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.