed,
“Here at last is my Swahili teacher!”
I looked around and realized he was pointing to me—a very white
middle-aged woman who worked hard to pass muster in Spanish. I thought my
teaching Swahili was a joke, but Bob was serious and determined to keep peace
on his campus. I had a credential, room in my schedule to add another class,
and being a creative administrator, Bob was able to work around regulations to
give the warriors their language class.
I make their demand sound rather foolish, and I suppose it was in a way,
but the movement had energized and excited young black students by giving
them the feeling they might have the power to change society and their lives. It
was important at that moment for them to be heard.
I wish I could remember the name of the young Kenyan who worked with
me to organize the course, but I no longer have records of those days and I lost
track of him when the course ended. For several tedious weeks in the fall, he
and I sat together in a small, stuffy recording room off the language laboratory
and repeated phrases which I first read in English, and he then pronounced in
Swahili, pausing to give the student time to repeat. We recorded dialogues and
vocabulary this way, day after day, until we had enough tapes to last two
semesters, a boring job using a dull Swahili text procured from the Foreign
Service.
When classes began, I introduced the students to their Swahili teacher,
sat in the back of the class, gave him suggestions during the week about
teaching methods, and tried to cheer him up in the face of the rapidly
diminishing enthusiasm of his students, who were not only required to attend
class, but also to spend two hours a week working with our mind-numbing
tapes.
Would they have been more enthusiastic had there been more
professional tapes to work with? I doubt it. No, they had won their battle and
now had to memorize dialogues and vocabulary, always a task demanding
discipline. Other courses in the program, like Black History, were more
immediately gratifying, even when poorly taught. Hundreds of schools across
the country were hastily patching together programs in Black Studies, creating
departments, and searching for qualified black instructors—and they were very
scarce.
Our Swahili class lasted two semesters until, as the enrollment declined
below the number required to justify a class, it quietly met its end, and my
career as the teacher of record for a language I could neither speak, read, nor
understand, came to an unheralded end.
Susan Bono
Susan Bono is a writing teacher, freelance editor, and thirty-year resident of
Petaluma. She founded Tiny Lights: A Journal of Personal Narrative in 1995, and
its online counterpart, www.tiny-lights.com, shortly after. She serves on the
advisory boards of the Mendocino Coast Writers Conference and Petaluma
Readers Theatre. She co-founded The Writer’s Sampler series for the Sebastopol
Center for the Arts and currently co-hosts the quarterly Speakeasy literary
readings at Aqus Café in Petaluma. Her writing has appeared in publications
such as Sheila Bender‟s Writing & Publishing Personal Essays, the St. Petersburg
Times, the Petaluma Argus Courier, and Passager Magazine.
Go Fish Susan Bono
Bobby Schallis was the thorn in our fourth grade teacher‟s side. I‟m sure Mrs.
McCrary would have sold him to slave traders if any had showed up at Dingle
Elementary School. I think back on him now and see a small, wiry, buzz-cut bundle of
energy only marginally contained by a wooden school desk.
Bobby was brilliant in the dodgeball circle and on the kickball diamond, his
short, swift legs pumping as he ran. In class, he did what he could to remain in motion,
which, in Mrs. McCrary‟s rigidly constructed realm, was limited to stirring up trouble
with flicked erasers and other projectiles, and shooting off his mouth. Mrs. McCrary, in
her never-ending quest for the silence of the grave, was often heard to say, “Mr.
Schallis, be quiet!”
I‟d like to think I knew even then that Bobby was bright as well as complicated, a
freedom fighter with enough spunk to protest the stifling atmosphere Mrs. McCrary
was so eager to maintain. But in reality, I ignored him whenever possible. I was intent
on maintaining my Good Girl status. I had learned to handle my boredom by looking
out our second story classroom windows at the tops of the rustling sycamore trees.
Besides, I was a full head taller than Bobby and obsessed with someone more my size:
Scott Leathers, the blond, blue-eyed alpha male of the fourth grade. Bobby had showed
no interest in me, but he didn‟t fit my romantic notions anyway.
But at Coffee Hour one Sunday in March, I found myself face to face with Bobby
Schallis in the fellowship hall of the United Methodist Church. I‟d never seen him there
before. Suddenly, he appeared before me, looking as if he‟d spent all morning trying to
worm his way out of his dark wool slacks, ironed white shirt and clip-on tie. He asked
me the last question I expected to hear from a boy who pretended to catch cooties
from girls at recess, “Wanna come over to my house and play?”
Dumbfounded, I could only mumble a stunned, “I guess.”
With disquieting speed, Bobby darted off among the coffee drinkers
congregated on the slick linoleum to ask his parents. Moments later, he clattered back
in his scuffed dress shoes, grabbed my arm, and propelled me on a search for my own
mom and dad. With Bobby standing at my elbow, I was unable to communicate my
deep reservations concerning his plan, and my parents failed to notice the panic in my
eyes. The next thing I knew, I was sitting on the bench seat of a Buick between Bobby
and his older sister, heading off into the unknown.
Once we got to the Schallis household, misery seized my young swain. He had
been released to the comforts of a tee-shirt, jeans and tennies, but I remained in my
Sunday finery. That hardly mattered to me, as I didn‟t go in for rugged entertainments.
Coloring books and Barbies were more my line. He was equipped with neither, so we
shuffled from room to room in his family‟s tidy tract house until he offered to show
me their fish pond. Cautiously, I agreed.
The oval concrete trough in the middle of the backyard was something of a
wonder. The suburban landscapes of the 1960s rarely featured more than a patio, a
swing set or sandbox, and maybe a barbeque. This fountain, the legacy of a previous
homeowner, had murky water choked with tangled plants and the look of prolonged
neglect. I was about to comment on the smell of stagnant water when I noticed flashes
of orange and gold among the crowding plants.
“Koi,” Bobby said, marking the first time I ever heard the word. “From Japan.”
I‟d seen big goldfish before at places like the zoo and William Land Park in Sacramento.
But until that moment, I had no idea they were actually something foreign and exotic.
We quietly looked at the fish going about their business, although quiet was not
a state Bobby could maintain for long. Soon, he was taking off his shoes and socks,
rolling up his pants, and wading in. Ever the gentleman, he invited me to join him, but I
backed away in my patent leather maryjanes, white tights and taffeta skirt to watch
from a safe distance as he scooped up water with a peanut butter jar.
Just when I was starting to wonder how long I could maintain my polite
expression of feminine interest, he sloshed over and handed me the jar of dirty water.
In it was a tiny, pale yellow fish, smaller than any I‟d seen in the tanks at the Sprouse
Reitz or Woolworth‟s.
“Here,” he said. “A baby koi. For you.”
My heart leapt, not for my brave cavalier, but for the miniature creature in the
container his mother obligingly found a lid for. Its small bright eyes and nearly
transparent fins were utterly adorable. I was returned home that afternoon dreaming
not of the romantic overtures of Bobby Schallis, but about how big my darling koi
might one day get.
Back at school on Monday, Bobby tried to act as if we had some sort of
understanding, but I rebuffed him, figuring the best way to deal with the ambivalence
this public display of affection generated was to pretend nothing had happened. The
fish, symbol of love‟s mysterious, uncharted depths, was dead by Tuesday. Chlorinated
tap water probably did it in, and the confining routine of Mrs. McCrary‟s classroom
never allowed Bobby‟s tender side to resurface. The seeds of my relationship with
Bobby, if that‟s what it was, did not fall in fertile soil. I was too busy pursuing my
unrequited love affair with Scott Leathers to encourage a young rebel‟s latent gallantry.
I never saw his family in church again, either.
Bobby Schallis moved away at the end of 5th grade. I‟d like to think he grew up
and found profitable ways to channel that boundless energy, and that he eventually
linked up with a girl who enjoyed his kind of fun. But I know the people we are now
are not so different from who we were as nine-year-olds. I suspect Bobby is still out
there making grand gestures no one fully appreciates, while I‟m busy looking off into
the distance, not recognizing love when it‟s being handed to me.
WORDS FROM THE WISE
One-liners Worth a Second Look
The Varenna Writers Club is always up for a challenge. From time to time we
assign ourselves the task of summing up a lifetime of learning in a single
sentence. The gems featured here deal with resolutions, love, hard times, and
life in general. More pop up on our website from time to time:
http://varennavoices.blogspot.com.
Words from the Wise One-liners Worth A Second Look
“Assume assumptions are to be avoided.” Bernice Schachter
“The best resolutions are those that are easier done than said.” Susan Bono
“Be careful what you ask yourself to resolve.” Ellie Rutigliano
“Making resolutions has the power and the permanence of a snowflake.” Shirley Johnson
“Love is a renewable resource.” Shirley Johnson
“Love: the best show in Vegas.” Bernice Schachter
“Love: the best show anywhere.” Dolores Fruiht
“There's always enough love to go around, even when you don't know where you've misplaced yours.”
Susan Bono
“Love is a strong emotion; when honest, it improves those involved.” Sally Tilbury
“Hard times get harder the more you dwell on them.” Susan Bono
“You can't get anything from prunes except the pits.” Joyce Cass
“Maybe my next collection of essays will be called, My Life, Lately.” Shirley Johnson
“The more foolish we become, the wiser we become.” Dolores Fruiht
Dolores Giustina Fruiht
Dolores Giustina Fruiht was born in Portland, Oregon in 1923. She received her
education from the University of Portland and served as an overseas nurse
during WWII. The mother of five children, she moved to Santa Rosa in 1952. She
is an accomplished potter, photographer, philosopher, graphic artist and writer.
She has written, designed and published the books Becoming, Contemplative
Vignettes from a Potter’s Spinning Wheel, and In Silence. She‟s attended the
Varenna Writer's Group from the beginning.
More Contemplating Dolores Giustina Fruiht
A part of me still grieves for the loss of a long held dream. How do I
move beyond? Intellectually I know how to discipline my emotions; I practice,
then all of a sudden, the volcano erupts. Oh, the uncertainty of “journey,” the
paradox of life.
I must “let go” of this world, not just the difficult issues of the world, but
all of it. That I find mighty hard to do! I want to keep the joy, the success, the
blossoms, the warm colors, even the challenges she presents. I am in this world.
I have created many dreams, or have the dreams created me? The fibers from
the broken dreams are the ones that keep tripping me. Why? Why can‟t I cut
them, prune them like an ungainly shrub in my garden. Gather the clippings
and allow them to become compost for the new. Even return the beautiful,
fragrant rose blossom back to the soil out of which she grew; another blossom,
different, but just as beautiful, can emerge.
I am a good gardener. I can and do remove that which does not lend to
the whole. Certain spontaneity is able to arise and surprise. Integration is not a
problem for me in a garden; rather, it is a challenge. There is always
opportunity to diversify. There is always time for a solo. The harmony and
peace a garden of care emits speaks to all who walk in her presence. As I watch,
the birds flit from shrub to shrub, splashingly bathe in the pottery bird bath. I,
too, with them, give thanks for the majestic “race” the world shares. Creatures
and creation becoming one.
Then why, why cannot I apply the same truths to my response in
relationship? There is no absolute. There is no one way. There is no right way.
So much remains invisible. So much remains unknown. It seems so easy to
accept, trust, and surrender to a garden. It is beautiful in spite of, or because of.
It is a work of love and beauty, yet it changes with the seasons, dies, renews,
only to die again.
Nature is wisdom; silence in nature is more wisdom. Perhaps I do not
hear what I am listening to—too busy listening to dreams. The broken dream
will only dissolve as I return it to the world out of which it came, plow it under,
below the reach of any desired echo. In this inner space of nothing, in this inner
space of silence, there will be no expectation, no cultural or worldly placed
values, only divine wisdom carrying you to a deeper level of “being” just who
you are, when you are what you are, with awareness.
I sit on the steps this foggy but silent morning and meditate on a
painting that hangs in my stairwell.
It is always interesting to pause and reacquaint oneself with some
intuitive response rendered at a crucial moment. An emotion temporarily
frozen with a spontaneous splash of form and color via the paint brush.
Frozen, yet very fluid, as one watches the movement of life‟s winding stream
bounce her way in between, across, down, and over nature‟s collected matter.
The slim figure—standing—ready to toss her long held mask into the
fiery abyss before her becomes stilled. Archetypal faces watch from the Tree of
Life as she consciously prepares to jump into space unknown.
This image gives me goose bumps, and yes, sends chills down my spine
as I once again contemplate the external and internal stimulus that allows such
a breakthrough. Forces, you keep coming, sweeping me into unknown ends.
Ends that are only beginnings, as life extends.
Beside this young stilled figure rocks a canoe, the canoe that carried her
across the river. Her canoe of truth, of discernment for life‟s sacred passage,
the canoe bearing the symbol of ancient past. The canoe that now must be cut
loose.
Sitting on my stairway, I can even now feel the texture of the canoe, the
womblike entrance, the cool breeze of dawn. I was there and at the same time I
was (am) here. I was (am) both places at once. Time was (is) vertical; time was
(is) timeless.
I can also smell the old oak that gives rest to the raven high above and
see the shadow her spreading limbs cast below. I actually become the raven,
and for a very brief moment, see into all dimensions of the earth.
The course of this quest into a new consciousness was a lengthy one. One
of persistence and survival, of chaos and complexity. But from this challenge
came unity, a new state of being. Be it the morning sun breaking through a
standing forest of trees or the human ego becoming transparent as the spirit
falls upon her, it is the spirit that quickens the soul. Are we not but spirit
unfolding?
A Nostalgic Drive Dolores Giustina Fruiht
My daughter drove down from Red Bluff for the President‟s weekend to
visit me. We decided to continue the drive on to the coast and pack a few more
boxes from my Bodega Bay home that I was trying to vacate.
It was an overcast day but the colors were so vivid and carried such
energetic power. Bright, radiant mustard covered the fields of neglected apple
orchards that border Highway 12 en route to Bodega Bay. Freestone‟s gentle
rolling hills were verdant green with spring‟s recent rains. And the acacia trees,
erect as vigil guards, aglow in full blossom, escorted us into this countryside of
beauty.
Nostalgic memories glided through my mind as easily as Tina‟s car glided
upon the open roads before us. Just yesterday (well, more like forty years ago)
we drove the same winding highway, stopping at the then-young apple orchards
with our then-young family of five, gathering the aftermath of a bumper crop.
We would then trek to the nearby cannery with our worthwhile yield and can
applesauce for winter‟s pantry. Apple and cherry gleaning were a yearly Sunday
afternoon affair. We would return year after year to the same orchard, creating
a comfortable relationship—friendship, actually—with the owners.
The present fruit trees, the few that remain standing, are as gnarly as my
hands. Guess we are probably the same age, and even perhaps weathered by the
same forces of nature. A concrete foundation, now stark in appearance, is all
that remains of the once bustling cannery.
On toward the ocean we drifted, enjoying the countryside.
A great number of black crows were lined up on the old Bodega
schoolhouse fence, the very spot where Hitchcock‟s “The Birds” was filmed in
the „60s. We lived in Santa Rosa at the time of this big event. This sighting gave
an eerie feeling to the overcast day, as if for a moment it was then.
I looked to my right where an old sawmill also once stood. Our son
served as night watchman one summer when he was in high school. Through
the fog, I could visualize its ghostlike appearance revealing to me the mark it
had once played in time‟s history.
These memories kept flashing, but I became more conscious of all the
symbols that were formed by them, and the metaphors of meaning they in turn
birthed. Birds, I mused, are a symbol of freedom—freedom from material ties.
(Was I not moving from the Bodega Bay home to a smaller residence?) They are
also a symbol for spiritual freedom, an ability to soar to higher awareness. As I
stood before the vast span of window in my (to be leaving) Bodega Bay home,
the symbol of “window” shouted its message to me. “Window” gives one an
ability to see beyond a given situation. It also provides an inter-dimensional
awareness. When we sat momentarily in chairs around the dining table, I
applied my knowledge of the chair symbol. A chair in a dream depicts one‟s
attitude, position, how one sees oneself. What was my attitude regarding this
move—honestly?
It was interesting to treat our nostalgic drive from Santa Rosa to Bodega
Bay as a dream. As in a dream, yesterday and yesteryear slid in and out of
focus. Just as a musician plays his slide trombone, one realizes it is the space
between the notes that creates the music. It is the space between the notes that
creates the journey. It is the space between words that writes the story.
Joyce Cass
Joyce Cass was born in San Francisco, leaving her heart there, but moving
around in Northern California ever since. She published her memoir in 2006, A
Leaf from the Family Tree, and has been delighted to be a member of the
Varenna Writers group.
Up in Smoke Joyce Cass
The taxi‟s tires alternately hummed and slapped against the surface of the Bay
Bridge as we neared my beloved city, San Francisco. The familiar skyline defined itself
for my eyes—an eagerly awaited sight. Oh, how I had missed it these four months of
the fall term stuck back there at Ferry Hall enduring loneliness and homesickness that
no amount of studying, learning, or meeting new friends could will away! But forget
that for now as I was home for ten full days, and my head swam with the prospects of
all the fun and parties that lay immediately ahead for this Christmas vacation.
Inside the taxi my mother and I sat together on the back seat while Dad faced
us, seated uncomfortably on the edge of the jump seat. He made a handsome figure,
and today, because it was Saturday, a day of leisure, he wore a sweater vest under his
sport coat. His tie was knotted with care and its grey pattern brought out the shine of
his whitening hair, full and wavy. Because I was home, his hazel eyes sparkled with
humor and he was in rare form, full of stories and small talk.
Mother, too, looked all shined up, full of warmth and good spirits. She wore a
soft suit of royal blue with a single rope of pearls around her neck, her “good ones”
given to her long ago by my father. The blue suit emphasized her eyes, the color of
cobalt. I didn‟t see any gray strands in her hair, so I assumed that she‟d recently been
to the hairdresser. Both my mother and father cared a great deal about their
appearance.
Was it only four months ago that I climbed aboard the Challenger bound for
Chicago and boarding school? The trip seemed an endless four-day and three-night
ordeal, with devoted hours spent writing letters to those left behind as well as playing
card games with some of the servicemen who were aboard. Luckily Mother was
traveling with me, so I managed to avoid the amorous advances of the most persistent
of these “Railroad Romeos,” and chose instead the light-hearted ones, most of them
heading home for brief leaves or furloughs before the serious business of warfare
began. They were all amazed that my parents were sending me all the way from
California to Illinois for school. I secretly agreed with them and thus remained
resentful about the whole decision.
But for now I was briefly home and the dreariness of the past few months faded
from my mind as I noticed for the first time all the battleships and aircraft carriers
sitting in the middle of the Bay and docked in the piers lining the Embarcadero. Earlier
that morning, after my parents had greeted me at the train yards at the Oakland Mole,
and after all the hugging and kissing was done and the bags loaded into the cab, they
had begun the recent wartime stories of all the changes that had occurred in the city. I
looked and saw it all about me. The war all at once became very real for me and
nothing I‟d seen in the Midwest prepared me for this sight as we headed off the bridge
and looked west on Market street.
“Yes,” Mother smiled, noting my wide eyed stare. “The Fleet‟s in this weekend—
you and Dick had better stay off Market Street tonight. Speaking of Dick, I forgot to tell
you that he called last night—he wanted to know if your train was on time, but I really
think that he wanted to come with us today. Dad and I knew that you‟d have plenty of
time for him for the next few days, so we thought we‟d just come alone.” She smiled
again and patted my hand. As she spoke I was glimpsing a vast sea of milling sailors
crowding up Market, their white hats breaking the monotony of navy blue.
Well, now is the time, I thought, as we headed west up Pine Street. I‟d better put
my plan into action, seeing now that we‟re together in the cab and they‟re in such a
good mood. I had to show them that during my months away I had grown up some,
and reached an independent decision on my own. After all, my sixteenth birthday was
coming right up!
I swallowed nervously as I shifted, reaching for my purse on the seat next to me.
No, I cautioned myself, don‟t chicken out now, this is the perfect time. I reached in and
my fingers closed around the smooth surface as I withdrew the flat sky-blue cigarette
case trimmed with shiny gold. A flip of the release switch opened to reveal ten neatly
laid out Chesterfields, my parents‟ favorite brand.
“Care for a cigarette, Mom?” I barely got the words out as I held the case in front
of her. I didn‟t dare look up and over at my father. There was an imperceptible
moment of no movement or response as I held my breath, waiting. I forced myself to
look directly at her and caught her eyes searching tentatively my Dad‟s.
“Well, Joyce, well—what a pretty case. Well, no, I don‟t think I‟ll have one just
now, we‟re almost home.” I reached over to offer one to Dad, my hand shaking only
slightly. Elaborately, with exaggeration, each movement sharply defined, he lifted up
the little gold bar that held the cigarettes in place and selected one with one hand,
while the other fished in his jacket pocket for matches. He said nothing as he went
through the ritual of lighting up, and then, exhaling, he said in a pleasingly serious
manner, “Needless to say, Joyce, you‟ve caught us both by surprise. I don‟t know quite
how to respond—give me a minute.”
He looked out the window as the tiny cab filled with his exhaled smoke and the
meter ticked loudly behind his head. I followed his lead and lit up my own cigarette,
trying desperately not to cough. The Fillmore Street arches flashed by my vision.
Another deep drag, and then the merest of a sigh escaped him as he looked at me.
“I must say that in one way I‟m quite proud of you. You‟ve faced up to the fact
that you are smoking now and you‟re not going to hide it from us. I certainly didn‟t do
that when I started, and for that reason I give you a lot of credit. Of course I‟m happy
that you can be truthful with us, but—“
As he went on, I stubbed out my cigarette in the filthy cab ashtray and
experienced a euphoric feeling of acceptance and relief. It was almost as if he was
seeing me in a new light. Could it be that I was finally stumbling down the hallway
leading to the rooms of their world? He continued to speak. “I‟m also sad that Mother
and I, by our own actions, have perhaps led you to start this nasty habit, and I‟m very
sorry for that.” He looked down at his smoldering cigarette with distaste and released
another heavy sigh. His father voice took over. “I‟ve read recently that smoking at an
early age is very likely to stunt your growth and we certainly don‟t want that. Also,
you‟re still a very young lady, you know, and people don‟t look kindly at young high-
schoolers with cigarettes dangling from their mouths. We can only hope that your
habit will be very limited and maybe—“
His voice trailed off, and at that moment the taxi pulled up to the curb in front
of our house. I was grateful and elated to have the critical conversation over with, but
excited to be home. I ran up the stairs to see if my room had changed, but somehow I
realized that maybe, maybe, the change would turn out to be just within me.
Here and Now Joyce Cass
We wear our robes of conviviality well
We women of a certain age.
Accustomed to years of civility
We have attained our resilient phase.
Conversations demand less than full attention
Our occasional responses too offhand to mention.
A short amiable time talking together
(With much of it spent focused on the weather!)
Our sisterhood, well-trodden beyond the fragile stage
Binds us close, we women of a certain age.