Growing Into Who We Are

Lifescapes is a program designed for seniors to
write their life stories. Over 100 individual books
and group anthologies have been written since the
program started in 2000. Books created by the
project are available to view on our website:
www.lifescapesmemoirs.net
Each year members meet from September through
April, reading and discussing literature and writing
and sharing their own stories, with publication of
the annual anthology in May.
This year we wanted to write about how and why
we came to be who we are. These stories have
identified individuals, events, and situations that are
spiritual, self-searching, and awe-inspiring. Even
though momentous occasions have happened in
their lives it is often the single experience that
makes us who we are. We hope you enjoy these
essays, poems, and vignettes from our lifeexperienced members. Enjoy!
This book was created as part of Lifescapes, a cooperative project of the Washoe County
Library System, the University of Nevada English Department, Osher Lifelong Learning
Institute (OLLI), and the Nevada Humanities Committee.
Copyright © 2009 by the authors.
Editorial team:
Julie Machado
Lois Smyres
Sherl Landers-Thorman
Margo Daniels
Phyllis Rogers
Leslie Burke
Andrew Ivanov
Grace Fujii
Stephen Tchudi
Original artwork created by Stephen Tchudi
Copyright © 2009 by the artist
Washoe County Library System
Sparks Library
1125 12th Street
Sparks, NV 90431
http://www.lifescapesmemoirs.net
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Ken Adams ~ ADVICE FROM DAD ~ 5
Popi Anastassatos ~ ONE FOOT IN FRONT OF THE OTHER ~ 7
Steve Anderson ~ WALK AWAY WITH A LIGHTER HEART ~ 9
Anon ~ AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY ~ 11
JoAnn Ballard ~ MY LIFE IN SIXES, NOT SEVENS ~ 12
C. Louise Bayard de Volo ~ OUIJA FOR A WHILE ~ 14
Sandra “Sam” Beckerman ~ GROWING UP INSIDE LIBRARIES ~ 16
Deloris Bobele ~ POISON CANDY ~ 18
Judy Cabito ~ GUNNYSACK CLOTHES ~ 20
Mary Chandler ~ TOM B. TURBYFILL ~ 21
Phyllis Clark ~ THE ROAD NOT TAKEN ~ 23
Marie Connors ~ A RELIGIOUS EDUCATION ~ 25
Jan Corbelli ~ HOW DID SHE GET HERE AND WHERE IS SHE GOING? ~ 27
Margo Daniels ~ GET A LIFE ~ 29
John DeBoer ~ I SEE THE WORLD’S TALLEST MOUNTAIN ~ 31
Esther Early ~ THE CELESTIAL PREVIEW REVIEW ~ 33
Robert Eaton ~ BEV AND BOB ~ 35
Sharon Edwards ~ THE ONE AND ONLY ~ 37
Peggy Etchemendy ~ REMEMBERING ~ 39
Yvonne Flynn ~ NO, ITS NOT ANOTHER DOG ~ 41
Jeanne Fowler ~ THE EARLY YEARS ~ 42
Diane France ~ GRANDMA’S WORDS TO LIVE BY ~ 44
Barbara Frolich ~ SHE WAS PLANTED…WATERED…
FERTILIZED, AND GREW! ~ 46
Marsha O’Lynn Fronefield ~ FROM A TIME NOT SO LONG AGO ~ 48
Gloria Fundis ~ FOND RECOLLECTIONS ~ 50
Ute Gacs ~ VOYAGE TO AMERICA ~ 51
Betsy Gledhill ~HOW I LEARNED THAT HOME MEANS NEVADA ~ 54
Thelma Green ~ A UNIQUE LITTLE TOWN ~ 56
Helaine Greenberg ~ WHY I AM ~ 58
Kathryn “Kay” Greene ~ GUIDING LIGHT ~ 60
Rita Griswold ~ WHAT SHAPES OUR LIVES? ~ 62
John Gunther ~ GROWING INTO ME ~ 64
Beverly Hall ~ IT’S OKAY ~ 66
Beverly Harvey ~ A LIGHT IN THE MIND ~ 67
Flora K. Hill ~ OUR HOUSES ~ 69
Jacqueline L. Hogan ~ A DREAM COME TRUE ~ 72
Susan Hoover ~ MY GROWING UP YEARS AND MY GRANDPARENTS ~ 74
Andrew Ivanov ~ RENO IN NEVADA ~ 76
Andrew Ivanov ~ NON EST VIVERE SED VALERE VITA EST ~ 77
Bette Jensen ~ SOCRATES & ME ~ 78
Sue Kennedy ~ A CHILD OF THE UNIVERSE ~ 80
Richard S. Knapp ~ GOLDEN SILENCE ~ 82
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Ina Krapp ~ HOW I BECAME AN ATHLETE ~ 84
Sherl Landers-Thorman ~ NATURE OR NUTURE
…They did everything right ~ 86
Lynn Mahannah ~ MAMA MIA BECOMES A DANCIN’ QUEEN ~ 88
Charlene Manatt ~ IF I’D HAVE KNOWN… ~ 90
Betty Lou Marquardt ~ TAKING PRIDE IN ONESELF ~ 91
Kathryn McKee ~ A TRIP TO THE TOP ~ 93
William Metscher ~ THE DEAF MAN ~ 95
Maxine Milabar ~ AN IMPORTANT PERSON ~ 97
Penelope Moezzi ~ GROWING UP ~ 99
Janet Murino ~ A SIMPLE REQUEST ~ 161
David Nadel ~ IT WAS A VERY GOOD BUSINESS PLAN ~ 103
Joe Parks ~ MAY DAY! MAY DAY! ~ 104
Gene Perkins ~ THANK YOU FATHER ~ 106
Janet Pirozzi ~ WHAT’S A WOMAN LIBBER? ~ 107
Glenda Raye Roes ~ GRANDMAS RULE ~ 109
Phyllis Rogers ~ OLYMPIC EGO ~ 110
Gwen Rosser ~ POLITICS ~ 112
Marilynn K. Short ~ LIFE IS A CIRCLE ~ 115
Carole Slater ~I HAD TO GROW UP, I SIMPLY HAD NO CHOICE ~ 117
E. Louise Smith ~ THE GRAY-SKINNED GRAY LADY ~ 119
Lois Smyres ~ THE SUM OF ONE’S LIFE ~ 122
Hazel Snow ~ WHO I AM NOW ~ 123
Doris Spain ~ I DID IT HIS WAY, AND WAS GLAD! ~ 124
Annette Sprecher ~ NEVER A BUTTERFLY ~ 125
Joyce Starling ~ A LITTLE WHITE LIE FOR JUDI ~ 127
Julie Sulahria ~ CONUNDRUM: SPIRITUAL OR MATERIAL GIRL ~ 129
M. Bashir Sulahria ~ GROWTH MEDIUM AND GROWTH ~ 133
Stephen Tchudi ~ HOW I GREW INTO BEING AN ARTIST ~ 135
Susan Tchudi ~ IT’S GOTTA BE FAIR ~ 137
George L. Thomson ~ EARLY MORNING TRAPPING ~ 139
Vickie Vera ~ TRANSITION ~ 140
Marcella Waetermans ~ PINECREST PICNIC ~ 142
Billie Walker ~ PHOTOGRAPHER, BASKETMAKER, WRITER, WHO AM I? ~ 144
Barbara Rae Weiss ~ ROCKY ROAD ~ 145
Marcy Welch ~ LETTING GO ~ 147
Floyd Whiting ~ SURVIVAL IN A SNOW CAVE ~ 149
Judi Whiting ~ A MAN FOR AUNT PETEY ~ 151
Deanna Yardic ~ MRS. MEETS MS. ~ 153
Patricia Zimmerman ~ FOOTPRINTS ON MY HEART ~ 155
4
ADVICE FROM DAD
Ken Adams
It should have been easy---growing up, I mean. There was, after
all, a constant incoming flow of pointers, advice and helpful hints from
friends, family and society at large, all aimed at helping me find the
proper path down life’s byways. Awash as I was in well-meant direction,
I found none of it more pointed and meaningful than those orders from
headquarters delivered by Dad.
My father, Nebraska born, carried with him ‘til the day he died the
calm and quiet of the vast open plains. His speech, like his movement,
was deliberate if not slow: measured as if to make sure each word fit
perfectly and none was wasted. He spoke softly, but people always heard
him because they listened, even his sons---sometimes. His actions were
as measured as his speech: thrifty motions aimed at getting the job
done, whatever it might be, quickly and without fuss. Dad was quiet,
calm, composed and very much in control. He was kind, fair almost to a
fault and honest always; a lie would simply have been unthinkable. He
was dependable and everything else a Boy Scout was supposed to be, yet
he’d never been one. He was all of these wonderful things, had all those
admirable traits, and at the very same time could be as stubborn as a
mule and though usually even-keeled, was by no means imperturbable;
strip away that cocoon of calm and under it all you could find a tornado
of temper, fast-moving, quick to blow through, yet always potentially
dangerous.
It just made sense to always be vigilant and on the look-out for
warning signs of a gathering storm. My brother and I, always high on
Dad’s list of causes of inclemency in his personal weather pattern,
became adept at reading any indicator of paternal meltdown and an
approaching storm as Dad’s temper amped up.
The first sign of a breaking storm was the flushing of Dad’s neck, a
rising rosiness that could deepen in color as it marched from somewhere
below the collar, upwards to cover the entire neck and face while visiting
without fail the ears, which would be left glowing and throbbing like
warning semaphores along a railroad track. Clenching of his jaw would
accompany the change in Dad’s facial coloration, with the amount of
force he applied directly proportional to the gravity of the latest sins of
omission or commission laid at the feet of his wayward progeny. Since
Dad was a pipe smoker, he more often than not held the stem of a pipe
firmly in his jaws which of course impacted the entire clenching reaction:
the neck would throb, then tense as the jaws bulged and tightened,
limited always by the constant companionship of the pipe stem. At
times, given too much provocation, Dad’s jaw and molar strength would
win out over the hollow puniness of the pipe stem and chips, bits and
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fragments would rain down from the shattered remains of the once noble
pipe.
This was a bad sign indeed, and meant that the time had come for
me to shift my focus from learning life’s lessons the hard way to a basic
approach to survival. At this point, I would seek escape from Dad’s
wrath by ducking down one of my often used storm cellars of salvation.
I’d get out of the rain and high-tail it for the shelter, first of all trying
Persuasion, where I’d struggle to convince Dad that in spite of all
evidence to the contrary, I simply did not do it, it just wasn’t me; maybe
someone who looked like me---possibly. Should this effort not succeed--usually the case---I would quickly move from Persuasion to Evasion:
hiding, going to cover or making some lame attempt to change the
subject in a safe direction such as suddenly remembering a pressing and
immediate need to immerse myself in a critically important homework
assignment. Here, too, I usually fell short, leaving me to Face the Music,
where I would throw myself on the mercy of the court, cop a plea, and try
to work a deal by ratting out my big brother. Failing here would leave me
with only the slim possibility of escape by Flight where everything
depended on my questionable fleetness of foot and Dad’s proximity to the
door. Realistically, this was always just an exercise in imagination since
my sprint speed was tortoise-like at best and it seemed that whenever I
was in trouble with Dad, he could be found looming in the doorway.
First, the pipe chips, then the looming; the storm is upon us and there’s
no place to hide.
Looking back, all these long years later, I can almost hear again
my Dad’s flat voice, low and controlled, the words spoken slowly: “For
crying out loud, son, think! Every once in a while, just think! Listen,
learn, don’t talk---think!” Why has it been so hard?
Ken Adams is a native Nevadan, born in Tonopah. He spent his early
years in Las Vegas and Reno where he formed these recollections of where
he came from, how he got here and how life’s pieces sometimes fit
together.
6
ONE FOOT IN FRONT OF THE OTHER
Popi Garos Anastassatos
She had just given birth to her third child, another boy. At this time
she had given up the idea of having a little girl. She was happy with three
beautiful, healthy boys. She was a mother of the sixties with the notion
of being all things to all people around her. She was a great mother. She
waited on her husband hand and foot, without getting any help from
him, true to the mindset of those times. She, on the other hand, was
involved with the children’s school, the church, entertaining the
extended family and friends here and there, along with taking wonderful
care of her large home and beautiful yard. She worked every moment of
each day feeling extremely satisfied, because that’s what she enjoyed
doing. However, every once in a while when she had a moment to reflect
on her life she had a feeling of emptiness somewhere inside her. She did
not have time or the desire to know why, so she would chase the feelings
away quickly and get busy again with the multitude of tasks.
Her younger sister, a single schoolteacher at the time, had lots of
friends around her and a bit more time to spare in her daily life. She was
her best friend, her support and daily connection to the outside world.
During one of her frequent visits, she mentioned the new idea of daily
jogging.
“Hey, Sis, my friends and I have started jogging every day around
Virginia Lake. It is a great way to be with friends, visit, exercise for your
health and get some time to yourself. You ought to try it.”
“What?” She uttered. “Who, me?”
“Yes, you.”
“You must be kidding. What would I do with my little kids? I cannot
leave them alone to go jogging with friends. They are too young to be left
alone. That’s out of the question.”
“Well, you do what you want, but I think it is a great idea.”
She thought about it for a while and she reminisced about how
athletic she had been at one time. She loved working with her body and
challenging her strength. She loved being outdoors breathing the fresh,
clean air. The more she focused on the subject the more she got excited
about the idea. Some of her girl friends were already doing jogging early
in the morning before their husbands left for work. The husbands look
after their young children at home. Well, yes. How come she had not
thought about it before? She approached her husband cautiously with
the idea.
“I want to start running in the morning with my friends. I need the
exercise to lose the weight from my pregnancy. I’ll go early in the
morning while all of you are asleep. I’ll be gone for an hour and then I’ll
be home to get the children up and ready for school. What do you think?”
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“Get up at 5 am to go running? You must be crazy! But if you want to
do it go ahead.”
She did not wait very long to start. The experience did something very
empowering for her. She experienced getting time for herself, by herself
with friends she liked every morning. There was more in life than being a
mother and wife who gave continuously like a well being tapped for
water, never taking time to replenish it. Now she had discovered the
reason for the emptiness she had felt at times. Jogging gave her the
opportunity to compete in jogging races. The excitement of racing was
intoxicating. She always tried to get better at it. She managed to do that
and win a race in her division one time. She received a large medal for
her victory. She was so proud of that. The medal oddly enough had
images only of male runners although the race was coed and there were
as many women athletes as men. Thank God times have changed now.
Before too long she immersed herself in a co-counseling group that
was presented to her. That helped her to be in touch freely with her
emotions. With support she could work on them, clear up her mind of
cultural traditions, misconceptions and fears, which kept her back and
act on good notions about her life. When her youngest child was in
elementary school she decided to go back to college and get a degree in
radiological technology. She did. She had the best time learning. She
graduated at the top of her class and landed a great job, before she had
even passed her board exams. She did enjoy her job tremendously for
many years. She earned a great salary, which became helpful to the
family and her children. The boys were able to go to college away from
home to get educated, experience their independence and grow in self
confidence. She was able to be part of a retirement and profit sharing
plan at her job, which gave her a sense of security for her future. She felt
joyful, capable, happy and accomplished.
Jogging was the catalyst. Since then she felt like an individual who
was entitled to think of her own future, her needs, her dreams, her wants
and her independence along with that of her family members. Little
things most of the time can be the force and motivation to help you put
one foot in front of the other and get you where you long to be.
Popi Anastassatos resides in Reno. She has eight grandchildren she
adores. She loves and enjoys everything about life. She became a widow
this year which has given her a lot to think about and contemplate.
8
WALK AWAY WITH A LIGHTER HEART
Steve Anderson
First, let me say that I never had a dog before I was 25 years old. Well,
that may not be totally accurate. Somewhere between the ages of four
and five, I had a puppy that ran away after a very short visit, so I’m not
sure that counts.
My life has been blessed with a very loving and patient wife, three
wonderful children, and at various stages, pets. The first pet we had was
a “papered” Boxer. His name was Fredrich von something or other-I
forget-but that was back in 1964. He was replaced with Pepper, a male
offspring from our next door neighbor’s rescued pregnant Poodle, who
might have met and enjoyed a local Airedale.
As he grew up with the children, Pepper would, for the next 12 years,
be many things; a greeter and defender, protecting the children against
any real or perceived danger, which included fighting other dogs half
again larger than he was. A true champion, and he truly belonged to the
kids. Even in the winter he would always join them as they played Fox
and Geese, wondering why he was being chastised for cutting across the
lanes. Everyone else was running and having fun, why couldn’t he?
For 10 years there would be a menagerie of animals through the
house. As the children grew and left the nest, so did the need for having
a pet around the house. Then came that fateful day when our son,
looking for a temporary place to stay, shared a bedroom with his very
pregnant dog, Kid, who one day went looking for her master, and quietly
invited him to join her in the closet of his bedroom where she very soon
brought forth a litter of twelve puppies. It was also our son’s birthday,
what a gift.
It was bad enough when the kids would bring home a puppy or kitten
and say, “Can we keep him? Huh? Can we? I’ll take good care of him. I’ll
feed him. Can we, huh? Please, please, please.” But now it was my wife
asking these questions, and that is how I found out just how vulnerable I
was. For the next 14 years, Walter, our new puppy, would reinforce that.
He would adopt me and make it a point to follow me everywhere;
constantly going for walks with me, never complaining about the
weather, always eager to just be there. In the truck Walter would even
occupy my seat while I was in a store, making sure no one else could
take it. He also had his quirks, like barking at cattle-guards and longhaul tractor-trailers when we traveled. At the time I thought Walter was
one of the smartest and most loyal dogs I had ever had, but that was
before I met Charlie.
Again it was our son’s intervention that brought Charlie into our lives.
She was a mixed breed, a herding dog, and very quickly showed her
ability. She would herd us away from the truck at the end of our Sunday
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walks, suggesting that we walk the park, just once more. But she also
herded our hearts, taking them into her care. I have never learned how
she understood different days within our working routine, but she knew
what day we shopped for groceries, because that meant she could go for
a ride; she knew when it was Sunday because that meant a trip to the
park. She knew when we were down or sad, and would come to our side,
lay her head on our leg and look up with the eyes of comfort, as if to say,
it will be okay. Her focus was on us, never on herself.
When we brought a 6-week old kitten home that Christmas Day in
2006, Charlie sniffed at her, walked around, sniffed again, and when the
kitten lay down, Charlie began to clean the kitten, just as she would her
own young pup. That first evening, Tigger, the newest member of our
family curled up close to her new found adopted mother, and slept, and
Charlie stayed with her.
A jingle of car keys, putting on a jacket, these were signs of leaving the
house and Charlie was always ready to go with us. But then came a time,
as she grew older, that her ability to jump into the Explorer failed her.
We bought a ramp to help her, but she was frightened of it. If we tried to
pick her up, she struggled and fought to be put down on the ground. Yet
each time we told her that she had to stay home, it was so easy to see
the rejection and disappointment in her eyes.
On October 10, 2008, Charlie suffered a stroke. We had celebrated
her 15th birthday the previous July, a date that we arbitrarily set as her
birthday, since that was the day the 4-year old dog came into our lives.
She had spent just over 11 years with us, but unlike our other dogs,
these had become full-time, quality years, years that we spent so much
time together. To say that she will be missed does not do justice to the
quality of life that she brought to us.
Assuming that we are the sum of all of our experiences, it only makes
sense that as we progressed through life, the people and creatures we
brought along with us, somehow helped to make us what we finally
became. So what does this mean about growing into what or who we are?
Well, Charlie put the exclamation point on showing me how easy it is to
care about others, to overlook their disappointments and shortcomings.
To know that someone is close to you because you love them, not for
what they did or didn’t do, but, because they are who they are. Charlie
never judged. She knew that each time she greeted a stranger, that
person would walk away with a lighter heart and a smile on their face.
She knew she was the best, and this piece is dedicated to her memory.
“The dog is a gentleman. I hope to go to his heaven – not man’s.”
Mark Twain
Steve Anderson was born in Los Angeles and spent his youth in Long
Beach, California and Salt Lake City, Utah. Steve and wife Grace have
been married for 48 years and have three children and five grandchildren.
10
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY
(Name withheld to avoid prosecution)
I was born in a monastery to very religious parents. It was soon decided to
give me a musical education, and I was apprenticed to a gypsy organ
grinder. His previous student had left for a job with a competitor who
promised him a bigger bite of the banana and more of the tin cup proceeds.
Grand tour of Slovenia, Zagreb, Cluj, Bucharest and Belgrade followed.
Surprisingly, the local folk seemed unable to distinguish between a monkey
and a small child, which may explain their low population.
After a time a job opportunity came at the Yugo Auto Factory. It was my
responsibility to go into the finished cars and snip wires and loosen nuts
and bolts. The fear was that too much quality and the subsequent
competition with Mercedes Benz and BMW would cut into the two hour wine
lunch breaks and the daily Slivovitz drinking bouts. One day after lunch, I
awoke aboard a tramp steamship bound for the USA. The sailors educated
me on the voyage with learning to correctly pronounce and use all the
English four letter words. At night, we played a game called “catch me if you
can,” and I was provided with frequent cold salt water baths. Fortunately, I
was able to climb back aboard each time. We finally reached port where I
went ashore after a final swim. The first person I contacted with my new
vocabulary told me I was in Reno, Nevada, and directed me to downtown, a
very long walk.
My first job was modeling women’s clothing along 4th street as an
independent contactor. It was hard work, with many surprises as to my
modeling duties. I did have to give it up as there were no repeat clients, but
the local authorities were kind enough to provide me with food and shelter
until sent forth by a judge and advised to find a new line of work. A new
career immediately presented itself.
With my inquisitive nature and a camera, I sold knowledge and the
negatives to various important people who were very shy about their private
lives and habits. The many contacts I made directed me to a political career.
I had a long and profitable record of discovering what captains of business
and industry wanted and how much they were willing to pay for the results.
I made it a point at election times to proudly wave the flag, make patriotic
speeches, and wear medals I had purchased from disabled veterans.
All good things must come to an end. Retiring can be a delight, marred
only by those of my enemies who dared to question my history of heroism
and economic success. However, sharing some of my wealth and insider
knowledge with the appropriate political leadership led to a complete
revitalization. The witness protection program has been a valuable and
effective tool in re-creating my life, and I have no regrets.
It has been said that history has been written by the winners. This is my
story, and I will stick by it.
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MY LIFE IN SIXES, NOT SEVENS
JoAnn Ballard
Legend has it that Ernest Hemingway was once challenged to write a
story in six words. He came back with, “For sale, baby shoes, never
worn.” WOW! The only thing I have in common with Mr. Hemingway is
the fact I am in EARNEST – writing my memoir in lines of six words for
each year I have lived. Seventy-three years – what a ride!
1935
1936
1937
1938
1939
1940
1941
1942
1943
1944
1945
1946
1947
1948
1949
1950
1951
1952
1953
1954
1955
1956
1957
1958
1959
1960
1961
1962
1963
1964
1965
1966
1967
1968
1969
Born Iowa, 9 lbs., 6 ozs., still gaining
(1) Got first tooth – hardly any left
(2) Help! Help! I’ve doubled in age
(3) Walking beautifully – now use a cane
(4) Puppy bit me – bit him back
(5) Ran from spanking….into sharp post
(6) Parents moved to Dakotas – took me
(7) New addition to family – it meows
(8) Six more additions – all meowing loudly
(9) All additions have left the building
(10) Three sisters, one brother, poor David
(11) School okay, looking forward to summer
(12) Sister Carol – I visit grandma, aunts
(13) Summer with aunts, Iowa – met Joe!
(14) No more summers with aunts – Joe!
(15) Worked on school newspaper – loved it
(16) Met boy I should have married
(17) Wanted to be singer – no talent
(18) Graduation gift – Samsonite luggage – weighed TONS!
(19) College – read “War and Peace” under covers
(20) Married boy I shouldn’t have – Tsk!
(21) Tina born – blond, beautiful – such happiness
(22) Father died/sorrow – Jenny born/joy
(23) James born – placenta previa – still hurrying
(24) Miscarriage – he said “See you later”
(25) David born – still taking his time
(26) Carolyn born – saved best for last
(27) Good Catholic girl – reads and breeds
(28) Husband took furniture, heart – left kids
(29) Attended secretarial school; worked very hard
(30) Didn’t want to be secretary – remarried
(31) Ex-husband’s wife took his furniture—smile!
(32) Husband Dick had daughter, Barbara (7)
(33) To help financially – started day care
(34) Ten children overwhelming, became bartender
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1970
1971
1972
1973
1974
1975
1976
1977
1978
1979
1980
1981
1982
1983
1984
(35)
(36)
(37)
(38)
(39)
(40)
(41)
(42)
(43)
(44)
(45)
(46)
(47)
(48)
(49)
1985
1986
1987
1988
1989
1990
1991
1992
1993
1994
1995
1996
1997
1998
1999
2000
2001
2002
2003
2004
2005
2006
2007
2008
(50)
(51)
(52)
(53)
(54)
(55)
(56)
(57)
(58)
(59)
(60)
(61)
(62)
(63)
(64)
(65)
(66)
(67)
(68)
(69)
(70)
(71)
(72)
(73)
Marital pressures building – ready to explode
Feel calmer. Heading for bad decision
Married for security, divorced for love
Sent children to father/new wife
Mistakes – I’ve made a few Biggies!
Manzanillo, La Posada, lost/found – Viva Mexico
Celebrated Mom’s 68th birthday with sisters
Third husband “trapped” me shooting skeet
Traveled to shoots, boarding passes galore!
Daughter Carolyn living with us – Yeah!
Son James living with us – Yeah!
Son David and Carolyn dance whizzes
Met Carolyn’s Rob, great singer, songwriter
JoAnn & Suzie,
Carolyn married Rob; James married Lisa
standing,
David married Ann – eventually four
Mom and Mary
children
Oops – my last divorce – I promise
Always a bride – never a bridesmaid
Moved to Seattle – back to Minneapolis
I’m cleaning houses – but not mine
Zip code 55409 and still cleaning
Jenny and Bill – Son Stephen now two
Granddaughters played house under antique bed
Secret exposed, granddaughters discover wig collection
Avoided cleanup – invented year-round Christmas tree
Love Minneapolis for its art/music
Visit Reno children, Carolyn and James
Reno embraced my soul – last move!
Brother called, needed help Seattle business
Son called, needed help Minneapolis family
Daughter called, needed help Minnesota family
My mind called – said “Go home!”
Started tradition – ornament shopping with grandchildren
Fed nine wild horses, front door
Dated only men names began “H”
Liars! Hysterectomy didn’t improve sex life
Experienced “Burning Man” – what a blast!
Traveled to Europe – makes me “incontinent?”
I live the perfect imperfect life
Bonded with brother David – extraordinary blessing
I have twelve beautiful grandchildren -- life is good!
JoAnn Ballard – During World War II, my uncles joined the Navy and were
based on the continent of Australia, making them in my young eyes, world
travelers … or “incontinent.”
13
OUIJA FOR A WHILE
C. Louise Bayard de Volo
My first attempt at creating an identity of my own was in second
grade when I announced that I didn’t want to be Carol any more. There
were three Carols in my class and other Carols everywhere. I tried out
name after name, sometimes for a whole day, until I finally settled for the
practical solution of using my middle name, Louise. My mother said I
wouldn’t have to go to court for this one, and going to court was a little
too scary. In the next few weeks I gloried in the spotlight as I had the
opportunity to explain my new name over and over again at school and
with each new encounter with friends, neighbors, and relatives.
My next opportunity to shine and develop my reputation and selfconcept came about quite by accident, though it always felt a little
fraudulent. When my family moved to a new town half way through my
fourth grade year, our parents had to decide whether my sister and I
would skip ahead a half-year or go back to match the new school’s
schedule. It was an easy choice for them to send my older sister Sally
ahead. She had been identified as the smart one when her very high
aptitude test scores were leaked to our aunt. As I had done nothing
noteworthy besides changing my name, I was sent back to repeat the
second half of fourth grade. This decision probably had more impact on
my life than any other choices made about my future.
As I entered my new class at mid-year, I had the immediate
advantage of being “the new girl,” and as I basked in this unquestioning
easy acceptance, I barely noticed that there were two other Louises in my
class. And our new teacher Mrs. Mackinnon liked me! I was always ready
with an answer whether it was multiplication, the California Indians, or
the spelling words in the book I had already finished. Mrs. Mackinnon
liked that, and the other students became convinced of my genius. At
nine, knowledge is valued, as was skill at tetherball. These kids had only
recently been allowed on the playground where the tetherball poles were,
while I had had intensive practice against Sally on our pole at home.
Though my classmates might have known at first that I had already
finished fourth grade, it never was brought up later, certainly not by me.
14
I glided through that term as the teacher’s pet, and I was voted the
most popular girl in the whole class! As we went on to unknown territory
in fifth and sixth grades, my confidence and expectations carried over,
and I continued to be a leader. My friend Susan gave me the nickname of
Ouija because she said I knew everything like the Ouija board that
answered the questions we asked it by moving its planchette to letters or
symbols on the board.
As long as being a good student and athlete were the basis of
respect and popularity I remained at the top, but when we entered junior
high in the big city near our town, the stakes changed. No one liked a
know-it-all so I stopped raising my hand in class, and I also worried
about being wrong and ruining what was left of my reputation. Being too
athletic was not feminine and possibly childish, so I skipped after-school
sports. As I observed in my early months of junior high, what mattered
there were things in which I’d had no head start and very limited
practice. I noted that not only did I have to be very careful in my own
conversation, grooming, dress and behavior, but it was also important to
be careful who was seen with me. To be popular, it was apparent that I
had to limit my contact with many of my previous playmates. At school I
left most of my old friends as we got off the bus, and I trailed around
with the popular group, never quite getting the knack of their worldly,
outgoing, chatty style, but keeping up, and unobtrusively continuing to
do well in school No one called me Ouija any more.
It wasn’t until my junior year in high school that I opted for social
comfort instead of being in the midst of the school’s social whirl. At
lunches, instead of seeking out the people I should be seen sitting with, I
opted for quiet lunches with a couple of good old friends, and we
developed our own social life, though we kept our contacts with the ingroup and dated some of them. What a relief!
As an adult, I have been uncomfortable with leadership and
socializing in a work setting, but I am still uncomfortable in settings
where social chit-chat rules, and I speak very little in groups. As I look
more carefully at my family, it is clear that social reticence was part of
our early training and possibly our genes. Both our parents and all five
children share these traits and many others. Despite my digressions into
grade school social prominence and teenage semi-popularity, “who I am”
is pretty much who my family is. We are quiet, responsible, competent
people.
And lately I’ve become Carol again in many settings, thanks to
Medicare and the associated venues requiring me to use my real first
name.
C. Louise Bayard de Volo is retired and lives in Verdi with her husband
Pierre and her pets. She enjoys hiking, camping, backpacking, crosscountry skiing, reading, and spending time with her grandchildren. She
volunteers as an activist on women’s and family issues, a tax preparer for
seniors, and an usher.
15
GROWING UP INSIDE LIBRARIES AND BOOKS
Sandra “Sam” Beckerman
I grew up in houses without books. Libraries were very important
to me as soon as I was old enough to get a library card. The books I
checked out showed me a world I didn’t know existed. Life is a multiplechoice test and books uncovered additional answers to life’s choices. I
learned about myself and other people from books. Later, stories of
growing up gay resonated with my aspiring to a life very different than
how I was raised.
Ignoring my mother’s plea to put down my books and go play, I
developed a very intense read-till-finished style. I was convinced the
characters’ lives continued when I wasn’t reading and I would miss
something. Books provided a temporary escape, but better yet, a way
out. Reading taught me about love and families.
As the daughter of a field geologist, I went to fourteen public and
one parochial school before graduating. At fifteen, being the new kid in
yet another small town meant I was again friendless. I looked forward to
the Friday essay column on the back page of the one-section local
newspaper. I felt like I knew the charming, insightful, and funny author,
even if no one knew me. And, she got paid for writing it. Of course, I
wanted to be a nationally syndicated columnist. Who wouldn’t?
In Junior High, I decided that I would read the entire Young Adult
Section in the Liberal, Kansas Library. Three bookcases seemed do-able.
By the time I got to Louisa May Alcott’s fourth novel, I had learned to
skim and began to rethink the Sherman’s March-To-The-Sea approach to
reading.
In High School I would get a hall pass to go to the library from
Friday Study Hall. It was meant for the school library, but I’d blithely sail
out the building and walk three blocks to the town library. I was such a
nerd, I thought going to the library was getting away with something. I
did this weekly for almost a year before getting caught. I can still look
awfully innocent when I want to.
My adolescent dream of being a writer was delayed by a father that
insisted that no daughter of his would waste taxpayers’ money by going
to college. I ran away from home to go to college, arranging loans and a
job on my own. I dropped out after a year to get married. It took ten more
years to get my accounting degree while putting my first husband
through school and raising my daughter. I paid off the student loans just
in time to send that daughter to college. While earning a living as a CPA,
Real Estate Broker, and owner/renovator of inner-city apartment
buildings, I spent an inordinate amount of time rewriting scrapbook
entries, keeping yearly journals, and submitting articles for organization
newsletters.
16
As a young adult, my favorites were how-to books. I learned to
wallpaper, sew, pickle, cook, buy stocks, go to job interviews, and plan a
wedding. All things I had no chance of learning from anywhere else.
Eventually I realized all books, especially good fiction, were how-to-live
books.
I regularly took my young daughter to the library. When I could
not get away from the office to pick her up from Middle School, she
waited at the nearby county library. She liked reading all the magazines
that I considered luxury items.
My daughter now teaches Elementary School and checks out huge
stacks of books every week—mostly for her class. Some are for my
precocious granddaughter—who went to a six-week writing camp
between kindergarten and first grade. Her reading level (boasts the proud
Grandma) already tested at ninth grade level. Later in third grade she
scored at post-high school. There is no doubt her parents never told her
to put down her books.
My scattered and dysfunctional family left me pretty insecure
about my place in the world. I found genealogical research comforting. I
joined a private New England Historical Society Library to try to trace my
mother’s family. I haven’t been able to find where or when they entered
the country, but I did I find an early1600’s June family wedding in
Stamford, Connecticut. Somehow, this stuff seems important, like a
faraway North Star to focus on to get your bearings.
I’ve always aspired to write books like the ones that transported me
to other times and places. A fortuitous early retirement enabled me to
rededicate my life to my adolescent dream of being a writer. Late? Yes.
Late enough to know more things to write about. Late enough to have
something to say. But not, I think, too late. Now, in an early retirement
made possible by the sale of my apartments and a husband with health
benefits, I have been able to devote time to finishing my novel.
Librarians are still helping me—like when I couldn’t figure out how
to find out on the internet about what birds laid their eggs in other birds’
nests. The day after I asked a librarian, she reported back parasitic
nesters were cuckoos in Europe, but the only ones in this country were
cowbirds. And so, my story of concealed parentage, such as I found in
my family, became “Cowbird Lodge, NV.”
Sandra “Sam” Beckerman was born in Nyack, New York. While growing
up she lived in six or seven towns in Texas; Liberal, Kansas; Oklahoma
City & Stillwater, Oklahoma. As an adult she got married in Biloxi,
Mississippi and lived in Rome, New York, Houston, Texas;, and now Lake
Tahoe, Nevada. It’s been a long time since she could recite the litany of
schools she attended, but she keeps careful lists of the books she’s read.
17
POISON CANDY
Deloris Bobele
The summer I was five we lived in an
apartment opposite a large square park in
Fort Dodge, Iowa. There were lots of trees
and park benches, and a big white
bandstand where in the summer there were
concerts and amateur talent shows on
Friday evenings. At the other end of the
park was a Civil War cannon that we could
climb on while playing cowboys and
Indians. My mother Violet and stepfather
Les had chosen the apartment because my
sister Diana Lee and I could have a large
place to play with other children, and
Mommy could look out the windows and
watch us.
My sister, Diana Lee,
Mike was the name of the big Irish
policeman whose beat included the park.
Me & cousin Melvin
The children all loved him and waited
every morning and afternoon for him
to come walk through the park. He played games with us and sometimes
would carry me on his shoulders from one end of the park to the other.
He was one of the highlights of our day. He was handsome with laughing
brown eyes, dark curly hair and my first love, I do believe.
One day a man came to the park, sat on a bench near the
bandstand watching us play. He went out of his way to talk to us, being
friendly, but of course we were taught not to talk to strangers. We were
polite but stayed our distance, even though he seemed nice. I somehow
felt his real purpose was to talk to me. He directed most of his questions
to me; however, I was too shy to tell him anything but my name, Deloris,
and that Diana Lee was my young sister. After watching us for a couple
of days, trying to make friends, he brought some candy and offered it to
us. I guess he thought that would break down our resistance. He was
nice and we did not know how to refuse him so we took the candy,
thanked him and ran away. We took the candy behind the bandstand
where we had a big discussion about what we should do. This was all
very exciting! We knew we were not supposed to take things from
strangers and we were suspicious of his motives so of course our
imaginations went wild! We decided we were going to eat one piece. What
could one piece hurt? We took the wrapping off the candy and found
there was a green thread of something running through the taffy. Now
that looked strange to us! Of course, it had to be poison! How deliciously
18
scary! We all had quite an exciting time peering around the bandstand
watching him while thinking he was trying to kill us!! How our
imaginations did take off!
I wanted to go home to tell Mommy, but I was afraid he would see
me and know we had found him out. When who should come to our
rescue but our hero, Mike!! He entered the park to a bunch of squealing
kids all talking at once, trying to explain that the man was trying to
poison us. Mike examined the candy while he calmed us down and said
he would take care of it. He sent us back behind the bandstand where we
watched him go talk to the man. They talked a few minutes and I saw
Mike look to the window where Mother usually was. Mike came back to
us children and told us it was all right for us to talk to the man and that
we could eat the candy. He told us the man’s name was Ted and that he
was a nice man. Then he carried me across the park on his shoulders,
left us at the cannon, and said, “Deloris, be nice to him. He likes you.”
We were nice. He brought us candy every day for about a week, and then
he left. I never saw him again but I was to remember him all my life.
When I was almost eleven my mother told me one day that the
man I knew as my father, Mervin Bruce who had died when I was three,
was not my real father. She hoped she wouldn’t have to tell me, but Les
was threatening to tell me so she thought she had better do it. I didn’t
get along that well with my stepdad, but it did not matter as my mother
was a strong woman and she was the only one who supervised me. We
were her children. She said my father’s name was Theodore Wander.
Mommy left him in Minneapolis where he owned a restaurant and
returned to the family farm in Fort Dodge before I was born. She lied and
told him she was not pregnant; she never let him know about me. He
apparently found out, though, because when she married Mervin Bruce,
he went out of his way to introduce himself to her new husband. She told
me she had seen him talking to me in the park once and it had been the
worst week of her whole life as she watched him. Mom said she felt sorry
for him, watching him trying to make friends with me, but there was
nothing she would do about it as she was so afraid he might take me
away from her. Mommy cried and I cried. I felt so terrible for her. She
was so upset and afraid I would not love her because of what she had
done. I told her how much I did love her. Of course I did remember the
man in the park. (How could I forget one of the scariest days of my life so
far?) When I think back about the man in the park, I feel heartbreak for
him. How sad he must have felt trying to make friends, while I thought
he was trying to poison me. I believe he decided to let Mommy live her life
without interfering, although he kept track of me for several years and I
often wonder how many times he was in the background watching me.
Mommy was sorry for her mistake and wished she had not been so
selfish.
Deloris Bobole moved to Reno three years ago. OLLI has been a treasure to
me, meeting new friends and interesting people.
19
GUNNYSACK CLOTHES
Judy Cabito
A few years ago, my mother and I went to support her sister Kay,
whose husband of thirty years had recently passed away. She lived along
the northern coast of California. Her favorite subject, as it turned out,
was her miserable childhood. She, as well as the other kids, had suffered
from my grandmother’s paranoia. Today my grandmother would be
diagnosed as bi-polar.
On this particular day, my aunt was reliving the time my
grandmother had sold all of her children’s clothes and made them new
ones from gunnysacks. The older boys and my mother, twelve at the
time, wore the clothes to school. My aunt was only two and stayed home.
I watched my mother as my aunt related this time old story. I had
heard parts of it before, the part about how silly they all looked in their
matching clothes, and I heard the part about how my grandmother
would do these wacky things. My mother remained silent listening to the
story as her sister overly embellished the hardship it caused. She
emphasized grief, embarrassment and of course…the itchiness. For the
remainder of the visit my mother stayed relatively quiet.
She and I left after breakfast the next morning and drove along the
coast. Thick fog sat on the edge of the shore, but every once in awhile,
there’d be a break and the ocean would pop into view. Giant waves, as if
angry, assaulted the craggy rocks and crashed up onto the edge of the
highway. Neither one of us could find words to express the majestic
sight. However, my mother’s voice finally found the words that gave
important perspective to my aunt’s grievances.
“After Daddy died we didn’t have any money. We didn’t live in a
fancy neighborhood. Your grandmother married your aunt’s father. He
was a drunk and eventually left. You get used to gunnysack clothes.”
I know my mother was defending her childhood. More importantly,
I knew too, she was defending her mother, as my mother had been her
mother’s sole caregiver. For forty years my mother cared for her mother,
paid her bills, put up bail, and even made the dress she was buried in,
and you can count on it, it wasn’t made of gunnysack.
My mother ended her remarks with, “There’s worse things in life
than wearing itchy clothes. Everyone should wear them once in a while
so they understand how good they have it when they don’t.”
Judy Cabito lives in Incline Village, Nevada where she recently joined
Lifescapes. She grew up, steps from the Puget Sound, in several cities on
the Coast of California, and calls herself a Westcoaster, if there is such a
thing. Published in Flashquake, Every Day Fiction, Gator Spring’s Gazette,
Pen Pricks and many more, she has an analytical interest in micro-fiction.
20
TOM B. TURBYFILL
Mary Chandler
It was 1952. Two of my friends and I needed a break from the long
registration lines at Carbon High in Price, Utah. We sat in a booth at the
Milky Way, sipping lime freezes and hoping for attention from some
senior boys sitting behind us.
The door swung open. A man in his late forties, with a thin
mustache, a dimpled chin, and glasses shuffled into the shop, his
misshapen body bent to one side. He stopped at the candy counter.
"Who's the gimp?" I heard a guy behind me ask.
"Shh," another voice whispered. "He'll hear you."
The man glanced in the direction of the voices. He straightened his
tie, paid for his Wrigley's Spearmint gum, and headed for the door, his
left foot dragging behind him.
"That's Mr. Turbyfill," Judy said. "He's our new choral director."
George, a husky football player, slid out of the booth behind us.
"Hey, guys," he said, contorting his body and imitating Mr. Turbyfill's
walk, "I'm you-know-who!"
"Knock it off, George," Judy said. "You're not funny."
Judy, Janice, and I started gathering up our books. Raucous
laughter filled the Milky Way as George continued to cock his head to
one side and entertain his friends. No one saw the door open.
"I forgot my keys," Mr. Turbyfill said.
George straightened up. His face turned red. Staring at the floor,
he mumbled an apology and rejoined his friends.
"He's the class clown," I said, as we walked beside the man who
would be our third period teacher. "We're really sorry about what
happened back there."
He ran his hand through his thinning brown hair. "I probably
should be used to it by now, but..."
I felt empty inside. Maybe he'd had polio, like my friend, Marian,
who spent almost a year in an iron lung.
"We're glad you're here," Judy said, smiling. "I'm your
accompanist."
The next day, Mr. Turbyfill introduced himself to his 80-member
chorus class and gave us each a music folder. Standing on a footstool, he
lifted his hands and asked us to sing the first verse of a song we all
knew: America, the Beautiful. "Now," he said, when we had finished,
"start at the beginning. Sing from your heart. Think about each word—
spacious skies, amber waves of grain, the majesty of purple mountains
rising above the plains. Paint a picture in your head. Help your listener
see and feel with you, like this."
21
Our teacher closed his eyes, his head upturned, and sang with
feeling about the country we all loved.
"The first song we'll learn," Mr. Turbyfill said, "is The Hills of Home,
by Oscar J. Fox. Many of you will be graduating and leaving home when
the school year ends. Imagine that life has taken you far, far away from
your family, your friends, the rivers, lakes, and hills that you knew in
your childhood. You miss your home. Sing with that kind of ache and
longing."
After that, we learned spirituals, ballads, blues, folk songs,
calypso, classical—all kinds of music. Part-singing, harmony,
memorization, and musical interpretation became second nature. While
we were learning our parts, Mr. Turbyfill joined each section, making
funny faces if we sang off-key. As he conducted, he mouthed the words,
his head moving in time with the beat. Sometimes he briefly closed his
eyes and, smiling, patted his heart.
"We'll be doing Handel's MESSIAH on December 10th," he told the
chorus. "Singers from my other classes will be joining us, so I'm dividing
the solos. If you'd like to try out, add your name to this sheet."
I'd never sung a solo, but encouraged by my friends and by Mr.
Turbyfill, I signed up. The afternoon of tryouts, my heart pounding, I
sang. I was chosen for the soprano solo, Come Unto Him.
On the evening of the 10th, it seemed as though everyone in our
small town had come to hear us. As I looked at all those people, my
hands got clammy. I felt a catch in my throat. Annette finished singing
He Shall Feed His Flock. The orchestra continued to play, and I stepped
to the front. Mr. Turbyfill smiled and nodded. My fear disappeared. All
these years later, I still remember that moment.
During practices for our final performance in May, at the Region
Music Festival, the composition of our third-period tenor and bass
sections continually changed. Outside, spring beckoned. For two weeks
the guys traded days to exit class through the inviting open windows.
Our teacher never said a word. At the festival the guys sang like pros.
I learned so much from our choral director that year about singing,
but I learned even more about courage, perseverance, patience,
character, dedication, and love.
I suspect that Tom Turbyfill has long left this mortal existence and
is somewhere in the heavens. I can see him without his limp, standing
tall before his heavenly choir. As he lifts his hands, a beautiful smile
covers his face. "Sing, angelic choir, sing," I can hear him say.
I hope he saves a place for me.
Mary Chandler grew up in Price, Utah. She worked as an executive
secretary, a high school teacher, and is now enjoying creative writing.
Mary and Don are parents to 3 wonderful kids and 5 amazing grandkids.
22
THE ROAD NOT TAKEN
Phyllis Clark
I can still hear the mailbox lid clanging down on the letter I
dropped in 50 years ago, slamming shut on my chosen future. I was
informing the admissions department of the University of Pennsylvania,
that I would not be accepting their offer of a full scholarship to that
prestigious Ivy League college. Why was I doing this? Was I crazy, like my
guidance counselor and friends said? Maybe, but I really felt there was
no other choice.
My parents were very religious, belonging to a strict
fundamentalist sect that eschewed higher education as being “worldly.” I
can see in retrospect that people of limited education and unquestioning
obedience are easier to control and of course that’s what it was all about.
Why, I would be exposed to the evils of evolution and critical thinking,
and might develop a mind of my own – not a thing to be encouraged in a
teenaged girl. My duty was to serve God, get married and be obedient to
my husband; to go from my father’s control to a husband’s, with no life
of my own in between. Also, the sect taught that the present world would
be coming to an end soon, so pursuing any other course would be in
vain.
It so happened that my father was very ill at the time, and I felt I
was in no position to flaunt his authority and risk making him sicker.
Since I was unable to work, I felt obligated to continue working to
contribute to the family income. My scholarship would have assured that
my family would not have to support me in any way, but I would not be
contributing anything either. So, I set aside my hopes and dreams for the
future to follow a path set out by others.
I married the following year, and moved away. Marriage or
missionary work, were the only acceptable ways a girl could have leave
home. Of course, marriage meant trading father’s absolute authority for
a husband’s. My opinions, preferences and hopes were all to be deferred
to his. I felt isolated, and never succeeded in reaching my in-law’s
impossible standards of what a good Christian wife should be. I went
from being praised for my intellectual ability to being ridiculed for it.
Being in “submission” to a husband meant that he could treat you like
dirt, even abuse you, and you had to take it to build up “Brownie Points”
in heaven. In spite of being very unhappy, we stayed married for nearly
27 years, raising three children who left the religion as soon as they
could.
I often wondered what my life would have been like if I had gone on
to school and actually had a life of my own. Finally, I plucked up my
courage, left my husband, was kicked out of the church I no longer
believed in, threw everything I had in the back of my car and moved away
23
to start over. I found an interesting and challenging job. I enrolled at
Lincoln University and got a Master’s in Human Services at age 54,
remarried to an old sweetheart, traveled, went on Jeopardy, had
grandchildren, became a widow, and joined the Peace Corps at age 65. I
spent two years working with HIV/AIDS affected and infected children in
South Africa. It was the best job I ever had.
I recently started working as a Child and Family Advocate in a
shelter for battered women. Many of them made bad choices, as I did,
but they did not deserve the treatment they received. Hopefully, they will
be able to pick up the pieces and go on to a better future for themselves
and their children.
My life in some respects has been a film played backwards. I really
have no regrets now, and wonder that the next reel will bring.
I was born in Revere Massachusetts. I’ve lived in Southern California, rural
Nevada, Pennsylvania, and South Africa, now living in Reno. I’m semiretired and looking for the next adventure. I don’t take pictures of myself.
24
A RELIGIOUS EDUCATION
Marie Connors
The remnants of a religious education appear in subtle ways and
often follow us in life, exacting unexpected consequences and very vivid
memories. My sister Gloria and I attended a Catholic girls’ school in El
Paso, Texas run by the Sisters of Loretto. These were lovely women for
the most part, and they had varying degrees of zealousness when
imparting their teachings.
Gloria had a young and impressionable teacher who sought to pass
on her religious fervor by sharing the lives of the saints with her younger
and even more impressionable students. The movie “The Song of
Bernadette” had recently come out and the girls were already
romantically inclined to the wonders and virtues of sainthood. The little
books on the lives of the saints the teacher gave them just added fuel to
the fire and suddenly there followed behavior bespeaking the need to be
“saintly.” The girls started spending part of lunchtime in the chapel
“preparing the vessel for God.” This conduct continued with decreasing
attendance for some days, since playing outside, for the short period
available, was much more in keeping with their young needs. There were
some exceptions. Gloria continued her noon vigil and daily treated me to
the wonders and suffering of the various saints they discussed. I found
the stories interesting but it never occurred to me that this was
something I should seek to emulate. Thus it was that I was somewhat
taken aback when I found that Gloria wanted to be one with these saints.
My reaction was to try to talk her out of it. The times were different, I
said, and we had so much to learn. Besides I suspected that God had
different requirements for us and that avenues for spiritual growth would
come in their own time. Surely God wanted us to enjoy his wonders.
“Let’s go play.”
It soon became clear that Gloria was quite taken with the idea of
suffering for God. How she intended to do this was unclear but the seed
for martyrdom had been planted and she was one who intended to accept
the challenge to be like the saints.
A couple of days later I noticed that Gloria was holding herself
differently and seemed quite uncomfortable. I asked her what was wrong
and she took me aside and swore me to secrecy. She then took out a bar
of soap that she had in her bra and that she had pierced with a number
of nails. She could feel them as she walked and felt that this was a way
to “suffer for God.” “But why the nails in soap?” I asked. “Well, that way I
won’t get an infection and can suffer longer,” she said. “All right,” I said,
“but be careful.”
I now had the problem of making her “sacrifice” known to my
mother without breaking my promise. That night I asked my mother
25
what I could do if I knew someone was doing something that could harm
them but was sworn not to tell. Being a very practical woman, she
engaged me in twenty questions and realized she had to observe Gloria’s
behavior to get to the problem. She did well and soon observed that
Gloria was not walking naturally and seemed to be in pain. Soon the
truth was out and now came the task of dealing with a very tender and
impressionable twelve year old surrounded by a religiosity that I found
suspect and unacceptable but that fascinated and appealed to her.
Mother was very wise. She soon had Gloria explaining what she
was doing and shortly understanding that that was not the best way to
serve God. Not long afterward, my mother decided that the local Catholic
school might be a better choice. It was walking distance from home, coeducational and a bit less involved with novices. Life settled down nicely
and the fears I had of Gloria’s need for martyrdom passed.
As I look back on the situation I find that I was naïve. My sister,
now 74, still has some of those tendencies and still reads the little books
of the saints. She now has twenty some grandchildren to hear those tales
and I feel sure she shares them religiously.
Marie Connors was born in El Paso, Texas. She and her husband have five
children. In addition to her University degrees, she has been educated all
over the world through travel and children.
26
HOW DID SHE GET HERE AND WHERE IS SHE
GOING?
Jan Corbelli
It wasn’t about religion in the traditional sense. Her parents didn’t
go to church nor encourage their children to become Christians. Yet they
lived in a Christian society, and while she would never think that
morality and integrity were necessarily the exclusive domain of religion,
she was raised by parents who nevertheless followed the “Golden Rule.”
It was a simple, insular life growing up on a farm in the Willamette Valley
in Oregon with mother love and kindness, flowers and oak trees. So
many shocking ways of the world were unknown to her as a child. She
took for granted the abundance of fresh vegetables, the fruit and walnut
trees, the animals, and even her hard working parents.
She was shy and insecure but
popular in school and quite a good
student when she put her mind to it. She
was rebellious as most teenagers are, and
seriously clashed with her very strict
father. Boyfriends were afraid of him.
A major turning point in her young
life at the age of twenty was the gentle but
persistent encouragement of her uncle
Ray to apply for a job with United Air
Lines to be a stewardess. Don’t just get
married and stay in that small town
environment for the rest of your life (as
most of her friends were doing) seemed to
be the message. Not that most of them
didn’t live “happily ever after” raising their
children.
Jan Corbelli, Stewardess
But she escaped from the “box,” leaving Oregon State
University after two years, and was surprised and delighted to be
accepted (after a month of testing and interviews) for the much coveted
job. At that time being a stewardess was considered a glamorous
occupation, before the days of feeding masses of people in hurried,
crowded conditions. It was freedom and responsibility for a young
woman on her own.
Years later, after twenty years of marriage and three children to
raise, she made a giant leap into another phase of life. She was a single
27
mom, working as a travel agent that thrust her further out into the world
with all its fascinating wonders, difficulties, challenges and new
romance. Everyone gets where they are through a series of choices. Each
path taken along the way leads to different opportunities, problems to
solve, tests of character and endurance. Take note of the trail of
coincidence. Is she fearful, preferring a safe status quo? Or is she bold
and adventurous?
A most significant influence occurred as a result of a struggling
second marriage. The Church of Religious Science had a message she
needed and was ready to hear. Tears rolled down her cheeks as Sunday
after Sunday the message was that we all can create our own reality – we
can even manifest our most cherished dreams. How could that be
possible? It’s all about thoughts. It was the first time she had heard what
has been scientifically proven through various branches of medical
research. Really? Thoughts are things! Wow! After a couple of years of
this training she solidly embraced it, and over the next decade she boldly
pursued a life of possibility she could never have dreamed of in her youth
and child rearing days. “It actually works,” she likes to tell anyone who
will listen. “Imagine what we can do if we think we can.” Amazing! This
belief system is with her forever.
Many others also write about the pure potentiality. She was living
it intensely for over a decade. Traveling around the world in 100 days on
the S. S. Universe, Semester at Sea, was a life-changing, experiential
learning experience toward a Bachelor’s degree at UNR, followed by
further certification to teach English as a Second Language, and it was
just the beginning. This enabled her to “follow her bliss,” (a phrase she
adopted from Joseph Campbell, the noted scholar of myths, symbols and
spiritual journeys) living and teaching abroad, visiting over 35 countries,
learning about other cultures and especially opening to other
perspectives, especially good for Americans to experience. At the core we
are all one human family.
Currently she is involved with the Osher Lifelong Learning Center
where she takes classes (always seeking answers in realms of science,
spirituality and consciousness), and she is actively and joyfully dancing
Tango, Swing and Salsa with other friends, as time permits.
Where is she going? What is new on the horizon? Always aware of
expanding and pursuing new experiences, she’s thinking about living
and working in Argentina or possibly China (or not), joining a Peace
Movement, buying a bicycle, or staying home to read.
Anything is possible.
Jan Corbelli is mother of three and Nana to two. She has traveled
extensively in pursuit of knowledge of other cultures while teaching ESL in
several countries. Passions include healthy living, dancing, singing,
reading, writing and other realms of lifelong learning.
28
GET A LIFE
Margo Daniels
“I felt my life with both my hands
To see if it was there…”
Emily Dickinson, c. 1862
From birth through college, life was a great deal of fun, free of
hardship and sorrow and mostly devoid of monumental decisions. I was
quite fortunate (though some may disagree) to have support and yards of
advice from a large family of aunts, uncles, grandparents, parents,
siblings, and a whole town of folks who knew everything about me and
my parents. Obviously, there were drawbacks to this situation but
having Connersville’s entire 30 blocks as my playground and all the kids
who lived there as my friends more than made up for the downside.
Spending 12 years with the same classmates (right – we had no
kindergarten!) resulted in solid and lasting friendships. I enjoyed
everything -- often quite indiscriminately – and I always managed to be
gainfully employed. So, is there a problem here? Hm-m-m-m-m.
I kept thinking: when do the fun and games end and “real life”
begin? Will I know this is life, my life, when it hits me? Does it come to
me or do I have to look for it? Am I prepared? Should I be doing
something? After all, I’m on my own now! So many dear folks
volunteered to answer these questions, but I wanted to figure it out by
myself!
I had never really been alone, or on my own. I have still never had
a bedroom to myself. I cherish people, I derive my energy from them, so
do I have to be alone for my life to get a shape, to see what it really is?
Well, there’s always graduate school – and New York is beckoning!
Sadly, once I’d been there a while I thought, this is more of the same –
I’m loving this life of theatre, literature, politics, big city life, New Year’s
Eve at Times Square. Doesn’t get any better than that! Tiny hardship –
it’s tough to eat, pay rent and utilities on Junior Editor pay! But that’s a
problem easily solved – get a better paying job. Administrative Assistant
at Columbia University’s East Asian Institute sounds important! I don’t
need to be in charge, but I don’t mind it much. Once again, what great
fun, meeting professors from China, Japan and Korea. How great to join
the University’s Young Democrats and campaign “All the way with JFK!”
This must be real life, don’t you think?
And then, I thought I heard the call: “Ask not what your country
can do for you, but what….” Wow – this MUST be real life now, 6000
miles from home, no electricity or facilities, teaching English as a Second
Language to children with enormous brown eyes, and surrounded by the
29
most incredibly interesting and committed Peace Corps Volunteers. One
volunteer in particular was kind and gentle; he made me laugh and we
shared all sorts of interests – bridge, hiking, swimming, tennis, books,
theatre, music, Midwestern roots and opposite sides of the political
spectrum! It was stimulating and invigorating to discuss global issues
when our only link to the world was the Armed Forces Radio Network.
Suddenly I knew where my life might truly be – by his side. I was
on my own, but not alone, and being my own person didn’t mean I
couldn’t share a life with someone else. We began our lives together by
sharing the excitement, difficulties and accomplishments in a foreign
country and continued that joint effort from California to Virginia to
Nevada. When the children came, we parented together. When our
mothers were needy, we provided care together. When decisions
concerning jobs or houses or college for the kids were needed, we decided
together. When happiness embraced us, we smiled and laughed together.
When sad events enveloped us, we cried together and comforted each
other. When we both retired from work we loved, we chose to volunteer,
side by side, hand in hand, just as we did when we first met.
So finally, through the years, I have reached out with both hands
and found the life that I treasure. It’s all about being there for each
other, for your family, your friends, those who need you and those who
just like to have you around. I could have learned to give and to love
without being married, but I’m so glad I found him. I could have been
happy without the children and now the grandchildren, but I’m thrilled I
have them. What’s truly amazing about it all is that it’s still fun and
games, still relatively free of sorrow and hardship, still truly worth getting
up in the morning! However long it lasts, it just couldn’t have been any
better.
Margo Daniels is happily enjoying her three
children and their spouses and is even
happier indulging her six marvelous
grandchildren. She is happiest when she and
her husband are doing fun things (like OLLI!)
together.
Margo and Pera
Nevada Museum of Art
Reno, NV
2008
30
I SEE THE WORLD’S TALLEST MOUNTAIN
John DeBoer
I had been born in India, went to school there, and grew up there,
but at the age of fifteen I had never seen the sights that people of the
world come to India to see. We lived in south India, but most of the
attractions were in north India – the Taj Mahal at Agra, the capital at
Delhi, the Ganges River at Benares, the city of Calcutta and the world’s
tallest mountain, Mt. Everest, in the Himalayan mountains.
Our family was scheduled to sail to America in February 1938.
Another missionary family, the Muyskens, had made arrangements to
see India’s most famous sights a couple of months before our sailing
date, and I will always be thankful that my parents made arrangements
for me to travel with them. I recall that the travel-as-you-please third
class ticket, printed by the railroad company mainly for use by Hindu
pilgrims wishing to visit their holy places throughout India, cost Rs. 4510-6. (In the currency of that day this was 45 rupees, 10 annas and 6
pies, worth about $15.00.) So, with my suitcase in one hand and my
bedding roll in the other, I joined the Muyskens for the trip north.
It took about two days to get to Delhi from where we lived, about 100
miles west of Madras. At night I would pile up suitcases on the overhead
luggage rack, clearing a space for me to unroll my bedroll and go to
sleep. Others slept on the wooden seats or the floor with their bedrolls,
but I snoozed high above them. In north India we visited the fort and
Moghul buildings in Delhi, the Taj Mahal and Moghul buildings in Agra,
a few miles south of Delhi. Then we traveled by train to see the Ganges
River at Benares (now called Varanasi) and watched scores of outdoor
funeral pyres along the shore.
We then took trains east to Calcutta, and north from there to the
town of Siliguri. Our goal was to reach the town of Darjeeling up in the
mountains at about a 7,000 foot elevation. But to get to Darjeeling we
had to take a one-day trip on a strange train; a regular train but a
SMALL train with a locomotive and carriages that were about half the
size of a regular train. When we got underway, it sounded like the train
was traveling at more than 60 miles an hour, but it was really traveling
at about 5 miles per hour. It had been greatly geared down so that it
could pull the train up steep grades. There were curves on the track that
were so sharp that at several points we, could look from the last car and
see the locomotive madly chuffing away right overhead.
Along the way the train negotiated switchbacks where the tracks
are laid out in a zig-zag like the letter “Z.” The train would slow down and
then stop. The conductor would walk back behind the last coach, throw
a track switch, and then get back on the train. The train would slowly
back up on the “zig” for a while and then come to a stop. The conductor
31
would then go in front of the locomotive and throw another track switch.
Finally he would walk back and get on the train, which moved forward
on the “zag” and continued on its trip up the mountain.
When we finally got to Darjeeling, we walked through town where
we could see an enormous, snow-capped mountain, Mt. Kinchanjunga,
even though it was some 50 miles or so away. It is the fourth tallest
mountain in the world at 28,000 feet. Looking closely, we could see
ferocious storms raging on the heights of the mountain.
There are many Buddhists in this part of India and by the side of
Darjeeling’s main road a visitor can see shrines consisting of a round
stone container with water flowing into it causing a rotation of the flow.
Attached to the inside edge of the container would be a circular stone
with a prayer carved on it. Every time the stone rotated, the makers of
these shrines believed the prayer carved thereon would be offered.
But when do we see Mt. Everest, we wondered? That night we got our
instructions – we were to get up at about 4 am and dress for a short
hike. Our guide would lead us through the darkness up Tiger Mountain.
(There were no tigers on Tiger Mountain, so there was no need to be
afraid.) We would walk to a lookout point where we could see Mt.
Everest, a couple of hundred miles north.
The next morning up we got and assembled for our hike up Tiger
Mountain. Mt. Everest is two feet over 29,000 feet high. I remember
wondering how the surveyors determined that the mountain was two feet
higher than an even 29,000 feet, when we had to go to such trouble just
to see the mountain from far away. But off we went up Tiger Mountain to
see the tallest mountain in the world.
When we arrived at our lookout point it was still dark, but we
could see that the sun would soon come up, providing enough light to
see the mountains of the Himalayans to the north. All we could see at
the moment was a couple hundred sharp-pointed and rounded peaks to
the north. It looked like a cobble stone street cobbled with stones that
were so sharp that you wouldn’t want to walk on them. “How are we
going to know which peak is Mt. Everest” we asked our guide, “when
there are so many peaks that we can see?” He told us that when the sun
came up it would send its rays to touch just one peak, Mt. Everest. It
would be blazing white. All the other peaks would still be dark.
We looked to the north and finally the moment came. Only one
peak was touched by the rays of the rising sun. We were looking at Mt.
Everest. After a minute or so the other peaks were touched by the sun.
But we had seen Mt. Everest. None of us would ever forget that
moment.
John DeBoer worked as an aerospace engineer at Grumman Aircraft for a
number of years. He later became an ordained minister of the
Congregational Christian Churches, serving as a parish pastor and later
as a national executive before he retired in 1988.
32
THE CELESTIAL PREVIEW REVIEW
Esther Early
What’s bred in the bone comes out in the flesh. (Proverb)
St. Peter was sitting in his booth just outside the Pearly Gates
playing Solitaire on his laptop computer. He looked up at a large console
on his right with rows of flashing buttons. Suddenly a large clock
appeared and across its face was written “The Earth Time of Esther
Evelyn Detweiler Early.” The hour hand pointed to the Roman numeral
XII but the other was obscured. “Well,” remarked the ancient one, “She’ll
be arriving soon. It’s time for the Celestial Preview Review. We’ll start by
taking a look at her childhood. As they say, “What’s bred in the bone
comes out in the flesh.” He punched buttons on the console, brought
some folding chairs and set them in a semicircle in front of his booth.
Shortly, a motley group of figures appeared. The first was a bowlegged man in traditional cowboy attire. His wings were dusty, almost
dragging on the ground, and he was muttering darkly about being
summoned from a roundup out in the desert between Heaven and Hell.
St. Peter motioned to a chair and he sat down.
Next, a wingless lady, white as snow, with flowing white robes and
long white hair floated to a chair, and a large owl with horn rimmed
spectacles and a large book under his wing sat next to her. A beautiful
red haired angel with pink wings joined them. Lastly a troop of animals
joined them: dogs, cats, chickens, cows, horses, ducks and horned toads,
led by a single white rabbit with a wiggly nose and pink eyes. The rabbit
seated himself on a chair while the others sat nearby on the grass.
All greeted St. Peter respectfully, and he welcomed them and
thanked them for responding so promptly. Next he saved his Solitaire
game and opened a big ledger entitled “Celestial Preview Review of Esther
Early, Heavenly Bound.” He spoke: “You have all known this Esther
Early and you can help get her records together so we can make a
decision as to which way she will go as soon as she arrives here. You can
make recommendations as to her fate, also. To begin with, we will start
investigating what her early years were like and how they worked out in
her adult life. Cowboy, you go first.”
“Well,” he drawled, “I claim her as a real born and bred Western
woman. She knew life on the ranches and around mines, and the far
distances of Nevada from her birth, the endless valleys and mountains
and the people and animals that lived there. She never felt at home when
she was away from them. She knows the hard life of ranchers and
miners. She was honest in her dealings and usually kind.” Peter made a
check in a column of his ledger.
33
Next, he addressed the wingless woman. “White Lady, you are
really the Angel of Death, but in the costume of Celtic mythology. Why
are you here?” She replied, “Esther is of Welsh descent, and though a
practicing Christian, Celtic metaphors have great meaning for her. She
has felt me at her shoulder all her life and I have taken many of the
animals and people precious to her since she was very tiny. Yet she does
not fear me or curse me or tell me I am unfair. She knows I will bring her
to you soon. I feel, though, that she has much to learn and needs
another try at life on Earth. But I will leave that up to you and your
advisors.”
Then the owl spoke in a clear bass voice. “I am the Spirit of
Learning, Sir,” he said. “Esther was born with a good mind and curiosity,
though she often lacked good judgment. She knew no one could do her
work for her and she tried to give back to the world in many ways. I
believe she would be an asset to Heaven but would probably end up
trying to reform Hell and browbeating Satan if you send her there.”
“I will be so glad to see her,” smiled the red haired angel. “She was my
younger sister and I had much to do with raising her. We became best
friends and I took a piece of her heart when I left Earth under tragic
circumstances. Don’t hurry too much, White Lady, but bring her as soon
as you can.” She crossed her beautiful legs and Cowboy’s eyes and
mouth flew open. Peter cleared his throat in warning and Cowboy
composed himself.
The rabbit spoke in a high, penetrating voice. “I was important in
the life of that little girl as I was her first very own pet, and we loved each
other very much. But one day I was visited by the White Lady and as I
lay dying Esther ran crying to her mother to come help me. Her mother
was busy and just said that such things happen to animals so she had to
sit with me until I died. She learned that others might not love animals
and other things as much as she and it was the start of a loneliness she
carried in her heart the rest of her life. I hope you will admit her when
she arrives, Sir. We’ll have a grand celebration and, of course, you will be
invited.”
St. Peter stood. “You have all made good reports, but we have more
research to do. We will be talking to representatives of her husband and
his family. The balance may tip to the other side. Go, now, and many
blessings.” He snapped his fingers and waved as they disappeared. So
did the Early clock. With a sigh of relief he returned to his Solitaire game.
It had been a busy morning, but boring. Perhaps the next candidates
would have juicier tales to tell.
Esther Early is a native Nevadan who believes Nevada is the best place to
live. OLLI enriches life in Reno and Lifescapes is her favorite class. It is
gratifying to see folks creating their written memoirs. These will be
precious legacies linking the generations.
34
BEV AND BOB
Robert Eaton
Summer 1950: “Hey, Bev, I
think your little brother Bobby is
spying on us.”
“Bobby, come here. Tell us
what do you call people like me and
Gwen and Louise?”
“You mean ‘grils?’”
Gwen and Louise giggled. “Say it
again, Bobby.”
“Grils.”
The girls rolled on the grass
giggling. Bobby shrugged his little
shoulders, stuck his hands in his
pockets and wandered back toward
the house trying to say the word
“girl” correctly. He knew how to spell
g-i-r-l, but it just came out wrong
when he spoke it.
Bob and Bev
At bedtime, feeling a little guilty,
Bev told Bobby a secret way to say “girl” so he wouldn’t be teased
about it. “First say ‘ger’ like you are playing lion, then say ‘ul.’ See, you
get girl.”
Bobby fell asleep repeating “gerul, gerul, gerul,” over and over like
a meditation mantra.
Spring 1959: Bev, a sophisticated senior at Rawlins High School,
sat on a throne on the east side of the Masonic temple. On the other side
of the room sat her awkward freshman brother Bob. A blue haired lady,
Mrs. Opal Cox, was directing the rehearsal for Bev’s installation as queen
of the Job’s Daughters. “Next the brother will present the family gift, the
gavel. What is your brother’s name? Oh, yes, Bobby. Now you say,
‘Honored queen, may I approach the east?’ Then you hand the gavel to
your sister. Remember to bow slightly.” “Oh, no, young man, you must
be louder, stand straighter, walk quickly and smile to show your pride in
your sister.”
Bev looked regal and beautiful in her purple robe the next evening.
The installation was going perfectly until from the west side of the room a
fairly loud voice said, “May I approach the east, your royal hine-ass?”
A few months later when Bev said good-bye to the family at the train
station as she left to go to college in Corvallis, Oregon, Bob noticed that
his mother cried steadily for nearly three days after. Being that his mom
seldom cried, Bob began to realize it was more than just a temporary
35
good-bye. Bev was leaving home permanently. He would see her now and
then, but they wouldn’t be living together the way they had been.
Fall 1998: Bob sat on the edge of the bed at the University of
Colorado Hospital in Denver talking excitedly to his favorite nurse, Maria,
who was trying to help him look presentable.
“My sister Bev is always so neat. She’s going to think I look like a
bum. I haven’t had anything but a sponge bath for almost two months,
haven’t shaved or even washed my hair.”
“You’re going to look wonderful to her. You are lively and stronger
day by day; you are a miracle.”
“Bev is coming all the way from Virginia, leaving her husband at
home. I’ve been in the hospital so long, I’m almost afraid to leave. Bev,
you’re here! Maria, I want you to meet my sister Bev.”
“You never told me how beautiful your sister is.” Bob looked at Bev
and decided Maria was right. Bev’s hair was pure white which made her
blue eyes stand out. She was beautiful because she smiled at you with
those blue eyes and gave you her complete attention when you talked.
Bev and Bob stayed in a motel after Bob was released. Bob had
trouble sleeping so some nights at three or four in the morning brother
and sister relived childhood experiences. They laughed about the fun
they had growing up in Sinclair, Wyoming. The world seemed so
wonderful to Bob now that he had his sister with him. Bev reminded
Bob that he had been given a second chance at life. “Watching you and
seeing how much you appreciate just being alive is really good for me,
too,” she told him.
When Bev left to go home, Bob remembered how his mother had
cried when Bev went off to college. This time, Bob kept his tears inside.
Winter 2008: It snowed a bit in Reno where Bob had retired, the
weather was bleak in Virginia, and a blizzard closed the roads around
Rawlins. Bev and Bob mourned the death of their mom in Rawlins that
morning trying to console one another over the phone. They wished they
could be in Rawlins, home, together, but it was not to be. So over the
next few weeks they planned a funeral for spring when more of the family
could get to Wyoming.
“Bev, let’s sing lots of hymns at the funeral and let’s not have a
sermon.”
A May day, Rawlins, Wyoming, France Memorial Presbyterian
Church, Bob and Bev stood side by side singing “Bless be the Tie that
Binds” with light rays of red and green and yellow and blue streaming in
through the Good Shepherd stained glass window. Bev and Bob glanced
at each other and smiled knowing they were blessed to be so close.
Bob Eaton lives in downtown Reno, loves the people that live here, and
enjoys riding his bike along the river and spending his days writing in
coffee houses. Bob takes advantage of many activities in the city as well
as at OLLI.
36
THE ONE AND ONLY
Sharon Upson Edwards
What a beautiful glass convex frame. Dressed in a delicate batiste
dress, long white stockings and dainty shoes, a two year old child stands
in a chair posing for a photographer. This child was one of eight children
and the picture was taken 95 years ago. I am looking at my father.
He was born in Reno in 1913 and both of his parents were born in
Reno in 1884. In the 1870’s his grandfather was Constable of Reno. The
idea of renting a moving van never occurred to him throughout his life.
A man of integrity and honesty, he was hard working, filled with
pioneer perseverance and courage. He was a wonderful role model for his
only child named Sharon, born on Christmas Eve. He was very strong,
both mentally and physically. With his beautiful tan and school bus
yellow swim suit, he was an exact replica of Charles Atlas.
He drove a semi-diesel truck for fifteen years and I often
accompanied him on his nightly trips to Winnemucca, Nevada. That
highway, sixty years ago, had few trucks and fewer cars, but a thousand
jack rabbits. I had the honor of tooting the horn to greet oncoming
truckers. He was awarded a million miles safe driving award.
Moving to Terminal Manager without a college education proved he
was a man of great sense and intelligence. Pacific Motor Trucking was a
branch of Southern Pacific Railroad. The company offered him a very
large terminal in California with a large raise to go with it. He refused
stating that he was born in Nevada, was raised in Nevada and he was
going to die in Nevada. If they insisted, he would go back to driving a
semi.
My father very seldom took a vacation, and when he retired after
working for them for 35 years, he fulfilled his dreams of going to
Australia and New Zealand several times.
When I was thirteen and it was time to graduate from Junior High,
an incident happened that made a lasting impression on me. That
evening, when he came home from work, tired and hungry, my mother
told him about my antics for that day. I was humiliated to get my first
spanking from my father – my first and only spanking at thirteen.
Days later or so as I walked into the kitchen, my father was sitting
at the table with a small wrapped gift in front of him. He said that he
saved his lunch money each day for six weeks to get this gift. At this time
I wished the floor would open up so I could disappear. I had received my
first wrist watch and a lasting impression for the rest of my life.
One of my father’s hobbies was lapidary work. He belonged to the
Reno Gem and Mineral Society. He was very proud of being an honorary
member of all of the Gem and Mineral Societies of Australia and New
37
Zealand. Another of his hobbies was digging up antique bottles
throughout Nevada. He had three beautiful antique bottle collections.
The year before my parents both passed away, they celebrated
their 70th Wedding Anniversary.
On March 14,2006 as the sun set in the West, sagebrush covered
the hills and water flowed down the Truckee River, his Conestoga Wagon
disappeared over the horizon.
My family and I have lived in the Virginia City, Nevada and Reno, Nevada
area continuously since the 1860’s. I am 72 years old and retired. I enjoy
Lifescapes very much. Also, I am interested in reading about Anthropology,
Archeology, wild horses and Native American Culture.
38
REMEMBERING
Peggy Etchemendy
They say that as you age you remember long ago more than
yesterday. I’m not so sure of that. I don’t remember a lot about “long ago”
although recently flash-backs are creeping in. I’ve never dwelled on my
childhood. I was not a happy child. I’m not sure why but it could have
had something to do with being the middle one in a three-child family. I
had a nice father and mother, was never mistreated, always fed and
clothed, but the things I remember are kind of sad. I’d rather think about
yesterday and today. I like them better.
I do remember some about the Great Dust Bowl. Our family lived
on a small dry farm in southeastern Colorado. One mid-afternoon as my
brother, sister and I left our one-room country school to start our one
mile walk home, I could see the black clouds roiling up on the horizon.
We hurried but the sky grew dark and the wind started to blow dust
around my feet and legs and peppering my face. We ran but the wall of
sand beat us home. There was nothing to do but stay inside until the
wind died down and the sand passed on. My mother put wet cloths over
our faces so we could breathe. The dust and sand drifted in around the
doors and windows of our little clapboard house. By morning all was
quiet. When we looked out, the yard fence had turned into mountains of
sand. That day was spent literally shoveling sand from inside the house
back outside. There, of course, were lots of these storms but this one
must have been unusually fierce to stand out in my mind.
There couldn’t have been much money floating around in the mid
or early thirties but I didn’t know the difference; all the other kids wore
homemade dresses, got one or two new pairs of shoes a year and went
barefoot in the summer. Sometimes we were given a whole nickel to
spend on the rare occasions we went to town. I remember my father and
mother going into town to buy groceries for all the neighbors because our
car was the only vehicle with gas at the time. Everybody helped
everybody else any way they could. My mother once remarked those
years in that community were some of the happiest in her life.
I do remember some happy times in our little community before
the drought and the dirt started to blow. We made our own
entertainment. There were parties and Fourth of July picnics, and my
mother’s quilting parties and going to the neighbors to visit. And oh! The
dances in a neighboring school house. My mother baked a cake, rounded
up a quarter to help pay for the music and we danced all night. When we
kids could no longer keep going, we were put to bed around midnight in
the back of our old Model T Ford.
39
Another time stands out in my memory. Our family was camping
on the rim of the Picketwire Canyon, also in southeastern Colorado, on a
pretty little piece of homestead land. The drought and wind had driven
my parents from their farm. My father and mother were building a
house, adobe brick by adobe brick, made by hand in frames packed with
straw and mud and allowed to dry. It took them all summer and into the
fall and I remember they did have help at times. It was a nice house and
we loved it. But I was three miles from the school. Our parents would
take us to school but we had to walk home. I will never forget how tired I
got and how upset with my brother and sister for always running off and
leaving me. I think I cried all the way home every afternoon. The
depression was in full swing. No work, no pigs or cows to feed us, so my
father was once again forced to pack up and move on – to large cattle
ranches this time, back to his cowboy roots. I do remember some of the
ranches we lived on and some of the memory is very vague.
There are lots of things you can remember, I guess, if you really
put your mind to it. When my brother, sister and I get together and start
reminiscing it gets interesting. We can be discussing the same experience
happening at the same time with the same people supposedly and you
could be convinced we had belonged to different families, different times
and different countries – each of us adamant that he or she is right. So
how do you know who is right and if it’s even worth remembering? I’m
going to stick with yesterday and today. I like it better and I’m pretty
sure I’ll remember it right.
Peggy Etchemendy was born in Northern Texas during the depression and
the dustbowl years. She lived on cattle ranches (her father was a rancher)
until high school. She moved to Nevada after high school, married a native
Nevadan and has three children.
40
NO, IT’S NOT ANOTHER DOG
Yvonne Flynn
July 13, 1979 was probably the day the biggest change in my life
happened. I was working at Sierra Developmental Center, a facility for
people with developmental disabilities, and this perfectly adorable little
girl was waiting to be placed with a family from Elko.
Because of her diagnosis of cytomegalic inclusion virus disease,
members of that family had to be tested for antibodies to the virus. There
was no place for her to stay while waiting, so she would spend the day at
the office and go home with whichever staff member had nothing planned
for the evening. I felt this was unfair to her so I offered to take her home
with me until the placement in Elko was finalized. That evening I arrived
home with Taylor and her few belongings in tow.
At this time two of my children still lived at home, my 15 year old
son and my 13 year old daughter. Taylor immediately captured their
hearts. When they heard her story my son said, “Mom, can’t we keep
her?” I considered this for awhile and asked him if he realized that even
though she was 13 months old she was like a 6 month old and that
meant a lot of care would be needed. He assured me he would help, even
changing diapers. I figured if he was willing to do this I would find out
the next day if we could be her family.
My husband worked for the railroad and was out on the road but
was due back later that night. When he got home I greeted him by saying
I had something to tell him. He looked at me and said, “It had better not
be another dog!” This was a reasonable assumption as my son was
always bringing home stray dogs.
I assured him it was not another dog and then took him in the
bedroom and showed him this darling little girl. Within minutes she had
him wound around her little finger and he was hooked. He never
considered her anything other than his daughter. He wanted her to be
ours, so we applied to be foster parents and three years later we adopted
her.
Her arrival in our home was really life changing for all of us. Many
other special needs children came and went through our home enriching
our lives with all the special gifts they had to give.
Taylor is now a young woman of 30 and definitely is not a dog.
I moved to Sparks in 1954; married in 1959; graduated from the University
of Nevada (now UNR) in 1960; raised four children and still live in Sparks.
41
THE EARLY YEARS
Jeanne Fowler
Our home in San Mateo, California on West 25th Avenue is where I
grew up. My parents, Irene Thelma and Robert Roy Parker, bought their
home in San Mateo in 1930 from a developer who was building Spanish
style homes over a ten block area in South San Mateo. There was a block
of shops nearby with a meat market, grocery store, card shop, doctor and
dentist offices, pharmacy, restaurants, and a movie theater. Beresford
Grammar School was three blocks south of our home.
My parents moved into their new home, their first home, from an
apartment on Fell Street in San Francisco with my sister, Marjorie Ann,
age three. Dad worked in San Francisco as an accountant for the
Southern Pacific Railway and commuted to San Francisco by train – the
7:15 AM from the Hillsdale Station, returning on the 5:00 PM train.
When I was born, April 3, 1933, my sister was five and a half years
old. She was sent off to our grandmother’s and when she was brought
back some weeks later she had to adjust to a new sibling who was
getting all the attention. How lucky we were to have such wonderful
parents, so responsible and loving. My mother and father were delighted
with their new home on a quiet street where we children could play with
neighborhood friends in the large back yard. By the time I arrived, they
had planted a pretty garden. Our home was the center of our lives and
my parents would remain living there for 66 years.
Mother was kind and gentle; everyone loved Mother. She was a
founding member and president of Beresford Park PTA and during her
tenure she started a well baby clinic in the school auditorium. She was
also president of the Beresford Garden Club and an outstanding flower
arranger. My father was a very thoughtful person always ready to help a
neighbor. Part of my memory of my dad was the delight he would take in
raising vegetables to share with neighbors and friends.
Mother loved to read to us when we were young. She enjoyed
sewing for her daughters as we were growing up and would make us the
prettiest dresses each year for school and parties. She sewed Scottish
plaid wool pleated skirts which we loved. Clothes were a big interest in
our lives and we both loved to dress up so we might get the stamp of
approval on our way out the door.
I started Kindergarten at Beresford Park and loved the school and
my many friends. The teachers were wonderful without exception but we
all feared Mrs. Azevado, the 5th and 6th grade teacher. Mrs. Azevado was
a stern but excellent teacher. Her teaching method was “you’re going to
learn and behave properly or else!” There was a high stool in the corner
for anyone who misbehaved, complete with a dunce cap! I remember
42
feeling so sorry for one boy who had to sit there with the dunce cap but
somehow we all survived our two years with Mrs. Azevado.
I always looked up to Marjorie. She had so many friends, like
Mother, and was always busy having fun, being bright and pretty,
enjoying school. We became good friends over
the years. As a grown woman, I could always go
to her to talk and I listened carefully to her
advice. It was wonderful to have her as my
sister, someone I could always count on to help
me and also to have fun with on our many
adventures together.
There were many students in my classes
from Beresford Park that also attended Borel
Junior High School and then San Mateo High
School, where we all graduated together. I loved
learning and was working hard to stay on the
honor roll in high school. Later, I thoroughly
Marjorie 8, Jeanne 3
enjoyed higher learning in college.
During World War II, my dear father was
not drafted due to his age and his young family. He followed the war
nightly on the radio with maps. We were experiencing rationing of shoes,
meat, coffee, sugar and gasoline, which we found most difficult. We
carefully conserved our gas coupons so we could take our annual
vacation to Clear Lake, California, where we would stay by the water at
my Uncle Gene’s vacation home swimming, fishing and canoeing.
We would also travel to our Grandfather Armstrong’s ranch at
Dixon, California, a working ranch and dairy. He raised sugar beets,
pigs, horses and sheep. The ranch’s boundary on Putah Creek gave us a
wonderful place to swim and picnic and have special fun with our
Armstrong cousins when they arrived. During holidays, refectory tables
would be placed end to end from the dining room into the living room,
with at least 45 relatives gathering.
As I reflect on the principles my parents lived in their lives and
passed on to us to hold dear – truth, honesty, justice, loveliness, purity
and faith in God – it is clear my family and their values shaped the path
of my life. My father would not allow us to speak negatively about
anyone. He would say, “You don’t know that to be true.” I feel so lucky to
have had the wonderful standards of my parents and sister forming who
I am, and to carry these values throughout my life.
Jeanne Fowler was born and raised in San Mateo, California, graduating
from the College of San Mateo with a degree in art and interior design. She
is an accomplished watercolor artist and has recently completed a
Lifescapes book about her husband, James.
43
GRANDMA’S WORDS TO LIVE BY
Diane France
Grandma taught me words to live by. “Once a man, twice a child.”
“Smile and the world smiles with you.” “Always wear clean underwear
because you could get in an accident and when you arrive at the
hospital, they will discover your underwear.” (I thought the accident—
what happened when you were hurt or afraid—was more important than
the state of my underwear.) “You can always ask anyone for something or
about something, for the person can only say ‘No’ or ‘I don’t know.’” “You
cannot fail if you never try.” “Never take the blame or say it’s someone
else’s fault for problems that you have no control over.”
It has taken most of my life to understand the balance between our
body’s energy and the level children have—this is why we need to be
young at heart when we become senior citizens. The thought of returning
to the same state as a baby, with no teeth and the inability to walk
without assistance, really did not encourage looking forward to growing
old.
When I was twelve, all the signs of diabetes showed up—the
inability to sleep, being tired all the time, having cold hands with no
feeling in my feet or hands, and very low blood pressure. I could never
run, yet I could speed walk. I was a vegetarian without knowing this was
happening—there was not enough money to buy meat everyday. We had
to go to a local neighborhood store for chicken. This was a place of
business owned and operated by Jews. Their custom was to chop off the
chicken’s head after you had picked out the one you wanted. Next, you
watched the chicken run around, headless, and then it was hung upside
down while the blood ran out. I wasn’t going to eat any food that I had to
watch die! Besides, my grandmother was 100 lbs. overweight.
As a child, I thought that my grandmother was raising me because
my mother did not want me, but she was just raising me to eat healthy
and cook healthy in that stage of her life. She didn’t want me to have
foods that were not good for me like white sugar—she used corn syrup a
lot, and black molasses, and made her own syrup. Now my diet and
health are like they were when I was a child, for I am living on a budget
that helps me remember my youth—not in my body but in my heart.
Songs about smiles help me get through many frustrating
situations in life. “You can smile when you can’t say a word; you can
smile when you cannot be heard. You can smile when you are happy or
sad, you can smile, you can smile.” Another song is “When you’re smiling
the whole world smiles with you, the whole world smiles with you. And
when you are laughing the sun comes shining through, but when you’re
crying, YOU bring on the rain, so stop your crying and be happy again.”
The motto as well as the songs lead me believe that a person must decide
44
to have a positive attitude because attitudes affect health and the way we
face each day. “Time marches on,” Grandma would say, “so while it
marches on, you be happy, for this too will pass.”
“To be clean is to be close to God” and “Always take a bath and
brush your teeth because your first appearance is very important.” “If
you miss a day of life not giving your best you could miss a great
opportunity or a magnificent blessing.” I tried to pass these words of
grandma’s on to my children. Motherhood changed my attitude from an
angry child to an adult who had to be flexible because all children are
different. My training program for them was to help them learn to take
care of themselves: dress themselves, learn lessons on housekeeping,
cooking and living on a budget. No lies were allowed, so BOTH PARENTS
DECIDED not to lie to our children so when they became teenagers, they
hopefully wouldn’t lie to us. The first truth was to talk to the children
from day one using the proper terms for the parts of the body. Some
children would share this and it didn’t sit well with their parents. My
husband and I decided to tell the truth as we knew it about tooth fairies,
monsters, legends, holidays and folk tales. Our oldest child Anita would
tell us when she got in trouble for telling the truth at school but our
advice was “Don’t lie, just change the conversation.” She said to her
school friends, “My mother said that both our parents loved us so they
were our Santa Claus and Jesus was the reason for the season. Love is
magic so we have never taken the magic out of the holy day which is
really to remember to thank Jesus for being born.” Some parents were so
angry about Anita saying Santa didn’t exist that we had to have a
neighborhood PTA meeting to calm down the parents and children. When
our last child was born, we added the tradition of baking Jesus a
birthday cake and singing “Happy Birthday” on Christmas Day.
I would give the children five days to clean their rooms and on the
sixth day I would clean up and throw away anything left on the floor or
pushed under the bed. It took several years before the younger child
said, “She’s not throwing my stuff away” and the older one decided to
clean so she could go outside and play. Determination drove me. My
children were encouraged to go as far as they wanted to go, not letting
weight or shyness or anger cause them to fail.
When I became a widow I realized that I was on my own for the
first time in my life, having gone from mother to grandmother to group
home to husband. I now feel, emotionally, about the age of 17 and
completely on my own. I use all my grandmother’s mottoes and a
wonderful sense of humor to get through every day and remain young at
heart. “Laugh and the world laughs with you; cry and you cry alone.”
Diane France was born in Cleveland, Ohio, and is a mother, grandmother
and great-grandmother. She is active in many Reno organizations and very
much enjoys participating in classes and events at OLLI.
45
SHE WAS PLANTED…WATERED…FERTILIZED, AND
GREW!
Barbara Frolich
Zap! Brrak! Bam! Pow! Is this how any potential abilities are put
into the fetus at the time of conception? Does this process make one of
us have a higher IQ? Be a great pianist? A bum? A politician? A superb
cook? A drug addict? An artist? A murderer? A doctor? An exemplary
human being? Or, are these potential traits the result of parenting -- be
it good or bad? Geographical or financial situation? Or, do we grow into
our being from a life of circumstance?
Being the single parent of 10 children, several foster children and a
granddaughter, raised from the age of 3, would seemingly put a woman
on the “High Priority” list for good things in life. Or, NOT.
At one child's graduation she commented that she would surely
like to be not only “someone's mother,” but also Annette -- a person of
her own making.
A roadblock proportionate to a high rise building was her deafness,
a gift inherited from her father and likewise she passed this gift to some
of the 10 children and grandchildren. This gift was not insurmountable;
she wore hearing aids and many never knew of the hearing loss.
The blackness of a hurricane laden sky was no worse than living
through a divorce, moving the eight younger children to a new city, a new
house, new schools, and for the first time in her life, finding work outside
of the house. A toddler taking his first steps could not be more frightened
nor more timid than she was on the first day on the first job. She took
classes and tests and quickly worked her way up a business ladder,
learning new jobs and discovering the birth of unknown talent of art in
many forms. She excelled and earned good money and numerous friends
by making and decorating cakes for birthdays, weddings, and other
special occasions. The oven and stove worked overtime helping her create
meals to provide comfort in the time of illness, celebration or death for
anyone in the neighborhood, family or church.
Characters in thousands of books were her friends from the time
she could read; this was an obsession she passed on to her
children...reading every good book.
The wonderful feeling of a pet dog or cat rubbing against the leg or
licking the hand is as warm a feeling as that she enjoyed by playing
bridge with the growing list of friends.
Then one day she heard about a woman who taught china
painting. Voila! The sky opened and a brilliance unlike anything before
was what she experienced when this artistic aptitude grew like flowers
going from a bud to a full blown flower -- a creation of nature. Each piece
46
she fired (many times) and completed was more magnificent then the
previous one. Before long the growth of her talent overflowed the
wheelbarrow in her garden of mountains, trees, animals, birds and
flowers, all things she painted on her pieces.
Having this magic talent was an anesthesia, for a time, when the
body began to wear. Having reaped a plethora of family and friends was
an unimaginable bouquet, fragrant with unwavering love, trust and
companionship. She never seemed to know want; a child, grandchild or
spouse of one always made an appearance at the opportune time to build
a bridge -- be it just one of stepping stones or one of great magnitude.
The love and respect had been earned. Her Faith abounded despite the
pain of age, time and sorrow, and also because of the joys of birth,
growth and life. She matured from a child who was to be seen and not
heard to a woman elevated to the highest degree not only for who and
what she was but because of the person she grew into -- truly one great
creation!
She was my friend, my
mother. She was Annette
Humphreys Matthews. She
was Netto.
Barbara Humphreys Frolich was born in Butte, MT, the second of 10
children. The family moved to Weed Heights (Yerington) NV in early 1952.
Barb moved to Reno in 1963. Her main goal in life is to make at least one
person smile each day.
47
FROM A TIME NOT SO LONG AGO
Marsha O’Lynn Fronefield
A steady sound means, “Danger imminent, take cover.”
Drop drills, “duck and cover,” fallout shelters, does anyone even
remember that?
Remember “Dr. Strangelove,” the film whose tag line read, “How I
learned to stop worrying and love the bomb?” A mordantly funny take on
the Unthinkable: Nuclear war.
In an earlier time, “Megadeath” wasn’t a heavy metal band, and
“megadeaths” referred to casualties of an atomic bomb attack: one
megadeath = one million deaths. Think Hiroshima, or Nagasaki, two
cities in Japan vaporized in nuclear bombings that ended World War II…
and started the Cold War.
Some may remember Mikhail Gorbachev and the destruction of the
Berlin Wall. A very real wall that divided the city of Berlin in “West
Germany” from “East Germany,” a member of the Soviet Bloc (Russia), in
1990. Annihilation by Communist Russia in a nuclear holocaust was a
real threat,, the stuff of nightmares, the scary, disturbing, graphic kind
one woke from and had trouble going back to a peaceful, restful slumber.
Could you survive a nuclear attack? Would your friends, your dog
or cat, your brother or sister, your parents? What would you do? Where
would you go?
Starving in a mountain cabin, no food or water, let alone weapons
to protect yourself from a wild beast, a crazy person, or even a MUTANT.
How long would you live? What if you were the very last person on earth?
You couldn’t go outside. The radiation would kill you, and what of the
“half life,” the time it would take for the toxic materials to disintegrate?
The world as you knew it would be gone. Would the trees ever grow
again? Would the sky ever return to a clear innocent blue?
In the late 1940’s, 50’s and 60’s missiles with atomic payloads, or
warheads, were pointed West if you were in Russia, East if you were in
the United States. (Who knows maybe they STILL are.)
People actually bought bomb shelters which they outfitted in their
basements, or buried in the yard. The Anthrax scare after 9/11 was tame
compared to the constant fear running like a worrisome thread through
everyday life. AIR RAID!! ATTACK!! (bombs).
Could it happen? Would it? Evacuate?? How long did we have?
Go to a pulic place; the beach, or a sporting event. Look for the
“Fallout Shelter” sign. Make sure you know where “it” was.
“This is a test, only a test, of the Emergency Broadcasting System.”
Our radio warnings now are fire, flash flood, or snow storm warning. Not
then. Was that tone on the radio a true disaster THIS time?
48
My grandpa said he didn’t want to survive a nuclear attack,
thankyouverymuch.
A poster, as ubiquitous as “black light” posters of the 1960’s and
70s, and “Acid Rock” summed up his position all too well: “In case of
Nuclear attack, bend over, grab your ankles, and kiss your ass good
bye.”
Marsha O’Lynn (Sidwell) Fronefield is a local writer living in Verdi, Nevada
since 2000. In addition to writing, she has taught at the University of
Nevada, Reno in the Human Development Family Studies Dept. She has
contributed to the Lifescapes Senior Writing Program as a student for the
past three years.
49
FOND RECOLLECTIONS
Gloria Fundis
Christmas was a busy and exhausting time for our family. We had
one of two general stores in town. Among the few other Christmas stops
were Shovelin’s Hardware which offered appliances and gleaming glass
items and Wilson’s Drugs, tempting with cards, perfumes and cosmetics
gift sets, all bearing the essence of Christmas.
My mother created eye-catching Christmas displays in the two
bays facing the street. Boxes of lacy handkerchiefs were ensconced under
the counter for the children who timidly came into the store jingling a bit
of loose change. This quickly translated into a festively wrapped gift from
the secret stash for their moms. All children who transacted business at
the counter got a stick of Wrigley’s or round bubble gum for their mere
presence at the counter.
After Christmas, sleuthing mothers would inquire at the store
offering to pay for their frilly handkerchief of unknown origin. Perchance
had the bounty of Christmas morn surpassed their child’s meager
savings? Mom, responding with her belief in Santa, spoke to the
possibility of this Magical Time which easily wrought such miracles.
We worked in the store each Christmas Eve until late in the
evening. Traditionally we ended this Holy Night gazing at the bubbling
lights on our fragrant pinion pine, freshly cut and faithfully delivered to
us each year by the Basque sheepherders. Mom served hot chocolate
with the warm recollection of another world where this indeed would be
the fare for Christmas Eve.
Shortly before her death, Mom received the Governor’s Senior
Samaritan Award which read in part:
“This award honors those who most deserve our
recognition and praise. Their efforts make Nevada a good
and kind place to live. Our lives are better for the
contributions of these sincere, caring people. You are
forever to be known as one of the greats.”
Her helping of others in such unique ways continued to be her
trademark for eighty-six years.
Gloria Fundis is a native Nevadan who graduated from the University of
Nevada, Reno, 52 years ago. Her travels have been to discover her Basque
family, both in Spain and Peru. OLLI has facilitated her desire to preserve
those dreams.
50
VOYAGE TO AMERICA
Ute Gacs
After summer vacations had ended in most European countries, at
the end of August, my mother and I set out on our journey to the
Netherlands. Even though it was officially still summer, fall was definitely
in the air. Shortly after my 22nd birthday I had received an immigration
visa and proceeded to book passage on a freighter departing from
Holland to the States.
Leaving our little town in Bavaria behind us, tears welled up in my
eyes as I thought of the many happy days I had spent with my family and
classmates. On our way we passed picturesque little villages with the
façades of farm houses depicting hand painted Alpine scenes, and
whitewashed Baroque churches towering over the center of town.
The countryside showed off its fall colors. Brilliant shades of reds,
orange and yellow were interrupted by pine trees already shedding their
needles and cattle and horses were peacefully grazing on rich pastures.
After leaving the state of Bavaria behind us, we passed Lake
Konstanz on our left and soon crossed over a bridge connecting Germany
with France. Arriving in the province of Alsace-Lorraine where bitter
battles had been fought during World War II, we talked about an earlier
trip in 1955. My mother had driven my two sisters and me across the
border, and we stopped in a small community looking for a place to eat
lunch. A large banner strung between two poles greeted us at the
entrance to the village. Its inscription read “Remember Oradour” in
French and German.
“What does it mean?” I asked my mother.
“In 1942 the German SS executed most of the young boys and
adult men of this village because they were accused of working for the
“Resistance,” she explained. Continuing our journey in silence, we were
troubled by the atrocities committed by our people.
Following the River Rhone, we soon reached the Dutch border and
our destination, the harbor town of Rotterdam. After checking into our
hotel, we walked down to the harbor where I first caught a glimpse of the
ship The Groote Beer, which was going to carry me to my new homeland,
America. It was a freighter, originally known as “Costa Rica Victory.”
Commissioned in 1945, it was used as a Dutch emigrant ship after World
War II. After a remodel in 1952, it made regular stops at Halifax Pier in
Nova Scotia, Canada and was used to transport exchange students from
Rotterdam to New York between 1948 and 1961.
“What would you like to do this evening?” asked mother.
“Put on my bathing suit, run down to the beach and go for a last
swim in the North Sea.” I plunged into the stormy sea feeling cleansed
and refreshed, looking forward to a new life in the New World. Early the
51
next morning, while holding my mother in a tight embrace, I promised to
write or phone as soon as I would be settled in the home of my sponsors.
The Groote Beer left Rotterdam with nearly 600 passengers, many
of whom were American students returning home or European
immigrants, some of whom had already been hired by American
employers.
We were off to a rocky start as huge waves bounced against the
ship, rolling it from side to side. Our cabin, home to 16 young women,
was located on the first deck. I could see huge waves crashing against
the porthole. Eight bunk beds were stacked against the walls of the
cabin, and our belongings stored in nets were hanging overhead.
Soon most of my roommates became violently sea sick and the
smell and stench became unbearable. I picked up pillows and blankets
and joined others as we climbed up to the top deck. Dragging chairs and
chaise lounges out of the howling wind, we huddled into a corner under
the observation deck and waited for the storm to pass. As it turned out,
the weather intensified and many more passengers ended up in sick bay.
We spent the next five days watching the roaring waves washing over the
top deck and wondering whether the ship would withstand the pounding
and thrashing. From time to time fellow passengers would appear on the
top deck, gasping for fresh air, then vomiting and retching over the
railing of the freighter. On September 7, 1960, we finally sailed into New
York Harbor. Even though we could not see the Statue of Liberty,
shrouded in fog and rain, we were happy to have arrived.
Still shaking and rattling, the ship docked in Hoboken, New
Jersey, and we disembarked. Unsteadily walking down the gangway, I
was clutching my suitcase with one hand and the rain coat with the
other. To the left of the ship’s gangway was a chain link fence where a
crowd had gathered to greet their relatives and friends. I was reassured
when I saw my friend Peter among them. He was waving and holding a
bouquet of flowers.
It was a short distance to the huge warehouse where immigration
officials awaited us. Standing in a huge puddle of water, and drenched
down to my underwear, I waited patiently in line to be processed.
I learned later that the Groote Beer, a ship weighing slightly over
9000 tons, should not have been out in the open sea as we sailed into
the eye of Hurricane Donna, so powerful that it threatened to wreck the
boat. Starting out as a tropical storm over the Atlantic, it turned into a
category 3 hurricane on September 1, the only hurricane on record to
produce winds up to 50 miles per hour, causing widespread damage and
deaths in the United States.
52
Ute Gacs is a native German and has lived in the US since 1960. She has
a Master’s Degree in Anthropology and taught courses in Anthropology at
Sierra, Western Nevada, and Lake Tahoe Community Colleges. She was
also an adjunct faculty member at the Community College of Southern
Nevada from 1991-2002. Her publications include A Biographical
Dictionary of Women Anthropologists, published in 1988 by Greenwood
Press, and articles and book reviews in the American Anthropologist. She
was proofreader of a German textbook, Alles Gut.
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HOW I LEARNED THAT HOME MEANS NEVADA
Betsy Gledhill
I carefully figured the amount needed to cover recent expenditures
and wrote a check to me for the amount left in our joint account. I felt
nervous but jubilant as I stood outside the small Florida bank. I could
picture his “Damn” when he tried to withdraw some cash from the now
empty pot.
Does something unexpected, something difficult or abrupt change
us…or is it a gradual growing into who we always were? Certainly, the
memories that stand out are the ones that are in vivid relief against a
background of sameness. But they may not be exceptional in some
dramatic way. Instead it may be a quiet but strong “Ah ha” that catches
the mind’s eye.
It was a symbolic gesture to be sure…cutting the cords that bind.
He had already made it clear that he was no longer interested in being a
husband or a father in the day to day sense. Beach combing the winters
away on Mexican shores or shipping out with the Merchant Marine was
more to his liking.
I had physically made the move towards separateness: leaving the
dark city for the balmy shores of Florida; the cold, grey damp for the sun
and warmth; the heavy, dark brownstone for the Spartan cottage. But it
took more than distance to find my separate strength.
When you live in southern Florida, you spend as much time as far
north as possible during the summer months. As soon as school was
finished we would load the old VW camper and take off…the mountains
of North Carolina; the rocks of Nova Scotia. In the late spring of 1972 we
headed for points north and west. We had heard enticing reports of Reno,
Lake Tahoe and the Carson Valley. We set off to see for ourselves.
The trip was long and filled with many detours: a visit to an ante
bellum estate near Natchez; camping beside the Mississippi and
exploring the bayous near New Orleans; hiding under bridges when
tornadoes were predicted; camping in the mountains above Santa Fe and
spending time with a Papago family near Tucson.
We entered Nevada near Zion National Monument after being
conned into replacing the shock absorbers on the camper by a clever gas
station owner/state inspection delegate. Later, on my return to Miami, I
compared notes with another single mom who had been equally hoodwinked at the same spot during her western odyssey the year before. We
were also burdened with strenuous cautions regarding the wiles of Route
#50. I felt as if we were playing a game of musical chairs and stopped at
every gas pump I saw, even when the tank registered ¾ full.
Nervous as I was, I couldn’t help but marvel at the vastness, the
“long ribbon of highway” stretching without a wiggle across the flats
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between the rocky plateaus and mountain ranges and the blue, blue sky.
I counted other travelers fewer than the fingers on one hand. We stopped
to stretch and tasted the white powdery ground. It really was salt! As the
intense sun lowered to eye level, I pulled off on a bumpy track. We
bounced along until there was a flat stretch that hung over a drop-off
facing east. There among the sage and junipers, we set up camp for the
night.
There and then was my tipping point. That night, the kids sleeping
behind me, Freddy our doggy companion and I stretched out, staring at
stars that pressed down to nearly arms reach, the moon rising over the
ridge beyond the flat sands, I was captured. The stillness was so
complete I slowed my breath and relaxed into it. Feeling alone and
relishing it.
Later that summer as we made our marathon race back to Florida,
school and work, I tried to imagine life in such a lonely world and found
it appealing. Four years later we made the move, and now home meaning
Nevada has lasted longer than any other place to me.
I was born and raised in New England, spent some time in New York City
and Brooklyn, NY working and raising children. My sojourn in Florida
lasted about 12 years, with breaks when we lived in Austria and the
mountains of North Carolina. We bought our house near Mt Rose in ’76
and I was involved with Washoe County School District for 20 years.
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A UNIQUE LITTLE TOWN
Thelma Green
Growing into I have become, I must first provide a little
background about myself. I was born, raised, and educated in Taft,
California. Taft is primarily an oil company town located on the
southwestern corner of the San Joaquin Valley, 35 miles west of
Bakersfield which is the County Seat of Kern County.
Taft in those days was a unique little town, surrounded by
thousands of wooden oil derricks. It was a thriving little community,
literally out in the middle of nowhere, built largely by the needs of the oil
industry and like “Topsy” it just grew. It was not the prettiest of places,
but I have many fond memories of growing up there. My father was an oil
field worker, an employee of the Standard Oil Company, now Chevron. It
was a community where most of the inhabitants shared similar lives with
the fathers working for the various large oil companies and women “stayat-home” mothers. Many of us lived in the low cost houses the oil
companies provided for their employees to live on the leases. We lived on
the Derby lease situated three miles from town. As we were a large
family, my father was given one of the larger houses which rented for $15
per month plus free utilities.
I was the fourth child in a family of five, having two older sisters,
an older brother and one younger brother. For recreation, although we
were forbidden to do so, my younger brother, Lawrence, and I had a great
time playing on the old gas engine wooden derricks. It was a relatively
carefree life with our activities bordering on academia and out door
sports. We were very fortunate to have one of the finest school districts in
the country, again thanks to the taxes and contributions made by the big
oil companies. The Taft Union High School was truly a state of the art
school staffed with some of the very best teachers. Due to their
outstanding efforts many of today’s well known educators, teachers, and
scientists are graduates of TUHS. I attended Taft schools all the way from
kindergarten through high school and never had to buy a single thing,
not even a pencil.
However, with the bombing of Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941,
many changes in my life occurred. At that time I was a senior in high
school looking forward to graduating in June of 1942 with plans to
continue on to college in the fall. That was not to be. Those plans were
shelved with the impending war because of the majority of the young
boys going into the various services of our country and the gals to work
in defense plants and armed services fields. Upon passing a test given by
the U. S. Army, I was accepted for enrollment in a training course in
Sacramento, California.
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Having never been away from home before, my mother who was
always my stalwart supporter, accompanied me via train to Sacramento.
There I found lodging at Ma Blake’s Boarding House where a number of
Taft girls were staying. The food she gave us was very meager. I soon
discovered that flattery does indeed reap its rewards and before long my
dinner portions were much larger than those of some of the other girls. I
did take a lot of ribbing for this, but again …“she who laughs last laughs
best…”
What a grand old time my friend, Juanita, and I had for a couple of
months. However, after completing the course and being the small town
girl that I was, homesickness took over and I transferred to the newly
established Army Air Force base at Gardner Field, a few miles from Taft. I
worked there for about a year before taking a job with the Standard Oil
Company’s Purchase and Stores Department at 11-C Camp and staying
home in Taft.
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WHY I AM
Helaine Greenberg
I wonder and ponder on why I am who I am. I’ve decided that, like
everyone else on earth, I have been shaped by the people, environments,
and events affecting me from the moment of my birth many decades ago.
I was born in Chicago into a family, tending toward upper middle class,
who immigrated from foreign soil and who lived through the depression.
They valued education, hard work, America, thrift, and helping those less
fortunate, as well as fashion, fun and resilience. Moreover, they rated
family very high, spending time socializing and taking trips together.
I had just one brother, 41/2 years my junior, who influenced me,
as siblings do. He was easygoing, helpful, mannerly, cheerful and looked
to me for advice. We got along well but, because of the difference in age,
personality and sex, sadly, we were never really buddies. As a youngster,
I suffered every childhood illness, had some accidents and even
underwent a few surgeries. These prepared me for later life, showing me
how to deal with pain, difficulty, and inconvenience, how to rely on
others, how to follow orders, and how to maintain hope.
From the age of 7 to 15, I went to summer camp -- first a local day
camp and then sleepaway camps in Wisconsin and Arizona. Camp
helped me to learn about outdoor sport skills, competing and accepting
victory and defeat, being on my own and coexisting with strangers.
In school—from preschool through graduate school, I was educated
in various subjects, in doing research, completing assignments, being on
time, listening, taking criticism, getting graded and career possibilities.
When I was 22, I wed a doctor and moved from home, never to
return. The marriage lasted nearly 28 years until his untimely death in
1994. This experience deepened my self-reliance, revealed something
about intimacy, and expanded my appreciation of art, wine, cooking,
entertaining, fishing, plastic surgery, Broadway shows, and spectator
sports. Also it gave me the opportunity to run a house with children and
pets and to care for some outside startup businesses.
At 25, I had the first of my 3 children (2 girls, 1 boy)—something
I’d always wanted. Having my brood just 32 months apart, with no family
or other help, I found I needed the utmost in patience, organization,
planning, leadership, time and stress management, knowledge of
discipline and, most of all, love.
Before kids, I worked in teaching and publishing and after kids, I
did 30 plus years of volunteer jobs (inside and outside government). All
this allowed me to practice writing, public speaking, public relations,
fundraising, leadership, and working with others.
With the death of my parents and husband, I became the family
head in charge of keeping and cataloging precious memorabilia and
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distributing accumulated possessions. I also received some executive and
financial experience through handling estates and trusts.
When I inherited some money, I got the ability to care for myself
and family and to make philanthropic contributions, even starting three
Reno scholarships for women and seniors.
Following my husband’s debilitating stroke at age 50, I became a
full-time caretaker, dealing with insurance, lawyers, and rehabilitation
specialists. I had sole responsibility for handling investments, buying
and selling houses and cars, moving and decorating, and planning trips.
After his death, I arranged the funeral and burial.
Becoming a young widow, I reentered the dating scene and
addressed myself to previously overlooked personal priorities, such as
outward appearance, physical health, emotional balance, spiritual
practice, sexuality, social outings, artistic expression, formulating life
goals, and mental expansion through interaction, reading, classes and
travel. I gained the ability to love myself, to forgive, to stop being critical,
and to get in the flow of life.
After all my children met their mates, I took on the role of
matriarch, helping with their engagements and weddings, cooperating
with the in-laws, visiting family frequently, keeping in regular
communication and giving advice, money, or gifts when needed.
Now that I’m a grandmother of seven, I’m re-experiencing total
love, imaginative play, selflessness, and gratitude. At the same time, I’m
attempting to be a helper to my children and a model of proper adult
behavior without interfering with their parental authority.
Over my lifetime, but most especially in the last 14 years, pleasure
travel and volunteer vacations have permitted me much personal growth
-- witnessing beautiful and interesting sights, maneuvering in strange
worlds, and understanding, helping, and enjoying other cultures.
Exposing myself to challenging physical situations (e.g. climbing
Mt. Kilimanjaro), I have learned how to commit to a training program, to
withstand trying circumstances, to push my limits, face my fears and to
withhold judgment on the final outcome.
Finally and most recently, being in a relationship with Larry has
allowed me to know true friendship, complete acceptance, deep love, fulltime companionship and intimacy. It has also been a test of patience,
compromise and generosity. And I’ve slowed down, savoring the moment,
reprioritizing, relishing being cared for, and letting loose of possessions.
That is how I came to be the very “me” I am today. Who knows, in
the next 30 or so years I hope to live, what further experiences I will have
and how these will contribute to the “me” I will be in the future?
Helaine Greenberg is a former English teacher who worked in publishing.
She is a mother, grandmother, world adventurer, outdoors enthusiast, and
long-time community volunteer.
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GUIDING LIGHT
Kathryn “Kay” Greene
There is always someone or some event that has a lasting influence
on one’s future, even though it may not be recognized at the time.
I had not given much thought to my future after high school,
except how I could successfully leave my parents’ home in the dust, for
once and for all.
In English Lit class my senior year, my teacher, Mrs. Wright, began
her plan to get us all into college, one way or another. Even the “jocks”
had to write book reports, essays, read poetry, analyze Shakespeare, etc.
She didn’t really try to torture us, even though it seemed like it to some
of us.
As the Christmas season approached she informed us that we were
going to have to write a term paper on the subject of our choice. We were
told that it should be a broad enough subject that included at least ten
different aspects, in no less than 10 type written pages (TEN pages? NOT
triple spaced). The topic would be expected after the holiday break.
What a quandary! Hardly anyone had a pleasant holiday, but I
came up with a part of the world that had always interested me, South
America. But WHAT? I decided on the Incan Empire and began to haunt
the local libraries, pestering the librarians about resources on the very
different and bizarre customs and practices of the prehistoric Incans.
Mrs. Wright’s purpose in this assignment was two-fold. One was to teach
us to do research and to write, the other was to provide us with a “prewritten” outline for future assignments by our professors in college. And
she was right. I used that term paper as a launch for almost every class
in which I had to do some writing; religion, social practices,
transportation, communication, etc. I learned to manipulate that paper
in so many ways, I can’t remember them all.
Mrs. Wright required weekly reports on our progress and during
that time she began to explore with me possible colleges, scholarships,
etc., how to apply, what to look for in a potential school, etc. What she
saw in me as a potential college student I don’t know. I was a shy,
retiring student with few friends and whose biggest goal seemed to be to
get through the day without having a coughing fit in class, due to my
recent development of asthma.
Mrs. Wright had a great sense of humor and helped us to relax and
discuss a variety of subjects without putting us down or ridiculing our
opinions. Once on an exam I had to write the world “renaissance”, as in
that period in European history. I tried three different ways, all wrong.
When she returned my paper, her note in the margin was, “Want to try
again?” “NO!” was my response. I got an A anyway.
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She persisted in her efforts on my behalf and when my parents
asked me in about March of that year what I intended to do with myself
after graduation, without hesitation I said, “I am going to college!” If I had
said, “I’m flying to the moon,” it would have made as much sense to
them.
But Mrs. Wright had convinced me that I was college bound. I
know it was due to her insight and encouragement that paved the way
for me to pursue higher education.
I am also sure that my parents thought that I would say I was
going to marry some redneck logger (non-existent) boyfriend and have
half a dozen snot-nosed kids.
But that did not happen. I went to college (the one of my choice,
not my parents), worked, studied and paid my own way, graduating in 4
½ years.
THANK YOU, MRS. WRIGHT!!!
My working career was spent as a public “bureaucrat,” a good one, I hope.
Since retirement (8 years) I have divided my time between quilting,
reading, being a “big” to “little” Noah, aquasize, and service in my church.
I love Reno/Sparks area and plan to be here the rest of my life.
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WHAT SHAPES OUR LIVES?
Rita Griswold
A loaded question as many circumstances shape our lives while
growing into adulthood. We have personalities that shape our lives, our
parents (especially our parents), our surroundings, religion, rituals, rules
and regulations to name a few.
We make conscious choices, some of course are not, as situations
and sudden unexpected events can force us into a less ideal direction.
Well designed plans and choices can go totally wrong due to events
beyond our control. Some people adjust well and feel comfortable just
about anywhere on this planet. They go with the flow and roll with the
punches, while others feel lost in unfamiliar surrounds, fall apart easily
and are slow to recover from a break in the comfortable routine.
We are all different and there are not easy explanations.
I grew up as child number 7 in our family of 9. Seven of my
brothers and sister still live within a 30 kilometer radius of our parent’s
home. They all seem happy and contented and have no desire to explore
the world other than a yearly vacation nearby. I almost envy them as
they are so unlike those restless souls who seek to travel wide and far.
I am one of the two different siblings in our family. My oldest
brother, 10 years my senior, left for the U.S. when he was barely 18 and
spoke little English. He could not stay in our safe, small town we call
“home.” I followed 10 years later, driven by forces not easily explained
and “home” was never really “home” again.
At 18 I knew I wanted to become a nurse and work with people. I
left for England and was trained in London. After completion, several
years later, I arrived in San Francisco and a sense of belonging settled
over me.
So what shapes our lives? To believe in destiny is somewhat
wishful thinking. I like to believe that we form an image in our mind, a
desire for new experiences, passions and growth. Those desires are so
strong that subconsciously we move towards these goals. Wanting to find
a life-partner, settle down with a home and children, wanting to learn to
fly, ski, learn a new language, or try photography. All this is possible
when thinking positively and following your heart.
My children helped me settle, stay happy and stable for several
decades and those were wonderful years. Now that they are grown,
independent and have families of their own, my desire to travel and
explore has returned.
Often I ponder, wonder and reminisce, if only I knew 40 years ago
what I know now, how different would my life have been? Any regrets?
The would have, could have, should haves! How different would the
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outcome have been? Who would I be now, richer, poorer, healthier and
happier? It will always remain the big question.
However, I like to believe now that I made my good and wrong
choices on the best knowledge I had at that time. Looking back I am
thankful for my close friends, my family, my mentors and my neighbors.
Those who stood by me through life’s trials and tribulations and other
tough times. They helped me cope and go on to become stronger and
hopeful again.
I have learned to keep an open mind and continue to reach for
knowledge that propels me to grow. There is a Chinese proverb that says:
“If you want happiness for an hour, take a nap.
If you want happiness for a day, spend it fishing.
If you want happiness for a year, inherit a fortune,
But if you want happiness for life, help people in need.”
Rita Griswold retired 2 years ago and moved to Reno after 38 years in the
San Francisco Bay area. She enjoys reading, the Lifescapes classes,
gardening, camping and especially traveling.
63
GROWING INTO ME
John Gunther
Admiral Richard Byrd said, “Few people during this lifetime come
anywhere near exhausting their resources dwelling within them.”
“Who am I?” This question changes with
every passing moment of my life. I am sure that
63 years ago, no one could have guessed or
imagined what I would develop into after these
years. So many internal and external factors are
involved, with difference reference points I
remember throughout my lifetime. All of these
have been a process of physical, personal,
spiritual and mental growth. Incidents have
occurred that have changed my life, and I
wonder what potential still lies ahead in my
remaining years.
I remember at 18 years of age, I thought
that my many uncles and aunts, who were in their 40’s & 50’s, were old,
and that my grandmas and grandpas in their late 60’s were ancient. Yet
now that I am 63 years old age seems so unimportant, at least to me.
The one element that keeps my life in perspective is my attitude.
The way I live is reflected in my life’s purpose. A special person, Marsha,
once told me that by our 10th birthday we have established 40% of our
paradigms, and are developing the other 60& through our attitude and
experiences. I feel that my life is still a great adventure of learning and
growth, and that every moment that I can take a breath my life is
constantly changing. The major element that is constant is my attitude,
and how I respond to my changing experiences. Every dream, every
vision, every personal experience, every feeling, cause me to change and
adapt to my environment and to the people around me. This has been a
continual process.
Growing into who we are is a simple, yet complex proposition. I
remember at age 55 thinking that my job would last until I would retire,
and WHAM! I lost that job. I didn’t stop growing, I adjusted my attitude
and my life, began to experience new feeling and emotions, and lifted my
head and moved forward. Some paradigms changed, some were deleted,
and many others adapted to the new situation. These changes were
possible because of the support and love I received during this crisis in
my life and because of my prior experiences of 55 years. Becoming an
entrepreneur was a fun and challenging decision that enhanced my life.
I do know that at 63 years of age, I would like the world to be less
changing and more constant. But, alas I feel that this is not going to
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happen. The speed of information, of change, of new technologies and
new ideas is amazing to me, but I do respond, just not as fast as I did in
my earlier years. My life is similar to the electronic age we live in. I
purchased, for example, a 46 inch LCD high definition television and
Blue Ray DVD/CD player, as our other electronics will become obsolete
in February 2009. Getting this new equipment was exciting, but with the
advancement of my 64th year, figuring out the new electronic schematic
directions seems to challenges my comfortable paradigms tha existed
just a few years earlier.
Who am I? I am adaptable, growth oriented, loving, sharing, and
wanted to learn new things and sharing them with all I meet. I still get
excited over simple things: a sunset, a butterfly, the ocean, a walk near a
lake. If I had to look back, I am still the same me that I experienced at
18, yet I am so different with 63 years of living experiences.
The benchmarks of growing into who I am are etched by unique
events in my life: 1962 a blood clot on my brain changed the direction of
my life; 1973 a divorce changed my view of relationships; 1978 my
marriage gave me hope anew; 1985 the birth of my first grandchild
opened my eyes to life’s potential; 1996 the completion of a 100 mile
running race gave me a new attitude towards life; 1998 my dad died and
I became aware of my mortality; 2003 I was at the birth of my fifth
grandson and this opened my eyes to the power of giving life; and this
December my marriage to Barbara celebrates 30 years
and I have great joy in this upcoming event.
These benchmarks have helped me grow into
the person that I am at this very moment typing this
story. The Lifescapes program through the Washoe
County Library System and my soul searching
through this year’s topic, “Growing into who we are,”
has opened my eyes to a life full of great joy, great
love, and unlimited potential.
“Growing into who we are,” has helped me
reflect on the immensely complicated, yet simple life
that I have lived.
John Gunther has lived in Reno for 24 years, and he and his wife Barbara
live in Verdi. He has worked as a probation officer, school teacher, and
sales and sales management. He currently has two entrepreneur home
based ventures and is a substitute teacher in Washoe County Schools. He
enjoys writing about his life experiences and loves to hike, fish, camp, and
explore the outdoors. He enjoys reading novels. He is an avid fisherman,
abalone rock picker, and loves camping in Yosemite National Park. He
enjoys Lifescapes as he always enjoyed writing.
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IT’S OKAY
Beverly Hall
Who am I, really?? I definitely feel that I am still growing into what
I am going to be – aggressive or reticent? Quiet or loud? Out going or
introverted? Loving or needy? It appears to me that I have all of these
traits, and more: angry, kind-hearted and sensitive, yet blunt spoken.
Liken it to a “Jack of all Trades,” a little bit of everything. I certainly am
not the fantasy I had in mind – a perfect specimen, with special talent,
beloved and admired by all. I’m just another person. So there it is – that’s
what I have grown up to be.
At this time of my life, age 81, it appears to me that I am teetering
on the edge of a cliff – closer to death but still living. Am I ready to take
the leap into oblivion? In contemplating that thought, in my imagination,
“I feel myself jump off the cliff – up into the sky. Heavy winds push
against me, my hair blows into a frenzy of activity. I look around and see
huge clouds, the light and dark areas of the sky. Pelicans are flying
nearby. I hear the sounds of storm-tossed waves crashing into the beach
below. The sun breaks through the dark clouds and I find myself
touching down on the edge of the sandy beach. Waves break against my
legs. The sand runs through my toes. The dark clouds come and go. Rain
falls, then stops. A feeling of wellness encompasses my being. I am
whole. I am alive.”
Though peace and tranquility exist in this life, dark clouds and
cold rainfall do occur. I feel that personal growth and the development of
self will only end when I do.
It’s okay ------
Beverly Hall – teacher, social worker, mother, sister. Always curious -always interested.
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A LIGHT IN THE MIND
Beverly Harvey
There was something missing in my life. I felt a restlessness, an
unease. Although I had many interests, I wanted to understand better
how the world worked, what made people act the ways they did and find
deeper meaning in my own life. Being a wife and mother was a big
responsibility and a rewarding experience, but what would happen when
the children were grown? I read The Feminine Mystique by Betty Friedan
and was inspired. When my youngest child began school, I decided it was
time for me to return to the university and begin preparing for my future.
That year, there was a push to help women who were returning to
school ease their way into the education system. I was apprehensive
about going back since I had been out of school for so many years. We
were required to take an aptitude test so that we could be placed in
appropriate courses. Most of that dealt with English comprehension, a
piece of cake! A woman I met, who would become a close friend, and I
scored in the 99th percentile, so we were allowed to take any courses we
chose. That semester I tried two courses, and to my delight I enjoyed
them thoroughly. From then on I took full course loads and graduated
with a Master’s degree in Clinical Psychology six years later.
College courses more than fulfilled my thirst for knowledge. I
sampled courses from many different disciplines. Some of my favorite
classes were Art History and Geology. It was so interesting to understand
how everything in the world was interconnected, and how art reflected
the culture it arose from. I tried more science courses: Anatomy, Biology,
and Chemistry. I dabbled in Afro-American History and Criminal Justice.
So many things to learn—I wanted to try it all! Alas, I had to concentrate
on my major in the end. Interesting, but I missed the variety of the lower
classes.
At the same time, I was active in the Women’s movement, which
was coming alive in the ‘70’s. We set up a Women’s Center on campus
and speaker’s bureaus to address concerns important to us. Later, I
would help facilitate a Women’s Convention for the Midwest states. For
the first time I saw busloads of women containing one man each who
would tell the women how to vote. Needless to say, we were not thrilled
with that idea. But the conference was a huge success despite that. It is
frustrating to me now that there still seems to be so much misogyny in
the United States after all these years.
I joined the Unitarian Church, where I found like-minded people to
interact with. Singing in the choir, taking part in the Women’s Alliance
and then acting as President, making wonderful new friends also
enriched my life.
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It was not easy to get
through school while running a
household with three children, but
it was one of the most exciting
times of my life. Someone has
said education is a light in the
mind, and I thoroughly agree.
Shortly after graduating from
graduate school, our family moved
to Germany for a year. When
touring through Germany,
Switzerland and Italy, we would
come upon landmarks I had
studied. Having knowledge of what
we were seeing enriched the
experience for us.
Bev and children in Switzerland
The world we know today is a very different place from the world I
knew as a child. My children are quite at ease traveling to different
countries. That is how they have grown up. My first plane trip came after
I was married with three children. They had limited contact with their
extended family because we moved back and forth across the country
when their father changed jobs. My early life was defined by a ten mile
radius in which my extended family lived. I wonder if their experiences
have been better, and how their world would have been different if they
had been closer to their family. Fortunately, they have been able to
become educated in their own ways, and I know their lives have been
enriched as a result.
Becoming educated was a turning point in my life. It led to a
greater degree of confidence and awareness. I was able to continue my
education and earn a doctorate in Clinical Hypnotherapy, luckily
financed by my mother after my father died. I am grateful to her for her
faith in me.
The opportunity to continue my studies in retirement is such a gift.
Lifelong learning is a continual pleasure, and I hope to enjoy it for many
years to come. I know I finally feel I have become my own person because
of my life experiences.
Beverly Harvey was born and reared in Buffalo, NY. She raised three
children while traveling far and wide with a husband who liked to change
jobs. Although an interesting journey, Bev prefers her life in Reno with her
second husband.
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OUR HOUSES
Flora K. Hill
We constantly grow into who we are becoming. I am a product of
all I have met (apologies to Tennyson). Some say we are what we eat. A
friend of mine – one of the smartest men I know – told me that our IQ
comes from our genes, so that is the most important factor in our lives.
I think our environment has a huge influence on us – especially
our families, or birth order, our homes, and our communities. Our family
– my husband and children and I – were destined to move frequently, to
challenging settings.
Early in my married life, my husband was transferred to Kalispell
in western Montana. With winter approaching, we found an isolated
ranch house, about five miles from town, near the gateway to Glacier
National Park, with beautiful views across the wintry fields. The only
radio station played cowboy music the whole day long. I remember
bringing in frozen stiff diapers and stacking them in the corner to thaw.
There was plenty of time for introspection and reading to my one and
three year olds.
Then along came the Korean War. Bob was recalled to the Army
Reserves but was sent to Germany. He had to go first; I followed on an
Army transport ship with my one and three year old sons and five year
old daughter. Heavy ship’s doors to the deck, with both boys in
harnesses, and the ship’s motion, instantly taught awareness of our
surroundings. The Army blew a golden opportunity to give us
unsophisticated young wives some information about living in post-war
Germany.
Our two story house in Munch had been requisitioned by the US
Army as part of Germany’s war reparations, nicely furnished in
Quartermaster Classic. Our neighbors had three families living in a
similar house, the inherent message being that we Americans deserved
and got the best. I did get to learn German. My daughter Betsy, a
“Munchner Kindl,” was born when her Dad was out in the field in
training.
Another exciting move took us to Japan. The usual procedure is -find some place to live while awaiting your turn for quarters. Japan is an
island nation, with damp weather, and a cool climate. We rented an
apartment in Yokohama upstairs over an Indian export company
(interesting fragrances), with portable heaters, oil or electric. The
children all remembered to watch their backsides after backing into the
electric heater in the cold bathroom. The children remember the joy of a
day off from school when there was a Communist demonstration in the
streets.
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We learned compassion for “Happy,” the shell-shocked bum who
lived in a bombed out area across the street in a cardboard box shelter.
Then we moved into quarters, this time a pleasant prefabricated house.
The house had been moved into Yamashita Park, literally a public park,
appropriated by the Army, right on the waterfront. Nothing but a wire
fence stood between us and Tokyo Bay, with the constant traffic of small
boats and huge freighters. We learned a fascination for the world before
our door.
An inter-theater transfer took us to Hawaii. We put red hats on the
kids so we could count them, friskily waiting on the dock to board the
military transport. The most memorable house we ever had was in the
old quarters at Schofield Barracks. The movie “From Here to Eternity”
showed the Barracks under fire December 7th, 1941, and the officer’s
housing where Deborah Kerr lived with her husband was just like our
house.
Hawaii was lovely, warm air, palm trees, trade winds and
bougainvillea flowers over the front of house. We had an avocado tree in
the yard and the neighbors had a banana tree. The house was u-shaped.
You entered a screened lanai and we never closed the floor-to-ceiling
windows, except during storms. On the right were the living room, dining
room and maid’s quarters – two small bedrooms and bath. (The older
boys were thrilled to each have their own room, away from Mom and
Dad.) The shower’s floor had holes (we had two kinds of termites and two
kinds of cockroaches), so we made the shower into a closet.
Left of the lanai were the master bedroom and bath. The long
screened hall led to two more bedrooms and bath, all painted General ID
White green, Mrs. White’s favorite color. The kids played outside
constantly, the beach was only a few miles away, and the Moms took
hula lessons at the Officer’s club. A fine place to be pregnant too -wearing only muumuus -- and the maternity ward was on the 7th floor of
Tripler Hospital, overlooking Pearl Harbor.
Hawaii was the treat, but a year or so later it was time to pay the
piper. Bob was off to an unaccompanied tour, a year in Korea. I lived in a
roomy two-story house in Portland, Oregon with my seven children. The
house was on the edge of a very nice residential area, but it was also a
block from restaurants and a commercial area. After we left, they tore
our nice house down to build a parking lot.
At last, to Reno, a final military assignment: Bob was appointed
Professor of Military Science at the University of Nevada, a place to plant
our roots. We lived for over 20 years in a two story home on Mayberry
Drive, so hospitable for family and friends. The fireplace, open to both
the living and family rooms with a comfortable raised hearth in both
rooms, was special.
Finally as we grew older and the kids left home, the house told us
to move again. This time we moved to a one-story convenient place in
Mogul with a close view of craggy mountains from the garden and deck.
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“Growing” implies upward and onward. Bob, my husband of 53
years, died in December of 1999. He missed the new Millennium but left
me with another chance for growth. (I tell other new widows that now
they get control of the TV remote, the car, the checkbook, and the
responsibilities.)
I find I am moving philosophically and religiously to the left. I work
at family relationships – there is always someone “Standin’ in the Need of
Prayer.” I have shrunk three inches, but I take my vitamins and water
exercise religiously. “The house I live in” is gravitationally challenged: I
can’t reach the top shelf, and my friends keep getting older. But I am still
growing into who I am becoming, and trying to figure out what is going
on in the world.
Flora Hill was born in Oregon and was an army wife for 22 years, married
to Robert Hill. They had seven children. She has a BA from University of
Oregon and an MA from UNR. She has been in Lifescapes for three years.
71
A DREAM COME TRUE
Jacqueline L. Hogan
Throughout my life, in good times and bad, the one constant has
been reading. Reading has been my refuge, my solace, my window to the
world.
I was a lonely child, an observer; watching and listening and
learning. One day, around age five or six, the most astonishing thought
struck me – other people were like me; they saw me through their eyes
the same way that I saw them through mine; they had words running
through their heads as I did. What a stunning revelation! Despite that
insight, I felt invisible. It might have been inherent in my nature, or it
might have been because my younger sister attracted so much attention
with her bright red, naturally curly hair and her beautiful singing voice,
while I was largely ignored.
We received little praise as children, not because our parents didn’t
love us, but my mother’s stern Germanic background and the beliefs of
the time about what was or wasn’t good for children meant that we were
often corrected, but praise might give us “big heads” and lead to the sin
of pride. However, Mother frequently read wonderful poems and stories
to us. I loved hearing about distant places and different people. I loved to
learn new things.
School was a far-off dream, but I was sure that it would be a
wonderful adventure. Would I ever be old enough to go to school? At six
years of age, I was finally old enough. On the first day of first grade
Mother and I walked hand-in-hand to this strange new world. The
excitement was almost more than I could bear. After a long walk down
our road to the school, we came to a large building and a room filled with
children. Mother introduced me to Miss Erdman, the teacher, and left
(devastated that I, her first-born, never looked back as she left and didn’t
even seem to be aware that she was going).
Every morning that year Margaret, the fourth-grader down the road,
took me to school. How proud I was to be walking with one of the “big”
girls. Being very shy, I didn’t mix well, and don’t remember having any
special friend that year. But I loved school; learning was very satisfying,
with something new to tell my parents each day.
How exciting to learn to read and write–first the alphabet with its
shapes and its sounds–then words–then sentences. Day-by-day I was
getting closer to my dream of being able to read. How I loved conquering
first each letter, then each word, and then each sentence.
One day Miss Erdman handed me a book with a cover picture of a
white kitten. I read the title: Puff, A Little White Kitten. Opening the book
and starting to read, each word was clear to me; first one page, then two,
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then three and on to the end. The realization hit me! I could read! I could
read! I could read!
Waiting for the last bell was almost unbearable. When it was time to
go I ran down the road, clutching the book. Reaching my yard, I raced
down the driveway, up the steps, and into the house. “Mother! Mother! I
can read! I can read!” With her proud eyes looking at me, I opened the
book and read to her.
From that day to this, I have never looked back. The world and its
people are endlessly fascinating. Reading has helped me to understand
that world, to be sensitive to people, and to appreciate their differences
and commonalities. Biographies and autobiographies of people of other
races, other cultures, other times, made me realize at an early age that
we all have the same basic needs and desires; we all have hopes and
dreams; we all have fears and insecurities. Reading has taught me that
there are interesting, thoughtful people everywhere, and that no race or
culture has a monopoly on intelligence, stupidity, kindness, cruelty, or
any other trait. The world in its many facets is a fascinating place, and
reading has helped make me aware of it.
Jackie
was
Hogan
born in
Wisconsin, moved to California at age 16, married at 19, had six children.
She now has 8 grandchildren, 7 great-grandchildren. Retired from State of
California, then earned BA from U.C. Moved to Reno last year to care for
brother.
73
MY GROWING UP YEARS AND MY GRANDPARENTS
Susan Hoover
As I think about the person I have grown into, I notice many
character traits that I seem to have inherited from my grandparents.
Lately I have been thinking a lot about the importance of grandparents’
role in the lives of children, probably because we have some new babies
in our family. I believe grandparents can be a strong influence during a
child’s growing up years. At least, that is certainly true in my case.
I knew all four of my grandparents well since we lived near them,
and each grandmother, in turn, lived with us at the end of her life.
My mother’s parents were my favorite because they were easygoing
and happy and always seemed to have plenty of time for me. As a matter
of fact, “Happy” was the name I called my grandfather who was a semiretired dentist. He read to me (and my brothers as they came along) and
took me (without my brothers) for long walks in the nearby park. He held
me up to the water fountain and pushed me on the swings and talked to
me and listened to me talk.
“Amo” was the name I gave to mom’s mother. I guess I couldn’t say
Grandma very clearly. With her I learned that even mundane tasks could
be fun. Together we made baking powder biscuits, had tea parties in the
back garden, hemmed tea towels using her pedal-operated Singer, and
chased soap bubbles. She was a writer of poems, books and newspaper
feature articles, whose observations about life and relationships she
described with her keen and delicious sense of humor.
Dad’s parents were wonderful people who were also bright and
hardworking but seemed to have more rules. They, too, had lots of time
to give me and things to teach me.
Grandpa read a lot and wrote a column for the weekly paper. He
was the epitome of “a gentleman and a scholar.” He read and re-read
serious literature and the classics with a dictionary close at hand. After
dinner he would play the pump organ or the piano and sing. Now, those
are talents I wish I had inherited.
Grandma was the organizer of the family. She ran an efficient and
frugal household. She was a leader in the local WCTU (Women’s
Christian Temperance Union) and taught Sunday school. I’ll never forget
the time I was stretched out on the living room floor reading the Sunday
comics and she scolded me for enjoying “Li’l Abner.” I’m not sure if it was
because of the skimpy outfits Daisy Mae wore or because it was the
Sabbath.
For better or worse, bits and pieces of all these character traits
have found their way into my own temperament and personality.
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Susan Hoover grew up on the family farm in central Illinois and has lived
many different places. She and her husband are grandparents of eight
and recently became great-grandparents; a role they both think is great
fun.
75
RENO IN NOVEMBER
Andrew Ivanov
My eyes are wide open to the picture window outside
Today in Reno we have LA sky
Who moved the mountains from my regular sight?
Everything looks gray in a shadowy sun's reflection
As it changes the features on the tree trunk's inflection
These dark facials on the trunk go by the sun traction
And every few minutes I see a new face
A bit uglier then one before in the same space
The warming trend this November is above the par
It's crazy but the frosty grass is still growing
It's December on the yard unthinkable for mowing
As the autumn leaves were rapidly flowing
And turned into bright yellow piles
Carpeting the ground with leafy tiles
The wind is blowing sternly splitting the bronze leaves
Moving them to and fro on the ground and off the eaves
It's a secondary shedding with dune's ripples effect
The mountains are there as I expect but it's hardly to detect
In the gray, misty foggy day just like in LA.
76
NON EST VIVERE SED VALERE VITA EST
(Life is not just being alive but being well)
Andrew Ivanov
My long life track at times makes little sense
Applying my thinking to it seems to be quite dense
Time fly fast with unending change of years
And brings to many lands more trouble, pain and tears
Time more awesome than a double edge dagger
Impersonal, insentient, callous in its insipid fleeting
It treats the same a rich man or beggar
There are two ways perceive it
One way reality is defined by a constant change
The world is in flames from the peoples' poli religious games
The law of these two opposites is bloody
Everything tends to become opposite and unsteady
And this is what effect, the change quite ready
History is history of violence and bloodshed
Time is struggle it can be said
Past is dust and future is mist
And the history underbelly has a peculiar twist
As we eat, excrete, sleep, get up and at times cry
All we have beyond that is to die.
77
SOCRATES & ME
Bette Jensen
I am assuming as I write this first sentence that you have heard of
the famous philosopher I plan to tell you about. Since there has been
more than one famous philosopher, perhaps I should give you the name
of the specific one I have in mind in this, my second sentence. Oh my,
now I am in the third sentence and the best I can do at this point is to
promise you that I will definitely give you his name in the fourth
sentence which will be next to the last sentence in this first paragraph.
Oh, I am sorry, I am now in the fifth sentence and I must move on to a
second paragraph.
For your belated information I have been referring to Socrates, the
famous Greek philosopher who lived during the 400 BC era; BC as in
before Christ. Hmmm, should I capitalize Christ if I am referring to
someone who wasn’t to be born for some 400 years? Oh, I will worry
about that later. Right now I need to say one more thing about Socrates
in this second paragraph. Did you know that he never wrote one word
about his philosophy? He didn’t. Yet he became famous for what he
didn’t write. Since I have more to say about him, I should start another
paragraph at this time rather than making this one too long.
As the story goes, Socrates was told by the Oracle at Delphi that he
should dedicate his life to the knowledge of self and the search for truth
because such was the ultimate goal of philosophy. Having received the
prophecy, he knew he had a worthwhile purpose in life, so lived and
worked and studied accordingly. Over time, as he was evolving in
mindfulness, he developed a following which led him into teaching. He
did that by taking his concepts and incorporating them into plays. Many
of his followers were children and it was his influence over them that
eventually got him into trouble.
As he became the children’s Pied Piper, he increasingly alarmed
parents by his out-of-the-mainstream influence on their prodigies. The
men involved, as was customary, seemed to have no problem using those
young boys for their own physical pleasure. Yet they rebelled against the
abstract mindfulness of Socrates’ teachings. So their solution was to
brand him as a “kook” and sentence him to death for “kookiness.”
Now, it can be said that Socrates had many followers who would
have rescued him by transporting him to other lands, but he chose to
stay where he was and die. His rationale was that after a lifetime of
searching for truth and understanding of self, he had learned absolutely
nothing, so why live on? With that attitude, he chose to comply with his
death sentence by graciously sipping hemlock until he was no more.
Fortunately, Socrates was eventually immortalized by his student Plato,
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who wrote extensively about him and the methods he used to teach his
philosophy.
As I concoct this consolidated saga on the life of Socrates and look
at the theme for this semester’s project, namely: Write about “Growing
into Who We Are,” I see it as an exercise in futility. My rationale is that if
Socrates knew nothing about himself after a lifetime of study on
“Knowing Thyself,” how can I come up with anything of merit in an
allowable 700 or so words, two typed pages, single spaced, 12 point
Bookman Old Style print? I ask you. And I have another concern.
Why would I want to let my classmates, whom I’ve known only
three years, know more about me than either my parents or my siblings
knew? I wouldn’t. I would rather see them guess, my classmates, that is.
They might be wrong. If they are right, I will deal with that at another
time. At this time, I feel that I have nothing more to say. That means this
is the end of my semester’s work, in this the sixth sentence of the
seventh and last paragraph.
Bette Jensen was born in Illinois, is a veteran of World War II, and has
lived in Reno since 1978. She is quite fond of philosophers, especially
Socrates.
79
A CHILD OF THE UNIVERSE
Sue Kennedy
I lay on my back in the chill night air, clutching my thin jacket
around me. The grass was soft but already damp with evening
condensation. There were shuffling noises and grunts of people
positioning themselves around me. But very soon an awesome silence
descended on our hilltop perch, and we, as one, were captivated by the
magnificent view above us – the moon, the stars, the planets, the Milky
Way…
It was as though I was seeing this sight for the very first time,
though this was the sky I lived under day and night. This night I was
struck by the sheer number of heavenly objects. All this was the result of
what scientists call the Big Bang. The way all this cosmic dust came
together to form these stars and planets and comets, these planetary
systems and galaxies in this ever expanding universe left us all voiceless,
awed, and reverent. I was not alone in being struck dumb.
How fortunate I feel today that I responded to the invitation to
attend a three-day retreat at Santa Sabina, a center in San Rafael,
California. I was promised interesting talks by Brian Swimme, a Bay Area
cosmologist and professor: a walk through eons of time, how life evolved
on earth, and the role of human consciousness in the scheme of things.
Maybe even more attractive was the promise of delicious wholesome food,
days filled with both fascinating talks and the quiet times to absorb
them, and a three-day time out from my hectic life. I needed the stillness
to seep into my very soul, displacing the turmoil which had accompanied
me to this very special place. Little did I know that this weekend would
change the entire focus of my life!
Now it is a nightly ritual to
look up into the sky and sight
familiar planets and constellations.
The longer I stare the more I see
twinkling above me. I am always
brought back to the beginnings of
time when I do. I am always
reminded of the miraculous way
cosmic energy and stardust have
evolved over time into such
complex and intricate geosystems
filled with amazing diversity and
interconnectedness.
I no longer feel detached from all I see around me. Now I
understand how profoundly I am linked to everything I see and
everything I cannot see. I could not exist without rain and rivers, the sun
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and seasonal cycles. Animals and plants, in nourishing me, literally
become me, with the help of microbes in my gut which aid digestion.
Insects are tiny essential agents of pollinization and decomposition. The
rocks break down, with help from wind and weather, supplying the soil
with minerals, which are absorbed by plants which are in turn eaten by
animals. What trees exhale I inhale. What I exhale they inhale. What
animals excrete becomes fertilizer to essential food crops. We elements of
creation are in a magnificent symbiotic dance, taking and giving
endlessly, with death and rebirth part of the divine plan.
This knowing and understanding of my being a child of the cosmos
has profoundly affected the way I live. Understanding the precious role of
all things makes me enthusiastic about recycling, careful about wasteful
buying and discarding, conscious of the importance of nutritious natural
food. I am what I eat, literally.
I am very grateful for Brian’s view of the cosmos and the positive
impact it has had on helping me to live consciously and responsibly. I am
sharing his message with others through presentations of his video series
to the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute. I think a world in which all
humans understand their connectedness and reliance on the magnificent
elements of the cosmos would be a different and better world. Living in a
sustainable manner would reduce the negative impact of the human
presence on our planet. Respecting all other creations, macroscopic and
microscopic, as essential parts of our ecosystem, and taking time to
understand their place in the scheme of things would foster harmony
with our environment and reduce the loss of species on Earth which
have taken eons to evolve. Appreciating diversity would reduce tensions
between groups who hold different personal, spiritual, and political
beliefs.
I would invite you to find a still clear night, some quiet time, and a
patch of grass to lie on. Look up at the universe and ponder what you see
and how each heavenly body got there. Ponder also how you got here.
Stay there long enough to feel that shift in you, that recognition that you
are a child of the cosmos. You are made up of the very stuff of the
universe. If your experience is like mine, that recognition will lead you to
interesting places and change the way you view things, giving you
purpose for moving forward consciously.
Sue Kennedy and her husband moved to Reno from Placerville, California,
four years ago. In addition to being a member of the Lifescapes class at
OLLI, she facilitates a group that explores metaphysical concepts.
81
GOLDEN SILENCE
Richard S. Knapp
Is silence really golden? I certainly think so when all I hear is
endless babble on TV and other media communications, or what the
younger generations call music. What in the world do those people with
cell phone ears talk about all the time? I have always loved peace and
quiet, maybe because I was born in the peace and quiet of the early
predawn hours. But, am I too quiet?
I have often been asked why I didn’t say more in discussions and
conversations. Am I too private with my opinions, or do I have nothing to
add to the conversation? It’s true that sometimes I don’t understand the
subject being discussed, so I keep my mouth shut rather than opening it
and showing my ignorance. There are times when whatever I have to offer
has already been said and I see no reason to repeat it. On some topics I
may have “inside” information which I am not free to disclose, and some
topics I just don’t want to discuss. These are all valid reasons to be quiet.
But why am I this way? Everybody is influenced in who they are, or
become, by both hereditary genes and the environment in which they live
or have lived.
There is one environmental factor created by my parents that I
believe contributes greatly to my quiet, or silence, in discussions and
conversations. “Kids are to be seen and not heard!” No, I did not grow up
in that type of environment. I was allowed to be seen and heard. But I
was continually cautioned to be very careful in what I did say. My father,
as the Superintendent of Schools, was very highly respected in our
community, and was frequently approached by teachers and other school
employees, as well as community business leaders and even a pastor, to
seek my father’s advice and council regarding their professional and or
personal problems. Any of these consultations were held in our home, so
I knew who was seeking advice, and sometimes I could hear portions of
these discussions so that I also knew the nature or reason for the
consultation. My mother was also highly regarded in our community and
she would also be consulted at times, either privately or jointly with my
father. After these joint consultations my parents would sometimes
discuss the matter between themselves, often where I could hear.
Therefore, I was in possession of many “secrets”. Obviously I had to be
very careful and discrete in what and or where I spoke to keep myself,
not to mention my parents, out of trouble. I never let anything
inappropriate “slip out”. I believe that caution still continues to this day.
I like to learn new things and be exposed to new ideas, and have
discovered that when I talk I don’t learn anything new. When I listen I
am often exposed to new ideas and learn new things. Listening also helps
me understand other persons better as I learn of their beliefs and
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standards and reasons for their beliefs and positions on various issues. I
am inclined to believe that the old adage still applies that says that God
intended us to listen twice as much as we speak because his gave us two
ears and only one mouth.
Richard S. Knapp is an architect, now retired, who was born in Pomona,
California in 1933, and spent the next twenty-five years growing up and
living in Lancaster on the high desert approximately sixty miles north of
Los Angeles. After graduating from U.C. Berkeley, he worked briefly at
Edwards Air Force Base as a flight test engineer and data reduction
coordinator before starting his architectural career in Los Angeles. In 1972
he and his family moved to Reno to further his architectural career. After
working for two different firms in Reno, he then was employed by the
State of Nevada as a Project Architect and Chief of Design for nearly
sixteen years before retiring in 2000. He now lives in Reno with his wife of
50 years, Barbara, and their dog and cat. They have two children and four
grandchildren, all of whom also live in Reno.
83
HOW I BECAME AN ATHLETE
Ina Krapp
Randomly strewn across a weedy plot, old Soviet MIGs and
battered T-28 tanks provided play ground equipment for a small group of
children. Bob and I watched as the youngster climbed, slid and jumped
on the dilapidated relics. Amplifiers on street corners blared
announcements that we could not understand.
Two days earlier we had cycled from Jelenis Gora, Poland into
Harrachov, Czechoslovakia. Harrachov’s opulence startled us, as we
passed a small supermarket, a restaurant with clean tablecloths and a
busy hotel. Bob was feeling sick, but without fever or pain, we considered
the illness more of an inconvenience than a problem. Nonetheless,
awareness of our seven day travel visa pressed on our minds. My journal
entry dated August 22, 1989 included “Reflections on Bob being Ill”.
Am I bored as I sit and stare idly?
Do I itch, twitch and bitch as I wait?
Will Bob start to feel better quickly?
Or will slow atrophy be my fate?
.
Well, we started in far San Francisco
And have made it to dead Harrokov
We are here at the Hotel Hubertus
Where time creeps like a slow moving sloth.
So I watch poor ol’ Bob snore and slumber
And I will that his health must improve
For I fear if he doesn’t get better
That I’ll soon be unable to move.
Will tomorrow bring sunshine and action?
Will we pedal away with great zest?
Oh, I hope with the hope of a zealot.
That tonight will complete Bob’s long rest.
Bob has said (and agrees I may quote him)
That he’d rather be dead than be ill.
For if he were dead there’d be silence.
It’d be one way to make me keep still.
Bob did get better, so we pedaled determinedly to Kolin, a small
town strategically located 40 miles from Prague. Our plan was to leave
the tandem at a hotel and take the local train into Prague, a city reputed
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to be the jewel of all European capitals. Unfortunately, the one hotel in
Kolin was filled.
“Why don’t you go to the Ice Hockey Stadium?” the English
speaking clerk suggested. “They have room there for skaters. You’re
athletes. They’ll take you in.”
I almost looked around to see whom he was talking about. An
athlete? The girl who couldn’t turn a somersault; the woman who didn’t
ride a bicycle until she was forty-something? The same person who
struggled with physical education all through high school and college? I
reveled in my new found status. An athlete!
We decided to give the stadium a try. We cycled the short distance
to an imposing cement block two story building. Late afternoon,
adolescents lounged outside on some scraggly grass and, when we
stopped, they swarmed around us indoors. Inside, a huge rink
dominated the first floor.
As hoped, the manager offered us a room. However, he was
adamant that the tandem remain outside. We insisted the tandem must
be stabled with us. The manager was unmoved. His female assistant
neared us and whispered, “Wait.”
So we did. The children poked and prodded everything on the tandem.
We finally covered it with the rain fly from our tent. We joined the twenty
or so young skaters for dinner in the cafeteria, and afterwards they
showed up us their classrooms. When the manager left the front desk for
his dinner, our new friend winked and nodded toward the stairs. Bob
and I heaved the tandem up the steps and into our room.
The next day we visited
miraculous, unforgettable
Prague.
Our remaining days in
Czechoslovakia passed quickly.
When we cycled into
Heidenreichstein, Austria, we
left a world reminiscent of an
old black and white movie and
entered brilliant Technicolor.
Something else had changed.
Now I was an athlete.
After Bob and I retired from our jobs, I with De Anza Community College
and Bob from Lockheed, we celebrated with a three year round-the-world
cycling trip. From our home in Cupertino, California we pedaled our
tandem across the United Stated and then flew to Europe. Some of our
most memorable experiences occurred in the Soviet satellite countries. This
is one of those stories.
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NATURE OR NURTURE
…they did everything right
Sherl Landers-Thorman
In high school I first learned about Mendel and his peas, genes,
and heredity. In college I was exposed to the ages old argument re are we
controlled by our genes or by the happenings of our lives? Over the years
and still yet I see in myself traits and beliefs of members of my family
even though it has been years or beyond memory since I have been
exposed to their actions and or beliefs.
I was blessed with robust good health and the care my mother and
aunts took in raising me certainly contributed to my longevity. In
addition I was surrounded by family members that loved me, thought I
was cute and smart, praised and encouraged me and told me I could do
most anything I wanted to do except be rude, and/or sassy. I had to
adhere to the mores of the day and social graces practiced by well bred
young southern ladies. My slightly older cousins and neighborhood
playmates loomed large, teaching me to read, sing and perform in front of
an audience. I don’t think my Mama ever knew but two of my young
uncles provided an exception to the expectations for proper young ladies.
When I was three, Uncle Bill & Uncle Jack regularly took me with them
to the local speakeasy. They put me on the counter and bet others in the
bar a drink that I could read the newspaper. When someone took the bet
they handed me the daily newspaper and pointed out an article for me to
read. I could and I did knowing my reward would be choosing my own
pickled pig’s foot or pink, hard boiled, pickled egg right out of the jar.
With kindergarten, school became my favorite pastime and
influence. When I tried straying from the tried and true, I was quickly
brought back to my reality by Mama, Aunt Opal, Aunt Lily, or, Aunt
Willie who were every day parts of my life until I was a teen ager. The
visible genetic signs showed I physically resembled my father’s family
who had olive skin and dark eyes as compared to my mother’s family
who mostly had very fair skin and light eyes. I remember my Aunt Willy’s
hands because she taught me to crochet and I spent many hours with
her hands guiding mine and watching the flash of her silver crochet
hook. When I look at my hands now, I see my Aunt Willy’s.
A high school English teacher, Ms. Boorey, gave me special
attention and encouraged me to continue my education after high school.
At fifteen with the aid of a forged work permit, I went to work at the Los
Angeles County Hospital where I graphically learned many lessons of life
from the nurses, doctors and patients. My mother insisted that after I
graduated from high school I get a job and help at home. Determined to
go to college, I planned to join the service, and then go to school. Mama
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refused to sign for the service so I got married to get out from under her
thumb and that whole chapter of my life is documented elsewhere. About
the time my children were in elementary school my old yearning for more
school returned but I thought there was no way. I got enough education
at the local community college to get an office job and went to work for
the Tustin School District. I attended a workshop for school office
employees and met Carol. She told of working, going to college, raising
two children and taking care of a sick husband. All I had to do was work
and keep house and raise two kids and that seemed easy by comparison.
It took a number of years, but I got my degree and completed the class
work for a Masters.
Opportunities for advancement at work occurred. Bella Abzug and
Gloria Steinem launched the women’s movement and in spite of some
opposition, I dared to tread where women had not previously stepped in
the education world and continued to advance. In that working life the
most influential person was my mentor Jeane. She hired me for my first
job in education, set me on a successful career path and encouraged and
supported me until the end of her days.
I have been described by others as a smart woman, with a slightly
warped sense of humor that enjoys life tremendously. I suspect my
strong will is a mixture from the women who taught and nurtured me. It
seems to me that, excluding a blip on a gene, innate intelligence comes
from nature, but what you do with it, comes from nurture. I am grateful
to all those generations of the past that contributed to my gene pool and
most grateful to Mama, Aunt Opal, Aunt Lily, and Aunt Willy, and Jeane.
I know they did everything right.
Sherl Landers-Thorman is a transplanted Californian that has made
Lifescapes her passion. She continues to participate and write and plans
to never finish.
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MAMMA MIA BECOMES A DANCIN’ QUEEN
Lynn Mahannah
It all started this past summer when my girlfriend took me to see
the movie “Momma Mia” on my birthday in July. My life changed that
day and I began to become more of who I really am! A wild and zany
woman who loves to be silly and joy filled! I was so enthused with the
marvelous dancing and singing -- that an old broad like Meryl Streep (in
her 60’s) could move her body so gracefully to the glorious ABBA music
of the 70’s! By the time the movie ended, my body and soul were itching
to dance down the theater aisle and get the audience up and moving! So
that’s exactly what we did at the end while the credits were still running!
What fun! Somehow the music touched something deep within and my
soul resonated with the sound, saying: “It’s time to dance again, be silly,
have fun and find love again.” (After losing my husband of 45 years last
February, 2007 to colon cancer.)
And that’s exactly what happened! I called several of my funloving, zany gal-pal-friends, who had also seen the movie, and invited
them to my home in early August for a Momma Mia Dance & Sleepover
Party! What a glorious night of conversation, delicious food, dress-up (in
clothes we brought to share), and cultural differences explored along
with much laughter and silliness.
From this two-day event
sprang the idea to organize
us OLLI Babes (Older
Ladies Living Indiscreetly)
into the “Dancin’ Queens”
(DQ’s) from the movie and
do a performance at my
annual Halloween Howl
Party! And this we did with
flare and finality, laughing
all the time! I found,
through my next door
neighbor, an entertainer
who works at the Roxy Bar
Lynn, The Dancin’ Queen
in the Eldorado Casino
who was willing to
choreograph a simple dance routine to the ABBA music from the Momma
Mia movie! What a blast from the past for us to learn these dance steps,
design suitably outrageous costumes and best of all, create our own DQ
crowns. The process was amazing to see eight women transform
themselves from self-respecting, proper ladies into outrageously funny,
gloriously exuberant DQs willing to “strut their stuff.” And “strut our
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stuff” we certainly did with gusto, flair and a sense of abandon. What a
performance! Many of the party-goers agreed we were the “hit” of the
night even outdoing the Marilyn Monroe impersonation! We did have a
blast and I do believe we broke the “fun meter” that evening! We proved
“It’s Never Too Late to Have a Happy Childhood!” And that “Happiness is
an Inside Job!” What’s next, I wonder!
And what’s next turned out to be my falling in love with a man I
met this past summer. Unfortunately, he falls into the realm of
“forbidden fruit/unrequited love” because he’s married and committed to
his wife of seven years! However, it’s not stopped me from having a most
rich and wildly romantic fantasy life filled with what the French call “Joie
de Vivre!” Joy for life or joy in living! I appreciate this opportunity to
have fallen in love again and to know this person has given me a
precious gift to know myself in a new light and to look to new adventures
in the future. As a result of taking these chances in becoming more of
who I am and will be as I continue this process of exploration, I look
forward to doing more fun-centered activities and discovering more joy in
my life! And more will follow as I’ve decided to teach a class at OLLI this
spring term called “It’s Never Too Late To Have a Happy Childhood!” with
the hopes that the class participants will rediscover the fun-loving “Child
Within” that once brought more joy, fun and play to their lives and can,
again, in their adult years. Life’s short, so it’s best to eat desserts first to
avoid being stressed (desserts spelled backwards)! I heard the Ladies on
the Titanic, who went without dessert, missed out and floated away!
Lynn Mahannah was born on the East Coast, raised in California, and
moved with her husband to Nevada in 1965. Lynn worked as a family
therapist for over 25 years. She recently retired and enjoys spending time
with grandson Zakary and dancing!!!
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IF I’D HAVE KNOWN…..
Charlene Manatt
During my 30 plus years as a Secretary with the Washoe County
School District I worked for several years in the Substitute Office for
teachers. One day an older gentleman came into the office to apply for a
Substitute position and in chatting with him about family, he said, “If I’d
have known how much fun it was to have grandchildren, I’d have had
them FIRST!”
My sentiments exactly about retirement! It is wonderful! I have
been retired for just a little over a year now and find it very relaxing, fun
and well deserved after a career of working for fifty-two plus years.
Putting aside the state of our Nation’s economy, the main thing I
have discovered is “not to hurry!” While I’m shopping for groceries,
stopping at McDonald’s for a burger and fries, waiting in line at the
bank, etc., I hear so often “sorry you had to wait so long” or “sorry for the
delay.” I say now with conviction, ‘That’s ok, I’m retired and have all the
time in the world; I do not hurry these days!”
We all know that raising a family, working full time, carrying out
the many activities our families are involved in is a full time job and
stressful many times. We use the word “hurry” probably dozens of times
during a 24hr. period, “…hurry or you will be late for school…”, “…hurry
or you are going to miss your bus…”; “…hurry home so we won’t be late
for the boys’ football practice.”
I rarely HURRY these
days, unless there is an
important appointment, i.e.
doctor’s visit, dental, plane
to catch, etc. It’s lovely! I
have enjoyed my time at
home more than I ever
anticipated. Even though I
am going through some
health issues at the present
time and am not allowed to
drive, my time at home with
my animals, lunch with
friends and family and not having to “…hurry to get back to work on my
hour’s lunchtime!” is precious to me.
I have been fortunate up to this point to enjoy relatively good heath
and look forward to many years of taking it easy; doing some of the many
activities that were to begin with retirement and just enjoying life and
family.
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TAKING PRIDE IN ONESELF
Betty Lou Marquardt
As a child I was told, often, that I should not show pride, brag or
boast of things that I had done. It wasn’t proper. It was all right if
someone else acknowledged the effort, but not me. As an adult amid
changing mores, I learned being proud of my endeavors was not only all
right it was necessary; because if I was not proud of a job well done, then
I hadn’t worked hard enough from the beginning. With the lesson
learned, let me relate some of the things that I am most proud of in my
lifetime.
From the time I married and started raising my family, I spent a
great deal of time contributing to my neighborhood, my children’s school
activities, the political system and supporting my husband in his efforts.
During World War II there were many things that had to be done by the
ones that stayed home. This was long before Homeland Security ever
existed. There was no man in the house and three little children so I was
responsible to cover all of the bases. There was a “victory garden” to be
tended to help supplement our household along with the food stamps,
sugar stamps, rationing stamps and shoe stamps. Being a “block
mother” meant that my house was designated as a safe place for children
if there was an air raid. The need for metals was important so I saved tin
foil from the cigarette packages and rolled it into balls. With my friend
Violet and her truck we drove around the neighborhoods collecting scrap
metal from yards and empty lots. This was all turned into the collection
station for the war effort. Nothing was to be wasted.
Another job I did was to collect for charities by going door to door.
No matter what the cause – whether it was the Red Cross, P.T.A., Camp
Fire Girls – I volunteered. That was fun because I got to know my
neighbors really well.
The elementary school gave me lots of opportunities to have fun
and I helped the P.T.A. with many fundraisers. We had a big Country
Fair with entertainment, food, games and good fellowship while raising
money for the school. Always this was done with the support of the
principal, teachers and parents. We had a choral ensemble that
presented a fashion show with fashions designed and made by the
models and, of course, music. Again, to make money for the school.
Graduation parties for both Junior and Senior High School were a real
challenge. The best time, for me, was being able to go and chaperone
while being invisible to the kids. I enjoyed doing this and was proud I
did.
One of the main things I have done all my adult life has been to
participate in the political process, whether it is by supporting my party’s
candidates or working at the polling places. I served as a registrar of
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voters and moderated candidate forums before elections. As a pilot of a
private airplane, my husband Edward became captain of the Alameda
Sheriff’s Air Squadron and I helped him do things for the squadron. As a
member of the Aircraft Owners and Pilots Association, I served as
secretary, hostess, party planner and doughnut server. I helped organize
a class to teach non-fliers, sitting in the right-hand seat, what to do in
case of an emergency if the pilot could not function.
When we retired to Clearlake Highland, CA there was only one
incorporated city, the county seat 25 miles away. A handful of people
started to lobby to incorporate our area so we might get our fair share of
the tax dollars we paid. We needed more police protection, money for
streets and other needs our share of the taxes should be covering. I
joined the group, helped to raise money, became a spokesman to sell the
idea -- we won by 53 votes. On July 1980 Clearlake, CA, became the
second incorporated city and I was the mistress of ceremonies.
Probably my most shining hour lasted for almost 25 years. That
was the length of time it took to bring three children into this world and
nurture them, teach them, enjoy them and set them free to go into a
world of their own.
June 10, 1941. I was a very young bride of barely nine months
when, to everybody’s surprise – including the doctor – I delivered twin
babies, Michael and Kathleen. Three years and one month later Marlene
arrived into the family. Their father was an electrician and worked hard
at his trade for forty years to provide a home and the wherewithal so I
could be in the home doing what mothers were supposed to do. My
resume was short on training and long on job description. My jobs were:
cooking, sewing, transportation, nursing, mediator, psychologist, party
planner, veterinarian, plus many others, but the main one was to teach
the children. My mother’s advice when they were born was “It is your job
to raise them, teach them and then send them out to succeed in life.” I
tried with only the skills that I had learned growing up in a wonderful
family. I had some pretty good genes from which to draw the necessities
of parenting. There was no Dr. Spock or family nearby to rely on but I
had something better! Wonderful neighbors who were older with lots of
collective experience guided me when the job got tough.
Now all three of my children are over 60 and are experiencing the
pleasure of raising their own children. Both Michael and Marlene have
their own families plus “grands,” and Kathy has guided and influenced
hundreds of children as a teacher, principal and Campfire Leader.
I am proud that I will always be able to brag, boast and extol the virtues
of my greatest accomplishment: The Family.
Betty Lou Marquardt has three very supportive children and beaucoup
grand, great grand, and great great grandchildren. She has been in the
OLLI Lifescapes class for four years, and wrote a book about her mother in
the class three years ago.
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A TRIP TO THE TOP
Kathryn McKee
Cloudless, sunny skies promised a hot climb to our destination –
French Lake in the High Sierras – that August morning. I eyed that long,
steep, dusty climb to where the promise of green, shady conifer trees
began. We laced up our boots, strapped our packs on our backs, and
began our hike. As we climbed upward, that dry, brown trail became
longer and longer due to the numerous switchbacks that were designed
to ease the agonies of that steep path. Frequent stops for conversation
and observations of our “stroll,” whilst we wiped our perspiring bodies
and marveled at how long that trail had become!
We finally entered that verdant, welcome shade wiping the sweat
from our brows. We snacked on GORP (good old raisins and peanuts)
and sipped from our canteens as we rested on smooth, glacial-polished
boulders, some as large as a house. Onward we went, past sun-dappled
streams and a vast array of wild flowers in a moist meadow area. We had
lunch in the last of the cool spots. “Look at all those great camping spots
over by Honeymoon Lake!” I hopefully called out. To no avail. He
countered with “Onward and upward to our planned goal of French
Lake.” I knew that was the summit of the mountain before me.
As we stepped from the cooling forest into a huge brown meadow,
we noticed a few puffy clouds lazily rolling along in that ultra blue sky.
After a while, we met a group of hikers at the trail signs in the middle of
the meadow. They were going down as we were going up and said we
were the first humans they had seen all day. After exchanging a few
pleasantries, they went right and we went left . . . and UP!
Soon we noticed a few more clouds joining the puffy pillows. The
sky wasn’t quite as blue and the clouds now had a gray cast to them.
The trail was good, even though the weather was not so promising as we
saw a flicker of lightning in the distance which was followed by a
grumble of thunder. The incentive of a freshly caught trout dinner urged
us up that last steep climb.
The lake was a dreadful disappointment. Not a lovely blue,
reflected from the sky, but a small gray-brown, medium-sized puddle.
There were a few stunted conifer trees and lots of rocks of all sizes. No
time to be concerned about the disappointing lake as the clouds were
now congealed into a dark gray, the lightning flashes were closer and the
thunder now a heavy growl.
A quick survey showed the best spot for our campsite was a fairly
flat area with few rocks to move and a scrawny pine tree with two green
branches and weathered brown stubs of limbs where we could hang our
packs. We hurriedly pitched our little, blue nylon two-man tent and
stuffed in the sleeping bags and air mattresses. Bob grabbed the
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canteens and flashlights while I clutched the cheese, crackers and dried
fruit. We scurried into our shelter just as the first big raindrops hit the
tent – SPLAT, SPLAT, SPLAT!
Then the deluge really began!!! What can you do in the midst of a
ferocious thunderstorm when you’re ten miles from the trailhead?? You
snuggle into your sleeping bag, eat your sparse supper, and pray the
blue nylon keeps the rain out and the lightning strikes aren’t too close!
So we snuggled in our sleeping bags and listened to the pelting rain,
watched the lightning bolts illuminate our tent and heard the
reverberating and simultaneous booms of thunder. The ferocity of the
storm slowly subsided and as the threatening sights and sounds moved
away, we both fell soundly asleep.
We awoke several hours later to silence – blessed silence – and
darkness. We slipped into our boots and jackets, unzipped our tent, and
crawled out to find a winter wonderland in August. While we had slept,
five inches of snow had fallen and a magnificent full moon was beaming
down upon us. The entire ground was blanketed in that unexpected
snowfall. The rocks, grasses, bushes and stubby trees were all draped in
snow. The glowing monstrous moon sent beams that were creating a
million sparkles of light on the acres of snow surrounding us. It was
truly awesome.
I loved my husband even more for gently insisting we reach the
summit. Our timing was perfect.
I loved the moon’s magic aura and the total, snowy silence that
enveloped us.
I loved being one of only two people on earth privileged to be in the
midst of such breathtaking beauty.
I loved Mother Nature’s spectacular production for my fiftieth
birthday.
Kathryn McKee and husband Bob were both in education: he taught
Engineering at UNR and she taught 1st grade for Washoe County in the
days when teachers were free in summers. They spent their summers
fishing, camping and backpacking in Nevada and throughout the high
Sierras. Reno is the perfect home base for their outdoor adventures.
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THE DEAF MAN
William Metscher
Growing up in Tonopah in the 1940’s and 1950’s exposed me to a
variety of different “characters.” One was William Hyde. He lived about a
block north of us and my guess is that if you ran into him, you wouldn’t
have considered him any different from the numerous other old timers
that lived around town. Most were miners that were “burned out” from
years of backbreaking work and existed on small pensions living under
what today would be considered poverty conditions. Hyde was a little
different, though. He was deaf.
My first recollections of him date back to around 1948 when I
knew of him only as an “old man that lived down the street.” There were
two houses on the property where he resided, both rentals belonging to
Wally Bird. One was on Central Street and the other faced Erie Main
Street. He was living in the cabin on Central Street and my earliest
memory of him was when one of the friends we walked to school with
decided to throw a rock on the roof of his house. He missed and the rock
went through a window. Of course we didn’t stick around to see what
happened but after school a board had been nailed over the window and
he was standing near the house with a large bandage on his head. I don’t
know if it was a result of the rock or not, but we assumed it was and for
quite a while we took the “long way around” in order to avoid him.
Sometime after this incident, he moved into the house on Erie Main
Street.
His “new” house, like the old one, was what would be considered a
“shack” today, but was typical of most miner’s cabins. There was no hot
water, just a cold water tap at the kitchen sink. The house was heated
with the kitchen wood stove and his light came from kerosene lamps.
The bathroom was an outhouse in the yard.
The shortcut we took to walk downtown crossed the property near
the back of his house and in the summer he spent most of the day sitting
in the sun in a chair near the back door. We didn’t know him and
considered him “different” so when we took the path we would run by his
place if he happened to be outside. We eventually learned he was deaf
and communicated by using an old ledger to write notes between himself
and his visitor. It was probably around 1951 that we decided to try to
“talk” to him. At first we were leery but soon figured out he was okay. In
addition to being deaf, he didn’t talk, just nodded his head “yes” or “no”
so it took a bit of effort to become comfortable with him. Thinking back to
the “rock” incident, this is probably why he didn’t confront us about it at
the time. Anyway, the better we (my brother Philip and I) got to know him
the more we liked him and before long we became very fond of him. He
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was short, probably about 5’ 5”, balding, with a great smile, and was
what we considered old.
Through “conversations” we learned he was a veteran and lived on
a small military retirement, although I never thought to ask what war he
fought in. Considering his age, it was most likely the Spanish-American
War.
His living conditions were primitive. The house was lousy with flies
in the summer because the outhouse was nearby. He kept the place
clean, but he threw the dishwashing water out the back door and that
didn’t help matters. In the summer when I needed flies to feed my pet
lizard, his place was my source. Whenever mom was baking we made
sure there was something for him, especially on holidays. In the winter
the only way to take things to him was to open his door and walk in -- he
couldn’t hear a knock -- but he never seemed surprised. I don’t know if
he bathed regularly but, at least to us, he never seemed dirty and his
clothes were worn but clean. His place did have what as kids we
considered the “old people’s” smell that was typical of many of the old
men that lived alone.
Then in the fall of 1955 he disappeared. Mr. Bird told mom that,
with winter coming on, he was moved to the old folks section of the
county hospital and he would be back in the spring but we knew better.
It seemed that once a person was taken to the “County Poggy” as it was
known, that was the end of them; thus he faded from our world.
So what’s the point of this story? Writing it has made me feel good.
At least now, as short as it is, there are a few more lines to augment his
brief newspaper obituary and a name on a death certificate languishing
in a dusty file someplace. The man we knew fondly as “the deaf man”
was an important figure in our lives and, although I didn’t realize it until
many years later, he taught me a lesson about understanding people
with disabilities that has followed me through life.
William Metscher was born and raised in Tonopah, NV. He directed
Tonopah’s Central Nevada Museum and the president of the Central
Nevada Historical Society for 25 years, both volunteer positions. He and
wife Judy moved to Reno shortly after he retired.
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AN IMPORTANT PERSON
Maxine Milabar
Where to begin? If I was only 10 years old it would be a cinch to
know why I am the way I am but I have had many years of varying
experiences that define me and now I need to narrow this story down to
one or two topics.
I think my grandmother and mother were very influential in
establishing a feeling of being independent and not relying on others for
happiness, help, or fulfillment, but instilled the thought in me that "I
could do it." Both of these women raised their families by themselves and
growing up in this independent atmosphere showed me that life can be
good and it wasn't necessary to have a "man" in my life to be happy. This
proved to be true when a 27-year marriage ended in divorce and I struck
out on my own. My children were raised and it was time for my life to
begin.
After the sale of our home and the payment of all debts, I moved to
Sacramento with $12,500 to sustain me while I attended the Argonaut
School of Court Reporting.
On my first day at school I smiled at another woman and we ended
up having lunch together. That was the beginning of my 34-year
friendship — which is still going strong — with Kay. We had a lot in
common being just divorced and striking out on our own. After spending
two years in school it was time to take the CSR test (Certified Shorthand
Reporter).
I did not pass the test which meant I could not work in court. Kay
passed the test and went to work at the courthouse in Fairfield,
California.
I took a job as secretary to a man who could sell ice to an Eskimo.
I spent about 15 years working for him. I started the job in Reno, then he
went to the Bay area and I moved there and continued working as his
executive secretary. From there he moved to Southern California and I
moved also. I asked Kay if she wanted to quit her job and move with me
but she said no. Living in Southern California was wonderful! It was a
very sad day for me when the company I was working for was being
moved to the Chicago area. I was asked if I wanted to continue working
for the company in Chicago but I didn't want to move that far away. At
that point in my life I moved back to Reno and lived with my daughter
and son-in-law. I was able to help my daughter with her little one as my
son-in-law was a fireman and away from the house 24 hours at a time.
I needed to find work and my sister suggested that I become a Bed
& Breakfast innsitter. I thought that was a great idea as I would be
earning money and it would give my daughter and son-in-law some
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privacy — which would be good for them as my son-in-law had retired
and was now home 24/7.
At this point in Kay's life she was ready for a change and I
suggested the innsitting jobs we could get. She was ready to go for it!
After attending a three-day class for innsitters in Placerville we thought
we were ready for the job. Being an innsitter meant wearing many
different hats and I loved meeting the people that stayed at the inns. My
only dread was the breakfast — which had to be absolutely delicious and
spectacular. No problem if you were a great cook. I could cook and
prepare a decent meal but I HATED COOKING. Kay, however, was a
wonderful cook and loved doing it. I was good at the planning, shopping,
and clean up so we were a perfect team. We did innsitting for quite a long
period of time and had favorite inns that kept asking us back. The only
thing that ruined our team was the fact that Kay was not a morning
person and for her to drag herself out of bed at 5:00 a.m. finally came to
a halt. She told me she just couldn't do it anymore so she went back
home and I continued on alone for about another year then I also quit.
We look back now on our innsitting days with many good memories and
share a few laughs at some of the things we did.
I can't stress enough how Kay has been an important person in my
life and I treasure her friendship. Who knows what adventure we will
share in the future but I know it will be a great one.
Maxine Ione Hamilton, born in
Susanville, Calif. Nov. 8, 1930.
I moved to Sparks, Nevada in
1941, married Rudy Milabar in
1947, and had three children,
Gary, Dennis, and Laurie.
I divorced in 1974 and moved
to Sacramento, Calif, to attend
court reporting school. I worked
as a court reporter for a short
time in Napa, Calif, then gave
up that career and worked as
an executive secretary for 12
years, a Bed and Breakfast
Innsitter for 5 years, then worked
for the Nevada State Legislature
as a proofreader for the Assembly
for three sessions. I am now
retired from all jobs and spend
my time doing "fun" things.
Kay and Maxine
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GROWING UP
Penelope Moezzi
Annual functions in Lovelock serve as community affairs. The Pink
Ladies Dance is held in the spring as a fundraiser for the hospital. I
spent a couple of hours pruning and preening: drying my hair to hang
absolutely straight down my back to my waist, choosing my newest and
most flattering outfit, applying a hint of makeup, and slipping my feet
into perfectly polished shoes. I was in my late thirties. As I emerged from
the bedroom, while twirling for inspection, I asked, “Doesn’t Mommy look
pretty?”
Looking up from his Legos project Darius said, “Who cares, You’re
old!”
Nursing my bruised ego, I remembered a time after Mrs.
Nicklanovich’s husband Andy died. My boys, curious about her age,
would ask, “How old are you, Mrs. Nick?”
Looking directly into their eyes which twinkled with her sense of
humor she said, “Fifty and then some.”
After a quick study of her face, they seemed satisfied with her
answer returning to their game of scattering Andy’s poker chips on the
predominately orange and brown braided oval rug covering red brick
printed linoleum in Mrs. Nick’s “fireplace” room.
While visiting one evening, Darius asked, “Mrs. Nick,” a pause
then, for now he could savor the attention usually lavished on his older
boisterous brother Saaid, “are you ever going to get married again?”
Mrs. Nick’s voice lowered. “Ohhh nooo,” drawing out the words.
Darius studied her intently. Then lowering his head which he
moved from side to side he replied, “I know.”
Again, he paused. “Too old.”
It has not been easy for me to accept the fact that I too am growing
old. My mother lied about her age for as long as I can remember. We
used to tease her that she would not receive Social Security checks
because she changed her age on her driver’s license so often. She even
lied about the years separating her from her older sister. She did not
want to appear to be as old as Aunt Carrie. My younger sister has picked
up the same annoying habit. She finally stopped her little game of asking
people, “Who is the oldest sister?” when some hapless soul picked her.
What a difference two and a half years make.
Mother had a scar on the back of her neck and fine white lines one
in front of each ear. When I was in high school, she would ask me to
color her hair (an awful shade of dark red). Each time I was called to the
task, I would again notice the scars and wonder, “Will I grow up and
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have the same scars?” Years later I realized she had joined the Hollywood
trend – the use of surgery to erase telltale signs of aging.
Darius’ childish observation gave me the impetus to force myself to age
gracefully. He, a mere child, forced me focus on others, to see my world
in terms of what is really important and what is not.
When the time comes, I will leave without regret. My most
important job here, the job I did to the best of my ability, is over. And
nothing, absolutely nothing I have accomplished, or will do since raising
my children, compares to that task.
And so it is, as it has been for generation after generation, our
children, more important than ourselves or our things, we leave behind;
they are our legacy, our gift, our future.
Penelope Moezzi lived in the first home finished in Henderson Townsite 3,
Arizona. She taught high school English nationally, is a certified interior
designer, artist, and now blooming wheel potter and memoir writer.
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A SIMPLE REQUEST
Janet Murino
It was not an unusual request. It shouldn’t have been a problem.
After all, I did have a driver’s license. My Dad had not-so-patiently taught
me to drive a stick shift. It was kind of difficult to do all that was
required with only two hands. You certainly should have at least one
hand on the wheel, another had to be shifting, and you needed a third to
stick out the window to let other drivers know if you were going to make
a turn or stop. There were no turn indicators back then. You stuck your
left hand straight out the window for a left turn and bent it upright at the
elbow for a right turn. The arm bent down for a stop. You also had to
leave the window down all the time or else free up a hand to roll it down.
It could be quite uncomfortable in the winter. There were no motorized
windows, raised and lowered with the touch of a button. I eventually
mastered it enough to get my license.
My fiancée had flown in for Thanksgiving weekend and asked me
to go with him to the airport and take the car back to his father’s house.
The only problem was that beyond taking driving lessons and the driver’s
licensing test itself, I had never actually driven a car. Dad never let me
solo. We only had one car, which was quite common then. The first
thirteen years of my life, our family hadn’t owned a house or a car. When
my parents bought a house and we moved to New Jersey, our house and
most other houses in our town were built with one-car garages.
Cliff said he’d take his father’s car to my house and pick me up.
Then we’d drive to La Guardia Airport. LaGuardia is the original name of
JFK Airport in New York City. It was re-dedicated John F. Kennedy
International Airport in 1963, after JFK’s tragic assassination. He asked
me, “Will you take the car back to my father’s house?” Without owning
up to my lack of driving experience anywhere, much less on unfamiliar
freeways, I said, “Sure.” That was easier said than done.
After Cliff’s flight took off, I had to get the car back to his father’s
house on Long Island, and then get home via subway and buses. The
first problem arose when I couldn’t get the parking brake off. I struggled
and struggled until my face turned purple. I was too embarrassed to ask
anyone for help. After what seemed an eternity, I got the brake off and
backed out. Then I had to navigate my way following Cliff’s offhand
directions to get on one freeway from the airport, switch to a highway,
and then wend my way to his parents’ house. As I dropped off the car I
breathed a huge sigh of relief. I hadn’t gotten into an accident while
watching for road signs. My journey home began. I took the subway to
the Port Authority Bus Terminal, then a bus to New Milford. Cliff had
called to say he was safely back in St. Louis before I got home to New
Jersey.
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I was always nervous about finding new places after that. Years
later, while living in Virginia near Washington, D. C., I mentioned to a
neighbor I had to go somewhere new and was afraid of getting lost. She
said, “Oh, I never worry about getting lost. I just look for the Washington
Monument and get my bearings from there.” When I first moved to Reno,
Mt. Rose, with snow still on it in June and July, helped me find my way.
Driving on long trips has always been very stressful for me. At the
end of an hour’s drive, my hands are clenched tightly on the wheel and
my body is tight as a drum, rigid with tension. There is absolutely no way
I can continue driving. The last time I went from Reno to Sacramento I
took a seven-hour bus trip rather than make a two and a half hour drive.
I would have flown - I have no fear of flying - but there’s no direct flight
from Reno to Sacramento.
Thinking back on it, that simple request to take my fiancée to the
airport had long-lasting repercussions and was probably the cause of my
lifelong unease behind the wheel of a car.
Six Months Later – Another Car
Janet Murino moved steadily westward from her first home in Brooklyn,
N.Y. She retired in Reno and is currently updating the autobiography she
first wrote at the age of 15. She hopes someday her three children and
four grandchildren will find it interesting.
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IT WAS A VERY GOOD BUSINESS PLAN
David Nadel
They were not a criminal family, merely people with talent who
found economic opportunity in an otherwise unfriendly environment. It
started gradually; my investment company sold them a large old
Victorian mansion in a once fine neighborhood, and also sold them a
failing limousine service. The Johnsons sent customers to our realty and
insurance operations, and we sent people to their travel and employment
agencies. A closer relationship developed when I bought an abandoned
row of stores to be torn down for redevelopment. One store had been a
costume shop filled with Halloween and masquerade type clothing. They
immediately bought the contents.
The matriarch of the family was Mabel Johnson. She could have
posed as Aunt Jemima on the pancake mix box. She was tough and
smart. Daughter Viola was a younger version with an MBA degree from a
top university. She could act and talk like a dumb sharecropper or as an
elegant aristocrat, as circumstances indicated.
The costumes were cleaned and repaired and then sent to the
several rooming houses they owned for use in the fantasy rooms. Of
course, they were really gentlemen’s pleasure palaces, staffed mostly by
housewives and nearby college graduate students. Next to each house
was a secure parking area with a sign offering auto cleaning service. The
client would get a receipt from the lot attendant and enter the house. His
ticket would entitle him to the recreational facilities within, and the car
might have the windows cleaned when he returned. Of the costumes, the
most popular were the naughty French maid, the schoolgirl cheerleader,
and the nun and priest combination. The limousines were also used. A
businessman or woman would call and a car would be sent complete
with an entertainer or whatever other amenities were requested all to be
billed to the company. The discreet drivers were always older uniformed
men, always called “Mr. Johnson.”
Was it criminal? They paid taxes on all income and fairly
compensated all employees. We all eventually retired. Mabel Johnson
bought an old sugar plantation in Jamaica. Viola started a new business
making exotic leather goods and published magazines sold in plain
brown wrappers.
It was fun while it lasted.
David Nadel is an unrepentant sinner now converted to unrestricted
hedonism, if only in his own mind.
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MAY DAY! MAY DAY!
Joe Parks
I didn’t have any single growing-up epiphany. Rather I had a
number of them and May Day was one of those. From second grade
through sixth, I attended Saint Agatha School in Milton, Massachusetts.
The nuns wanted us to say Saint Agatha, not Saint Agatha’s, because
she didn’t own the school or the church. The school was located on an
old estate high on a hill with a fine view of Boston in the distance and a
closer view of the Neponset River near the base of the hill.
Some of the nuns at Saint Agatha’s were a little nuts. My first
spring a couple of them decided to have a May Day fete or gala. Perhaps
one of the nuns was from England, you know, having the idea for a fete.
The epiphany part for me arose from the order given by Sisters Martinian
and Leontine. Their mandate was that we students dress up for May
Day. The fete was to be on Sunday afternoon on the lawn outside the old
mansion in which we went to class. The lawn was huge and we kids were
to parade about on the greensward, singing the praises of the Virgin
Mary, May Day being her day, so to speak.
Unfortunately, we students weren’t expected to wear our very best
clothes for the fete. No sir. We were to dress up in costumes. The girls
were to wear white Mary Janes and long white stockings, white dresses
with great hot-pink bows on the waists of the dresses and equally large
hot-pink bows on their heads. Now, that’s all right, as far as it goes, for
girls. They looked charming, fetching and delightful parading up and
down the wide lawn, each girl in not just one hot-pink bow but two.
However, and here’s the epiphany part again, the boys had to dress
likewise – not in dresses, of course, but in white shoes, white trousers
and white shirts with hot-pink neckties. Frankly, we boys looked
ridiculous, sort of like French waiters in training. Attending parents, at
least the mothers, as well as the nuns, thought we looked cute. The last
trait boys strive for is cuteness. My mother was a great one for matching
my pants to my sweaters and what have you but our matching the girls’
outfits and parading around the lawn with our hands folded while
singing in front of complete strangers, that was the limit for us boys. I
slowly decided that May Day to never do that again. Of course, we all had
to do it the following year, too, but that was the last time.
Later, much later, I did to myself what the May Day nuns had done
to me, that is, I provided myself with another epiphany. I hated the
clothes matching my mom was fond of but it still infected me in the
1970s. You should have seen me then with my hair long and curly
though I was told it wasn’t long enough. I had the long sideburns and the
moustache. It was a different color then. My boss at the time told me the
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‘stache was too skimpy. That was interesting because to this day he has
no beard at all.
As the 1970s faded into the 1980s, more and more of the odd
clothing that typified the era was on sale. My mom had also taught me to
shop sales. During lunch hour one day, I visited the Emporium near my
place of work in Palo Alto and bought four pairs of polyester slacks, three
shirts with vertical and variegated pastel stripes, three wildly patterned
and colorful neckties that in a strange way complemented the pastelstriped shirts, and a pair of blue and white saddle shoes.
Good grief, what was I thinking? Each item had been heavily
discounted but together the eleven items I’d purchased were costly. And I
wasn’t sure I would actually wear such loud shirts, not to mention the
weird, plaid, bell-bottomed, wide-belted trousers with the wide cuffs. Of
course, I wouldn’t wear one of the pastel-striped shirts with the plaid
pants but nevertheless pants, shirts and ties, they were all terribly loud.
One day I went to work wearing one of the shirts with one of the
neckties. Then I wore another of the shirts with another of the ties to
work the following week. The second wearing was more difficult than the
first. I won’t say I must have been a sight. I was a sight. When I
mentioned this to my wife, she assured me that the “outfits” were fine,
just fine. After the sixth wearing of these strange duds, I could stand
them no longer. It was as if my mother had dressed me for the last time.
I bundled those polyester pastels and their companion pieces off to
Goodwill. I was ready for the rest of the 1980s with blue buttoned-downcollar shirts and khaki chinos. I haven’t worn a pastel shirt or plaid
trousers since. Two clothing epiphanies are enough for anyone.
Joe Parks has been a part of Lifescapes for four years and looks forward
to many more with this fine writing group. His “life story” has perhaps
80,000 words so far and he has more to write.
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THANK YOU FATHER
Gene Perkins
No, this is not a religious statement; it is simply a thank you note
to the memory of the father of our family for a thought that I have never
forgotten. He was lying on his hospital bed, with members of his family
by his side. We all knew that his time in this world was limited to a few
more hours. He made it easy for us. As usual, he was in charge, and we
all just spoke of pleasant things and good memories.
It was at that time that he said something both profound and
reassuring: he simply said, “I’m glad that I lived when I did.” The more I
think about it, the more I feel the same way, and for your sake, I hope
that you do too. He was saying that he was content with the life that had
been granted to him, and he had an implicit acceptance of the fact that
all lives must come to an end some time. It is just as well. We all grow to
accept the world as we know it, but the world changes. We lose old
friends, and familiar places are no longer the same as our memories. So
we live on with our memories.
It takes a long time to reach the point where we are ready to accept
this condition, but when we do, we are fortunate if we can accept that
fact gracefully. Our father did just that. I thank him again.
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WHAT’S A WOMAN LIBBER?
Janet Pirozzi
My husband knew I was a Women’s Libber before I did.
Shortly after I was married, my husband called me a women’s
libber. His tone was disapproving and critical. Since I really didn’t know
what he meant I simply said “I am not!”
After my divorce in 1973, I became involved with the National
Organization of Women and the Equal Rights Amendment which had not
been ratified by all states. In fact, to this day there are still states,
including Nevada that did not ratify or ratified and later rescinded.
So, my husband knew before I knew that I was a member or
supporter of the women's liberation movement. I prefer feminist to
women’s libber and was happy to admit my feminist affiliations for years
to come.
I guess I never realized I was acting like a women’s libber because
of how I was raised. My mom was incredibly intelligent, opinionated and
strong-willed. My maternal grandmother was a divorcee who hired a
detective to catch her husband cheating in the late 1920s. She lived
alone in New York City for most of my childhood. My dad grew up with
Italian speaking parents and had six brothers and sisters. He believed
his two daughters could do anything they really wanted to do. He
respected my mom and learned to grow with the times; allowing her to
work when she let him know she was too bored to stay at home.
My sister and I both graduated from college. My sister married and
had children first. I eloped during my senior year of college, graduated
and then had a church wedding the following year.
Although my sister was seen as the rebellious one because she was
more outspoken and adventurous then I was, I was the one who made
plans and carried them out without much input from anyone else. My
parents, it seemed, were the last to know anything. I always did what I
wanted when I wanted. This pattern continued throughout my life.
In 1975, I bought a home for $24,000. Since it was not that
common to loan to a single woman, I worried that I would be seen as too
self-sufficient, threatening potential mates.
In 1976, while my parents were on vacation, I decided to sell my
house and move to Washington to be near my sister. My house sold
within a week and I made $6,000. When my parents returned from their
trip, I informed them of what happened while they were away. It never
once occurred to me that they might not want me to move 3000 miles
away.
In 1981, four years after my parents and grandmother moved to
Washington, I applied for and was offered a job in Reno, NV. I accepted
the position and informed my sister and parents. When I told my ex107
husband who still lived back east about the move, he wasn’t happy
because he did not want his children growing up in a city like Reno.
Since he really had no say, I moved with my children who were 9 and 11.
The men in my life came and went. In the early years, I would say
they were only good for one thing - sex.
I did marry again - twice. Neither lasted a full year and both were
alcoholics. Alcoholics were exciting and fun to be around; but as soon as
I realized they were not good for me or my children they were banished
from my life. No regrets.
I worked full-time for 37 years and was a single mom. The
positions I held were varied, but all had a great deal of autonomy. Most
were leadership and management roles requiring policy, planning,
analysis and decision making. I never had a problem making a decision.
In fact, I often found myself making decisions merely because others
seemed unable to do so. Sometimes the decisions I made caused others
to react and do their jobs; other times my decisions were simply accepted
by default.
I championed other women and helped them be the best they could
be. I offered opportunities to my children, Janine and Ray, who have also
become independent and self-sufficient. My children are the only people
who have ever been able to interfere with my personal plans.
The family legacy continues … Both my children have their own
homes; both are single; Janine is a single mom; and both are probably
even more independent then I was/am. The biggest difference between
them and me is that they have not moved away from me. They are the
most important people in my life and they are the only ones who have
ever been able to get me to do things I might otherwise not do. I grew up
with them; they are my friends and my children. As independent as I
was, I never had to live alone like they have. I always had them and
before them a husband and before him a college roommate and before
that, my parents. I did not have my own place until I was 46 years old!
Now I have a great little place. I love my alone time. But I never feel
alone. My children and grandson are here in Reno and I am fortunate to
be able to spend as much time with them as I want.
Janet Pirozzi was born in Brooklyn, New York in 1947. She lived in
Connecticut, Rhode Island and Washington before settling in Reno in 1981.
She is the youngest of two children and 100% Italian descent. She has two
adult children and a grandson in the Reno area. Janet is a State of
Nevada retiree.
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GRANDMAS RULE!
Glenda Raye Roes
This is a brief summary of my life, a précis really. I have become a
grandma. This status is a joy and it was worth waiting for this elevated
position in life. My brain was flipped from right to left at about the same
time and I became an artist www.delectations.cl.uk and a writer.
This new status bestowed on me by the birth of my beloved
Grandson, Alex, is still my only claim to Grandmotherhood. Now I am a
more relaxed version of me. I hike in the mountains with my beloved
partner, good friends and my old dog, Otis, instead of galloping over
muddy fields on my Arabian horse, Kwayzia. I am no longer fired by
ambition and the struggle to exist, pay bills, get to places on time, work
endlessly and keep up with a multitude of friends. Now there is an
acceptance of the pathway that life has given me. No flower is too humble
for me not to stop and admire its wonderful complexity, the majesty of
trees, the diversity of insects, the beauty of animals and birds and the lie
of the land. This earth is truly blessed from my perspective.
There is sadness too in becoming older, senses degenerate – why is
the telephone number always in the smallest print on a business card,
why do I fail to remember people’s names five seconds after an
introduction? Indeed, physical health is the key to becoming older
gracefully. There is sadness in loosing touch with dear friends and
beloved animals who die within a much shorter life span and are still
missed. Parents pass on and leave us at the helm, a position we
automatically inherit but often do not wish to fill! Glorious places we visit
or stay at for long enough to become hefted so we miss them sorely when
we leave.
All these are reasons for my joy at being a Grandma. Any time
spent with my Grandson is a blessing and focuses my joy in the family. It
is the center of my being. I have become content. Grandmas rule!
Glenda Raye Roes lives in Incline Village, NV.
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OLYMPIC EGO
Phyllis Rogers
Winter Olympics 2002 in the USA. In Salt Lake City, there was a
fever pitch to build venues for every event, to upgrade freeways that
would accommodate the traffic, to transform university dorms into an
Olympic Village. Then the preparations became personal. My daughter
Lindsay, mother of one tiny boy and pregnant with another, volunteered
her fluent French and was chosen as a liaison for Team Canada. She
would ride 20 miles on the bus every morning and evening to spend long
days in the Olympic Village. My son Neal was a college student then. His
Utah college suspended classes for the duration of the Olympics, and he
landed a paying job. A Criminal Justice major, he was hired as security
staff – to work the evening concerts that would follow every night’s award
ceremonies. He felt part of Olympic history – up close and personal,
backstage with the athletes, and better, with the bands.
Me? I would watch the games on TV, or rather listen to the games
on TV as I graded 8th grade English homework. For me the events might
as well have been on another continent.
I glanced, one autumn morning, at the local newspaper. It was in
my driveway. I was on my way to school. The sun had not quite risen.
The headline, stopped my morning rush, and I bent over to read the text.
The Olympic Torch would pass through Incline Village on its way to Salt
Lake City. I was a recreational runner. I often jogged five miles along
dusty mountain singletrack on weekend mornings. I wanted to carry the
torch through Incline. I wanted it badly.
The local newspaper was soliciting nominations for torch carriers
from the community. I was a natural, a 20-year resident, in good enough
physical condition to run, a teacher in the community.
Who would nominate me? I asked my husband to write a letter.
Always supportive, he produced one quickly. Who else? My children!
There were seven, and they all loved me. Besides, my teacher’s paycheck
went directly to support their college educations. I asked them. I
collected their loving responses. Confidently, I sent in my little bundle of
applications and waited smugly. My husband, tracking the process
began to introduce the idea of his carrying the torch too. We could do it
together, he said. He asked me to nominate him.
I refused. This was my time, my idea. Why did he need to be
involved? I refused. Undeterred, he solicited nominations from the
community. He collected letters from business associates, service club
comrades. His pile of letters grew. It was embarrassing to me, all his
soliciting. I hoped secretly that he wouldn’t be chosen. I wanted my
moment in the limelight. Alone.
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The email arrived, and for days he didn’t tell me about it. He was
chosen to carry the torch, assigned his quarter mile, measured for a
flashy Olympic logo jog suit, invited to the instructional meeting that laid
out the secrets of transferring the flame. He didn’t tell me because he
was waiting for my email to come. When it never arrived, when it was
clear that only he would represent our family and our community, he
was as disappointed as I.
So John carried the torch. Our children brought friends home from
college to watch. I carried the camera and made home movies. I stood in
the crowd lining the street and cheered, and I did it all cheerfully and
with newly acquired humility. It was clear to me that I wasn’t a big cog in
our little town. But, I still held the letters to remind me how important I
was in the lives of my family. It was enough, and John’s Olympic torch
hangs in our home to remind me what is important and what is not.
Phyllis Rogers, a retired teacher, currently works as a Library Aide in
Incline Village and runs the Lifescapes program at the Incline Village
Library.
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POLITICS
Gwen Rosser
I was raised in a Republican household; both of my parents
discussed politics, shared their views with us, and voted. My mother
worked on the election board every election and raised us to believe that
being an American was very special. I remember a time as a teenager
when I was trying to decide if I was first a Californian and then an
American or if it was the other way around.
All those Second World War years were different from anything we
have had since. Our President, Franklin D. Roosevelt, asked us to
sacrifice, and we Americans, Democrats and Republicans alike, rose to
the challenge. We did our duty for the War effort. We raised vegetables in
our Victory Gardens, colored our Oleo to make it look like butter,
judiciously used the food stamps to maintain a healthy diet, mended the
runs in our silk stockings, and bought savings stamps and war bonds.
As a family we hung our blackout curtains and sent my dad, an official
Air Raid Warden, out during every alert. As I recall, we had our party
differences and during elections there was the usual give and take,
accusations and bragging, but I never felt the animosity that now exists
between the parties.
As I got older, I asked my mother why she was a Republican. She
responded that she was a business woman (she had her own tax service),
her father had had his own business, a bakery, and her family had
always been Republicans. She believed in smaller government and less
regulation, particularly for small businesses. Sometimes I questioned,
but when I turned twenty-one I registered as a Republican. I voted the
first time in November 1954 and cast my first vote for President in 1956
for Dwight D. Eisenhower. At the time, as an airline stewardess based in
Chicago, I was assigned a charter flight carrying Adlai Stevenson, the
democratic candidate. I remember telling my supervisor that I would like
to take the charter, but that I was a Republican, and would it make a
difference? It was not a problem, and even though I had my picture taken
with Stevenson, I voted for Eisenhower.
The years passed, my years in Europe behind me, and now I found
myself in late 1959 back in college and living in San Francisco. My views
were changing, and when I registered at my new address, I registered as
a Democrat. In November 1960, I voted for John F. Kennedy. I was
enchanted by his style, ideas for change and his youth. When he was
killed in 1963 I was devastated. His call for serving your country struck a
chord with me, taking me back to those 30’s and 40’s when I was proud
to be an American. I joined the Peace Corps in 1964 and spent two years
in Africa, 1964-1966. I missed voting in the autumn of 1964 because we
didn’t have absentee ballots then, or e-mail, or much news in Africa of
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the elections, so it just passed unnoticed. Lyndon B. Johnson, a
Democrat, was elected and served another term after ascending to the
presidency when Kennedy had been killed.
By the time I returned from Africa my thinking had solidified. I was
strongly in the camp of the worker, the producer, the moralist,
communities and people helping each other, and in grass roots efforts.
We had a few clashes in my family, but all in all, I stuck to my ideas. My
sisters remained Republicans and we continued to talk politics, but
without rancor. I married a Democrat, raised my children and became a
public school teacher. My husband, an engineer, had no work
opportunities for service, and when we went to China in 1996, after he
retired, he loved teaching. He felt needed, useful and felt he was finally
doing something that was service oriented, not just working toward the
bottom line. We both loved those two years in China. It cemented my
ideas of global interaction and entwinement.
Meantime, politically, things were heating up at home. Richard
Nixon and Spiro Agnew were behind us, Ronald Reagan had left his mark
with Reaganomics and Bill Clinton served his two terms. Things were
looking relatively calm until 2000. Perhaps it was the end of the
millennium or a new century, but the Republicans heated up the mess
by impeaching Clinton for behavior that had little to do with presiding
over the country. It had been rampant in the congress for decades but
suddenly it was impeachable conduct. In any case, it was disappointing
behavior for a president. It seemed to bring out the worst in everyone,
and the enmity was rising.
It was during the campaign in 2000 that my sister and I had our
worst arguments regarding George Dubya and Al Gore. She wrote to me
saying that if we didn’t stop talking about politics, we would end up with
no relationship at all, so we agreed to keep our thoughts to ourselves.
The very next visit, her husband made a remark that made me turn to
my sister with raised brows. She waved him off and that was the last
political remark made among us. I’m glad my mother was not with us
any longer. She would have been upset that we could no longer discuss
issues peacefully within the family.
There was great hostility when George W. Bush was elected,
perhaps because the election was so close. But for all the talk of uniting
the parties, the last eight years have seen none of that. We’ve been in a
war, but has the president taken a leadership role in asking the country
to make sacrifices, pull in the belt, or work for the war effort? Only the
military families have made sacrifices.
The animosity between the parties has been greater than ever.
Sticking to the issues during campaigning seems difficult, and trying to
distract the public’s attention from the real issues is the game. I’ve begun
to feel like a pawn, a pigeon, a statistic in the big picture of
manipulation. It’s as though I am so wishy-washy that I cannot think
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through the issues and make a decision for myself. We’ve been up to our
eyeballs in analyses, opinions and interviews.
In recent years I have begun to feel the difference in the classes,
the rich have gotten richer and the poor poorer. Now finally the election
is over. Will the new President, Obama, make a difference, unite us again
into a nation of people who work, play and live together, where we will
not be separated along party lines, class lines, educational lines and
where we will all once again be proud Americans?
Gwen Rosser lives at the North Shore of Lake Tahoe, on the California
side.
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LIFE IS A CIRCLE
Marilynn K. Short
I was born in 1930…on Friday the 13th of June. Does this bode
well for the future? A depression baby born on a superstitious occasion.
There is no place better to live and grow than a small town, and El
Reno, Oklahoma fit that perfectly. My father walked to work… we had no
car for several years. His job, as Secretary/Manager of the County
Chamber of Commerce was secure, as the social programs for the county
were managed through the Chamber. My mother was, as all women then,
what is now called a “stay at home” wife and mother, who canned food,
had a wringer washing machine, and was devoted to her family. Though
we lived in a 2 story house, which had been built by my paternal
grandfather, for all the years we lived there, we had only one bathroom
and one telephone, and a coal furnace in the basement.
My memories of the depression are limited, two memories only
stand out, cutting pieces of cardboard to size to put in the bottom of a
shoe, to make them wearable in all weather… the tops lasted much
longer than the soles. My grandfather bought me 5 cents worth of candy
one day, and his wife (my “step” grandmother) was extremely unhappy
and reminded him of the many things that nickel could have bought.
Even though I was only 11 in 1941, my memories of World War II
are much stronger…however we did not have to have that war in our
living room 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. We learned of the war in the
newsreels at the Saturday afternoon movies, where we could spend the
day! When something really big and special happened, there was an
“EXTRA” edition of the paper, and the boy stood on the corner, calling
“EXTRA, EXTRA”…just as he did on June 6, 1944 (D day) the day the
Doctor came to see what was wrong with me. My appendix had ruptured,
and I was rushed to the hospital, where I spent the next month,
including my 14th birthday. Penicillin was a very new drug at that time,
and they flew in 250 cc’s of this new drug from Dallas, Texas to help me
recover.
Many more memories of World War II are still vivid…the ration
stamps for everything, the mixing of the little orange packet into the big
glob of white lard, to make “margarine” a job which always seemed to be
mine!
The WPA built an underpass under Highway 66, which ran right
through El Reno. The majority of children who attended Central Grade
School at that time lived on the east side of town, which meant crossing
Rock Island (HWY 66) in order to get to school. My father “christened” the
underpass with what was probably a bottle of orange “soda pop.”
Although several more “wars or actions” have occurred during my
long life time, I continued to live in El Reno, and attended the University
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of Oklahoma at one of the most exciting times possible. Bud Wilkinson
was the coach of the Oklahoma Sooners, and I never saw them lose a
game.
Sorority life was a great experience in the early 1950’s…and many
close friendships remain from those days…when we graduated from
college, many of us got married and did the bridesmaid thing…several
years, and several divorces later, most of us found the real mate for our
lives.
I found mine in San Francisco…but he was a native of Reno, NV.
We never lived in Reno, as we were both Californians by that time. Our
only son was born in Cupertino, where we lived from 1960 till 1986, and
watched the Silicon Valley grow bigger and faster than we did. Ty took
early retirement after by pass surgery, and we moved to Grass Valley,
California where my heart and my husband’s ashes still remain. After his
death, I moved to Oregon to be near my son and his family and after 4
years, they decided to move back to Reno; I refused to let them bring my
grandkids to Reno, and leave me in Oregon!
So, here I am… along with my son, daughter-in-law and 3
grandchildren; my husband’s brother, wife, their 4 adult children, and 8
grandchildren, live between Sparks and Minden. I celebrated my 78th
birthday in June, by taking a ride on my son’s jet ski at Frenchman’s
Lake. (Also Friday the 13th this year!)
From today’s news, I will probably live to see my country become
part of a global, socialistic society, deeply in debt. Perhaps that is a full,
rounded off circle of life!!
Marilynn Short was
born Friday the 13th of
June in El Reno, OK.
Married a native of
Reno, NV, in 1958 (we
met in California). Ty
died in 1995. After four
years in Oregon, she
came to Reno in 1999
and has been going to
ElderCollege/OLLI ever
since.
Marilynn on the jet ski, 2008
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I HAD TO GROW UP, I SIMPLY HAD NO CHOICE
Carole Slater
I was nineteen years old and had already begun making mistakes
in my life. I had been raised by parents who adored me, but failed to
discipline me. I had been dealing with challenged health since age 15.
Maybe they were worried. I truly do not know.
What I do know is I never experienced consequences; therefore, I
felt that my good nature and perhaps slight edge for manipulation would
protect me.
It didn’t. From the age of 4½ I spent my weekends with my
wonderful grandfather. As a result of this, I didn’t learn to relate well to
my peer group. I was that age when he moved into our home after the
unfortunate passing of my precious grandmother. I’m unsure who was
baby-sitting whom; I only know that I loved him and was content. The
only down side was that I didn’t experience playing with friends my age
very often.
The handicap became apparent about the time I reached puberty.
When I reached 15 I had one girlfriend with whom I could share secrets,
plot and plan with.
As I began going to parties and meeting her friends, I noticed that
her friends had little interest in me at all. I dated the boys and it was
they with whom I was comfortable. Since I was very close with my
brother, father and grandfather, in retrospect, this epiphany comes as no
surprise.
A cousin introduced me to his fraternity brother when I was 17. He
was almost 20. We dated weekly and became very close, but I had
doubts…just a gut feeling, so I broke us up several times, but we kept
reuniting.
I went to college, and even left the state for six months, but while
away, once again, I began writing to him and we began writing about
marriage. I returned and began seeing him again. I didn’t know about
contraception and only knew about “the rhythm system” from a cartoon I
had seen in the 6th grade! I thought the “safe period” was the center of
the cycle. I was clueless. My mom presumed I knew about it all.
Well, yes, I did get pregnant! One occasion of carelessness and I
was caught. Of course, I didn’t know right away, and I broke up with him
one last time, (I thought). The naïve girl I was didn’t experience the
imagined wedding bells sounding off as they seemed to in the movies. I
thought something must be wrong, but I didn’t truly know what. I
expected magic but didn’t feel it. We were both very young with high
expectations for life. My dreams fell apart.
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My boyfriend did the honorable thing and married me. He loved me
and I did always care about him, so I was grateful, even though I felt
petrified beyond belief!
I’ll never forget being accompanied by my sister and brother-in-law
to Las Vegas (like a shotgun wedding!) until we were married. Thankfully,
they left us after that. After our decadent weekend, we returned to my inlaws’ home for a few nights. I had “morning sickness” which I remember
began haunting me day and night. I remember being sick as a dog,
retching in the bathroom and no one coming to my aid. I felt so alone,
lost and confused. The next day my husband left me for 6 months in the
army reserves! He had signed up prior to knowing we were to be wed.
I returned to my parents’ home, thank God, and was cared for well.
I was extremely fortunate in that they did not blame me or chastise me
for what had happened, but then again, that wasn’t their MO with me.
Maybe a little of that would have served me well to feel the consequences
more clearly. However, at 20 years old, I certainly knew I had made a
mess of things in a big way.
Clearly, there’s much more to the story. I can honestly say that I
was blessed beyond measure with the daughter I had been gifted. In fact,
5 ½ years later I was blessed again with my son.
Though our marriage did not survive, the love my husband and I
had once shared produced two fabulous individuals who have given
incredible dimension and reason for my life.
I am now blessed with a devoted daughter-in-law who has given
me two adorable grandchildren, and I have a very kind and attentive sonin-law who I am hoping will soon receive the child that both he and my
daughter have been praying for. Whatever happens from this point
forward, I know that I am profoundly fortunate for the many blessings I
have received in my life. Being able to look back and recognize my good
fortune reminds me why growing up has been so very important to me. I
learned that honesty and integrity is profoundly important and that
children, like adults, can forgive when they understand intent. My
intentions were hopeful though often misguided!
Carole Slater now lives in Southeast Reno. Lisa and son-in-law Rob Thorn
live close by in Reno. Carole’s son Jay Friedman, his wife, Christina,
granddaughter Eliza Kaylee and grandson Calvin James live in Roseville,
California.
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THE GRAY-SKINNED GRAY LADY
E. Louise Smith
I finished delivering the book requests on Ward Eight. This
Ward was new to me and I did not like it. It wasn’t just the smell of
cooking and infrequently-showered men. All the wards at the
State Mental Hospital had a musty, unpleasant odor. But Ward Eight
was cavernously large. There were just too many mentally disturbed men
in one area to suit me. Especially since I had not seen either of the
attendants since they unlocked the outer door for me.
The ceilings were extremely high with the windows near the top. I
felt as if I were working my way through a long damp green tunnel.
I started uneasily back across the day room pushing my heavy
book cart ahead of me. Where was my out-patient helper? He knew he
was supposed to stay with me every minute I spent on a locked ward.
Suddenly my way was blocked by one of the patients – a young,
clean good-looking fellow. I was relieved to look into his intelligent eyes.
He couldn’t be very sick, I thought. He must be about ready to leave the
hospital.
“Do you think Quimby wrote SCIENCE AND HEALTH?” he asked
without preamble.
“No, I don’t,” I answered politely. I did not want to get onto the
forbidden subject of religion. “Historians always say something like that
just to stir up controversy. Look at Shakespeare.”
“That’s true,” he responded. “I’m writing a new Bible myself.”
“Oh, that’s nice.”
“Yes, I thought I’d try to get it finished while I’m staying here.”
Then he looked at me as if ready to impart eagerly-awaited news.
He lowered his voice as looked cautiously around the room.
“I’m the reincarnation of Christ,” he said – his eyes dared me to
deny it.
Oh, no, I thought. How did I get into this? “Never turn your back on a
ward,” the physical therapist had told us volunteer Red Cross Gray
Ladies.
“Always stand so that you can see as many of the patients as
possible.”
And here I was on the largest male ward at the hospital facing the
dirty green wall over the head of this self-appointed Christ. In acute
panic, I tried to remember how far it was to the door. I glanced
surreptitiously across the ward. I saw row after row of low, green, plasticcovered chairs. A few men sat in them. The majority of the patients
milled restlessly about the day room.
I had to get away. It was as much as my Gray Lady uniform was
worth to be caught discussing religion with a mental patient. The second
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coming of Christ (unaware of my turmoil) continued his attempted
conversation. Apparently, I was expected to release this breathtaking
news to a waiting outside world. The intense look in his eyes frightened
me half out of my senses. I had never been close to a zealot before – least
of all, one locked in a mental institution.
As I endeavored to appear composed in spite of my nervousness, a
piercing scream sounded behind me. I stood rigid with fear as the scream
sank into a low, anguished moan. I didn’t dare turn around to look. We
had been warned repeatedly of the danger of openly expressing fear. Do
not express fear, I thought, with those dark searching eyes boring into
me and that quiet determined voice going and on. My zealot did not react
to the scream.
As this moaning behind me continued, I became desperate. I broke
into the endless monologue,
“I’ve got to get these books to the other wards,” I said,
“Don’t go,” he commanded as he reached for my hand.
I clasped my hands firmly on the cold metal of the book cart.
“I’ve got to,” I said. “The other wards are waiting.”
“You’ll come back?” his voice pursued me.
“Of course,” I said without looking around.
I was walking too fast and I knew it. The men were lined along the
aisle between the chairs and that high green wall. They waved and called,
“Good-by,” and “Don’t forget my books.”
“I won’t. Good-bye.” I said over and over without pause in my rapid
charge toward the exit.
Finally I reached the heavy black doors. I grabbed the knob. I
turned it. Nothing happened. The strength left my wobbly legs as I
remembered I was on a locked word. Soon I would have hysterics. If I
ever get out of here, I thought, I will never come back. Volunteer work,
indeed!
“You want out, lady?” an elderly patient approached me.
“Yes, oh, my God, yes.”
“So do I,” he laughed idiotically showing a couple of hooked widely
separated teeth.
I spoke as sternly as possible over the racket mad by my teeth.
“Please get the attendant for me.”
“Sure, sure. I’ll get him,” he tottered away still laughing – pleased
by my fear.
Would he come back, I wondered.
I turned away from him and looked into the men’s bathroom. A line
of urinals with men using them faced me. Frantic, I turned again to the
locked doors. Another minute and I would sob as piteously as the man in
the day room. I was ready to claw my way out if help didn’t arrive soon.
“Thanks for coming to our ward,” The attendant stood there with a
large ring of keys in his hand. The absentee out patient, who helped me
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push the book cart across the sprawling grounds of the hospital was with
him.
“The men really appreciate your coming,” the attendant
continued.”
“You know you’re the only Gray lady who has ever come on our
ward.”
I nodded my head unable to speak over the suffocating feeling in
my chest. He turned the key in the lock and pushed the gate doors back
for me. I stepped out into the free, crisp fall air.
“See you next week?” The attendant called after me.
“See you next week,” I managed as I headed across the green lawn
surrounded by tall red brick buildings with bars covering windows.
“You really got scared in there, didn’t you?” my absentee helper
asked me. “You are as gray as your uniform.”
“Don’t be silly,” I snapped at him. “What’s next stop?”
“Ward 21 – sex psychopaths,” he said maliciously.
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THE SUM OF ONE’S LIFE
Lois Smyres
Who am I now? I must add all the things that have happened
during my life to the things that happened before I was born. My life has
benefited from living in a democracy, from advances in sanitation and
medicine, from inventions that have eliminated life-shortening work,
from transportation advances, and from public education.
My hard-working parents provided a stable environment and
taught me the value of work, however my mother’s advice was, “Never
learn how to milk a cow, and then you won’t have to do it.” This advice
has proven to be useful when applied to other situations. I was given
music lessons and joined 4-H where I learned leadership skills. I
attended the University of Colorado for two years and then married my
high school sweetheart. Gary and I have been married fifty years.
Marriage taught me to think “we” instead of “me.” Becoming the mother
of three children taught me to become an adult and accept responsibility.
When my children finished grade school I returned to college and
received a bachelor’s degree in geography which opened worlds to me
(pun intended).
My part-time job in the grade school library along with a college
degree led to employment at the University of Nevada Reno Library. I had
other jobs for short periods, but the UNR library was where I worked
twenty years before retiring. Employment taught me the value of fitting
into an organization, how to work with other people, and how to work
with the public. And I enjoyed the income.
Not all lessons have been positive, but I also learned a lot from
negative lessons – don’t melt wax on top of the stove, don’t correct
employees in public, be careful who you hire because you have to work
with them for many years, don’t go backpacking in a snowstorm, plants
won’t grow if you don’t apply water and fertilizer, ad nauseam.
Along the way I have enjoyed the friendship of many people and
have realized that there is something to be learned from everyone.
My husband and I have traveled in Europe, Mexico, Canada,
Venezuela, and the United States. Travel enabled me to see many
wonders of nature, to learn the history and culture of other places, and
to see myself as part of a varied yet interdependent world.
Who am I now? I am the sum of all the above plus hair color
change, extra pounds, and diminished brain capacity. But more
importantly, I am a grandmother who enjoys life.
Lois Smyres: I have lived near mountains all my life. It is a wonderful way
to start the day – going out the front door to pick up the paper and looking
up and seeing the beautiful mountains.
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WHO I AM NOW
Hazel Snow
I am blessed to have had loving parents, Peter and Hannah
Blomberg. My mother was a woman of many talents. She was our cook,
baker, dressmaker, barber and when we were sick, our nurse. She
protected us and nurtured us. When we were little we clung to her skirt
when we went shopping or visiting. She was like a mother hen protecting
her chicks.
Our father was more reserved. Although he loved us, he did not
always express his love. He did pick us up and hold us when we went up
to him for attention. He made sure that we had a roof over our heads,
food for our bellies and clothes when we needed them. He was strict at
our dinner table, no giggling or laughing. Even when we were grown up
he did not want us to move away or leave home.
When I was six years old starting school was scary. At home we
only spoke Finnish so I did not know much English. At school we were to
only speak English. There never was the option of a second language;
this made it quicker to learn English.
One summer when I was sixteen years old, my dad’s niece was
sick. She needed someone to help her do housework. My dad drove me
the thirty miles to her farm. She was hard to work for. This was the first
time that I had been away from home and I was very lonesome. I felt
lucky to only be there for one week.
When Pearl Harbor was bombed many of my classmates enlisted in
the army. Edwin Kemp, our neighbor boy, was only seventeen years old
when he went to fight in Europe. He was killed by machine gun fire. His
brother showed me the bullet holes across the waist of his uniform.
When I started dating Edward Snow, he always brought his guitar
to play and sing. We were married on August 13th, 1944. We were
blessed with three daughters
and one son. Edward died
December 18th, 1983.
In 1987, I retired and
moved to Stockton California
from Park Rapids, Minnesota.
I lived in a senior apartment
complex. My daughters lived
on the west coast so I was
able to see them more often.
My sister and brothers also
lived in Stockton.
My children: Michael, Christine,
Patricia, Kathleen & me.
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On June 1st, 1994, I moved back to Park Rapids, Minnesota, to
help my son Michael. He became a single parent and now had custody of
his daughter Dezerae. She was eight months old when I first saw her.
Today she is a freshman at North Valleys High School. From our toddler
tea parties to now seeing her off to the school sponsored dances, time
has really flown by. We moved to Reno, Nevada on June 1st, 2000. We
now live in Stead.
Life with all the sadness and happiness has made me who I am
now. My friend and walking partner Janet Pirozzi asked me to go with
her to Lifesscapes at Sparks Library. I am glad that I did as I have
learned so much from the stories of others. It brings back memories of
my life’s experiences. It has been wonderful to meet new friends who
enjoy sharing their stories of life.
Thank you, Lois* for guiding us in our writing and learning.
Deserae
*Lois Smyres is the Lifescapes leader at the Sparks Library in Sparks, NV.
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I DID IT HIS WAY, AND WAS GLAD!
Doris Spain
Born and raised in the state of New Jersey, it was not unusual for
me to return there after graduating from the University of New
Hampshire for my first real job. Graduation was on a Saturday; my first
day of work was the following Monday, in June, 1952.
The previous year, I had ventured into the office of the Head
Dietician at the local hospital in Montclair, New Jersey, to volunteer my
services during the summer months: to observe, assist, and learn what it
was like to be “on the job” as a dietician, and learn the dynamics of the
Dietary Department. Mountainside Hospital serviced about 300 patients,
had 5 dieticians on staff, and my proposal was readily accepted.
My major in college was Hospital Dietetics, and by serving and
observing in a hospital setting for 6 weeks and writing a paper on that
experience, I could earn 3 credits toward my senior year and graduation.
After serving that enlightening experience and learning so much, I
was offered a paying job for the rest of the summer, and also to stay on
without completing my senior year of college. The completion of college
was much too important to me, so I refused the job opportunity and
returned to the University. In doing so, I was offered a job upon
completion of my BS Degree and negotiated also to serve my internship
at Mountainside, providing they qualified for that program when I
returned. And qualified they became. Three years later, after completing
my work-experience program and passing my exams, I finally became a
Registered Dietician, a profession I have dearly loved for over 50 years.
Oh yes, my dad was instrumental in my becoming a dietician. It
was he who said, “If you go to college, you will study Home Economics
because you will end up getting married, and it will help you in that role,
and not be a waste of education and my money.” I was devastated,
because I was very involved in sports in high school and my career
choice was to become a physical education teacher or a coach. However,
I must admit, “Daddy knows best,” and I went off to college very
unhappy. I quickly learned that Hospital Dietetics was an option for me,
and career acceptable to my dad. A dietician I became, thanks to him!
My career in dietetics has been diversified, beginning and ending in
a hospital setting. In between times, I have enjoyed nutrition consulting,
being a nutrition resource teacher in the school system, working for the
state health department, writing a course on weight management,
accepting many speaking engagements, and raising three healthy sons.
I resigned from my Clinical Dietician’s position, serving two local
hospitals near my home in Incline Village, NV, at age 78.
Doris Spain, R.D., lives in Incline Village, NV.
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NEVER A BUTTERFLY
Annette Sprecher
It must have been those seven years in Portugal – still my spiritual
home – from late teens to early twenties. Of course, there were the ninemonth periods in the first two years at still more all-girl schools: first
being “finished” in Switzerland (really learning French), then “trained” in
London to be, hopefully, a good secretary and later combining both.
But that leaves, still, four years for emerging from my chrysalis:
years for making friends – some I still have – getting that first job, having
my first, serious boyfriend, and enjoying lots of activities, both jointly or
just with “the girls.”
The “Samba” had arrived, and finding most Englishmen danced
corner to corner with pump-handle arms, a few of us went dancing with
locals who possessed that inborn Latin rhythm. When they became “too
Latin,” we changed our ideas.
There was always a good base of English speaking young people,
some running long-time family businesses, having parents representing
companies like Shell Oil (mine), etc., or who were in the diplomatic corps
and some Anglo-Portuguese too. Also, and exclusively male – those
straight-from-English-Universities training in banking to go on later to
Brazil and elsewhere in South America, as well as other trainees of the
Eastern Telegraph Company.
So we went to the movies a lot, the girls, that is. The only cinema
in Estoril changed midweek and the films came a little late. We also
bathed in that cold sea, visited in each others’ homes – all girl stuff. But
there was sailing, tennis, beach parties and dancing as well. The family
of two of the boys had an unused cottage for changing rooms and a huge
bathing tank. That was a favorite place for swimming, eating, dancing or
listening to the records of the day: Vic Damone, Perry Como, and others.
When we actually went out dancing we dressed up in long dresses, the
boys unhappy in tuxes in summer. Our parents trusted us a great deal
and I doubt any of us ever thought about abusing that trust.
The annual visits from the U.S. and British navies were great fun
for the girls! We did have an obligation to go to the appropriate Embassy
to entertain the gobs/ratings, but on board receptions and parties in
private homes were more fun! So, our usual escorts were not too pleased
but it didn’t hurt them to miss us awhile!
And, yes, my first serious boyfriend. I didn’t get on too well with
men of my own age group individually, was not a real party girl, but
redeemed myself as an excellent dancer! Eric and I, however, hit it off for
some reason. He was a bank trainee and we were a pair for about 15
months. We were part of all group activities but enjoyed walking, train
rides up to Cintra Castle in the mountains close by, had a lot of fun
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playing table football with locals in the odd bodega, etc. He shipped off to
Rio and after a few letters, that was it. First heartbreak too! I still have
the classic French novels he gave me, which I had bound! They say you
always remember the first one and he was the only one until I met my
husband. We did have lunch some years later in New York. I had been
married some two years then and he and his Brazilian wife were
expecting number two.
The first job really fell into my lap: the newly formed (in Portugal
that was) Allied Commission for liquidating German assets there – I
mainly remember tungsten mines – needed a secretary who was
bilingual, which I was at that time, so I was it! Inter Embassy, French
(the boss that was actually assigned to do the work), U.S. and British. No
work permit needed, no taxes and
good pay. It was temporary (for 4
years!), erratic and interesting.
Commuting with Eric and others by
train and then on by tram was fun
– I was young! Later, when Eric had
gone and my folks left to go to
Guatemala, although sorry to leave
my lovely balcony room with a great
estuary view, and the fine, old-style
Portuguese house we rented, I
relished standing on my own two
feet, renting two rooms (large
bedroom, tiny sitting room above
the street) with full
My balcony room
board in a larger flat with
shared bathroom and
dining room and some weird
companions! It was five minutes from the office – not always a good idea
but great in the final weeks before I returned to England, as I often
worked after dinner to type up what had been discussed that day. And
walking alone at night was no problem.
Living in Lisbon, I got to know several Anglo-Portuguese families
and I also saw a lot of Lisbon and the country around. But we were all in
our 20’s now, some were engaged, my best friend (still, in Pennsylvania)
married, others moved away, so as the job wound down I made my move
back to London.
I had, hopefully, emerged fully from that chrysalis to become at
least a moth -- a nice one I hope -- but never a butterfly!
Annette Sprecher was born in England and educated there and wherever
else the family lived in Europe. Married in 1956, she and her American
husband retired to Reno in 1981 – a very good move.
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A LITTLE WHITE LIE FOR JUDI
Joyce Starling
I’ve struggled with the topic for this anthology. How do we grow
into who we are? What makes children raised in the same restrictive
climate turn out differently? Is it the nature of the child or the nurture
they receive? Or is it a little of both? The incident that follows illustrates
how my sister and I grew into the kind of adults we became.
My sister Judi was in trouble with our mother—a really bad place
to be. She had been cutting school. Not once or twice, but many times.
True to our mother’s usual method of punishment, poor Judi had been
talked to for hours, but shunned and barely spoken to when she wasn’t
being “talked to.” One afternoon when we were both home from school—
me from high school and Judi from elementary school—mother trotted
out the old “Why can’t you be more like Joyce Anne?” Judi hated this. I
hated this. I shot Judi a glance saying, “I’m sorry she does that.” Judi
shot me a glance I know meant, “You could always stop being so darn
perfect!” Then Judi said to mother, “I’ll bet your perfect Joyce Anne cut
school at least once.” There was a moment of silence. All three of us were
shocked at Judi’s impudence. No one sassed mother! Then mother slowly
turned to me. “Well, Joyce Anne, did you ever cut school?” I froze for a
second. I had a choice to make. I could lie and make Judi happy, or I
could tell the truth and avoid having mother’s wrath transferred to me. I
made the wrong choice. “No, I never cut school.” The look in Judi’s eyes
was heartbreaking. I’ll never forget it and I’ll always regret that I didn’t
tell a little white lie for Judi.
And so it went. Neither Judi nor I ever received direct approval for
our actions, but my position as the oldest meant that any behavior that
was approved of by our mother was held up as an example for Judi. She
was a good athlete, could be marvelously witty, and was very musical.
However, since there was no one younger than Judi to aspire to her
achievements, mother never mentioned them. Judi grew up assuming
that no one liked her. If she didn’t do well in class, it was always because
her teacher didn’t like her. When she became an adult, she felt her
bosses didn’t like her. Perhaps this was because she never felt that she
measured up. Although the two of us agreed that mother’s view of the
world wasn’t like everyone else’s, Judi didn’t seem to be able to get
beyond the criticism. She let her life be shaped by mother’s narrow
opinions. Her once adorable face became pinched and worried as an
adult. She possessed a self-deprecating wit that made you laugh, but at
the same time could be heartbreaking if you knew her well. Judi
contracted cancer, delayed seeking treatment and died in her forties.
Because I at least knew that some of the things I was good at were
valued, I think I was better able to overcome the negative treatment at
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home. I could take pleasure in doing well when I had the ability to do so.
It became important to me to do my best—for myself, not others. It didn’t
matter that I couldn’t dance, I had other talents! I grew up absolutely
knowing that I would never compare my children. I only hoped that I
would be capable of nurturing their individuality and unique strengths.
Luckily, I had children, and while I can’t claim to have been a perfect
mother (who can?), I know that I did not pass on my mother’s mistakes.
Judi and I at 2 and 8.
Funny, I can remember the dresses--Judi's was yellow and mine was blue.
Mother made them both.
Joyce Starling retired to Reno from Northern California in 2004. She enjoys
OLLI, Lifescapes in particular, and exploring Reno.
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CONUNDRUM: SPIRITUAL OR MATERIAL GIRL
Julie Sulahria
Ten years ago, when the waxy green leaves had stretched from
their stems, my best friend and I took our morning stretch walk, away
from the office. The foliage hung gently above our heads, the breeze
barely moving the spring air and the deep grey shadows twittered upon
our arms. “You know,” I said, “this is the closest I come to thinking about
a god—the sun above, light falling through the trees leaving its mark on
my skin, just as it would be anywhere, on anyone. This reminds me of
spirit. It delights me. We all belong to it. It is mine when it flutters right
there on my palm.”
From that moment, broad, multifaceted leaves have been my muse.
Cottonwood tree leaves look like hearts. Sophie Sheppard paintings of
leaves that float against a circle of red, between aspen tree trunks above
diaphanous fishes in a blackened pond—all symbols of Nevada for me.
Like we get to be where we are supposed to be.
In 1978, the first wall hanging I bought was a Tree of Life. Its
simplicity and abstract quality remind me of the marble floral vines
embedded in sandstone of the Badshahi Mosque in Lahore. Three marble
cupola’s ethereally suspend above the buildings gallery arches, once
inside every arcade ceiling is drawn and painted differently, on the right
the designs are geometric and on the left open and fluid, and each is
different from the other, yet all make you feel like you might be under the
tree of sunshine. That memory resides with me, along with…. I was
supposed to meet and marry Bashir, so that I could go there to feel the
physicality of spirit or god.
The Badshahi Mosque was first, and then became second after the
Taj Mahal, that most embraced spirit in the built environment, for me.
These two designs, framed upon the flat land of Moghul emperors,
seemed feminine to me. The enclosed space filled with rich foliage, yet
there is all this open space inside. Not cluttered, open for seeing beyond.
Mental space, meditative space, space between thoughts caught
my imagination. I wanted to make work that suspended or represented
the suspension of “monkey-mind.” So I played with space between the
leaves and the shadows—could feel separateness and yet the tension
between the leaves and the flickering sunlight and its mark on a surface
below it. I have experimented and put down water to see what happens
with the color, how it spreads, dilutes, back washes and dries. It is in the
moment, moving, smoothing over the paper, always stopping where the
water stops, so there are spaces. I like it when the white paper shows
through, becoming the reverse of the mark—like a little prayer or answer.
My mother loved irises and my son wrote heartfelt words about
her. I wanted to put the two together, to sustain the relationship now
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that it was gone, painting floppy flowers or abstract irises might work for
this idea. It didn’t, flowers her - words his, it had to wait.
I discovered The Book of Hours, a thirteenth-century reader for
nuns that artist and calligrapher Carol Pallesen adapted to a
contemporary book making workshop. We tear the paper, select color
palettes, and paint. I have written in one of these books excerpts from
Bashir’s memoir. I used our wedding colors: red and gold, Urdu
calligraphy in the background, lined the pages, coordinated the pens and
strokes with designs, sometimes the gestures on the pages reflected the
written words of coming to America, bringing our family, making our
family—a litany of joys and concerns. It’s a living legacy of our temporal
existence.
Monkey mind is alive and well and moving. Since the Iris/words
combo didn’t work, this technique remained at my fingertips. I was
chagrined. Flower, flowers, all been done before, not so edgy or abstract,
but beauty arouses something within us, it activates emotion and
response. I walk into the Kimball Art Museum in Fort Worth thinking I
am going to see an Ancient Egyptian pharaoh-ess, one was a woman –
that alone would have made the trip a success. Stopping me in my tracks
were two Chinese silk panels of lotuses – flowers yes, with floppy leaves.
The text panels spoke to me because they were hung at the entrance of
temples in the 14th century! They showed that the murky basin nurtures
the stems to grow above the pond water and bloom into lotus blossoms,
mimicking life and living through challenges, murk, up through the
water, blossoming into paradise. Beauty transcends difficulty. The space
between the blossoms provides moments of relief, like meditation and
color mixing in water. Space, symbol, practice, non-thinking and
paradise were embodied by these temple door entrance tableaus. This
brought me meaning, so paint away.
A quick notation of places that inspire and bring me pause is my
way to return to favorite retreats, giving me another chance to stop and
meander or come back to the present moment. Splashes of color, open
spaces and the shapes within open a distracted mind for a sense of
peace.
Capturing open spaces, allowing the white to peek though the
color, providing for a restful quieting of my mind, is essential to my mark
making in this physical world. Conundrum solved—I am the material
spiritual girl.
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Watercolor by Julie Sulahria.
Julie Sulahria did interior design, wrote a textbook in the 70’s, then
worked in city planning and land acquisition, retiring in 2003. She gives
tours at the Nevada Museum of Art, corresponds, UUFNN presentations
and travels to inspirational points around the world.
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GROWTH MEDIUM AND GROWTH
M. Bashir Sulahria
Once upon a time, a thirteen year old boy skips seventh grade
class and walks to the Railway Station across from the school. He
empties his piggy bank and tells the clerk, “Roundtrip ticket please.”
“Where do you want to go son?”
“As far as these coins will take me,” the boy responds.
The clerk selects a 1X3 inch thin cardboard stock, inserts it into
an iron gaping press and then he quickly pulls out the stamped ticked
which says, “Chowinda and Back.” He lowers his wire rimmed spectacles
and gazes intently, handing me the ticket and advises,
“Make sure that you return home. The ticket is good for one day
only and the last train from Chowinda is 3:00 p.m. and besides you don’t
want to worry your family.”
The next day my teacher believed me when I told him that, for
some unknown urge, I took the very first train ride into the countryside
to think about life’s questions,
“What is life about? Where did we come from and where are we
going?”
I told him I walked among the lush spring wheat fields and sat
looking at and hearing the birds. I fell asleep under the warm sun as I
laid down gazing at the blue sky.
“Did you come up with the answers?”
“No, Sir.”
“Keep thinking,” he smiled as he handed me the homework that I
missed the day before.
Half a century later, I still ponder. Do we ever change or do we only
grow into who we really are? The age old question between nature and
nurture needles me. I learned much and felt special, being the first one
to graduate from high school among my extended family of hundreds in
generations. Later I realized that my mind and visionary horizons
expanded further because of higher education opportunities both at
home and in the US. I worked and traveled most of the world. Did I
change? Did I become different than what was in my core and heart? I
think not.
Ideas and ideals grew freely as I experienced different creeds,
cultures and colors of my fellow human beings. Is our hard wired brain
molded and reshaped only to the extent that the software of culture and
creed is successful in pushing our psyche toward progressive or
regressive directions?
How is it that within the same culture and circumstances, some
people take grave risks siding with the oppressed and work against
overwhelming tides of regressive values and inequalities? Abraham
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Lincoln pushed aside the wishes of his conservative constituency and
emancipated slaves that nearly broke up the Union. Gandhi convinced
millions of Indians having different ethnic and religious backgrounds not
to confront the British, but rather cooperate with each other in peaceful
civil disobedience for freedom. Reverend Martin Luther King used his
pulpit not to spread hate, but rather to appeal to the decency and sense
of justice of American people and led the civil rights movement, nearly
completing the work that Abraham Lincoln set in motion a century ago.
Often common people have shown empathy rather than ignorant
arrogance against prevailing cruelty, injustice and discrimination.
History knows these people. One only has to dig and sift through the
polarized writings of the victors.
Growing into what we are is the subject for this year’s anthology. I
am convinced that I was born with decent core values. Despite growing
up in a culture with a creed that, like so many others, leads one to
believe that we are the chosen ones and are the only ones who are on the
right path, I always felt there were many paths to a destination. More
importantly, it is not the destination that matters, rather it is the deeds
we do along life’s journey that really make the difference and complete
one’s life purpose on earth.
I have grown into a person who has acquired knowledge,
experienced the ups and downs of life and still ask the same questions,
except now my curiosity involves more reason and rationality with an
overall concern for my fellow human beings.
Bashir Sulahria, from Pakistan, obtained a Ph.D. in Hydrology at
University of Nevada, Reno and retired from the Bureau of Land
Management. He likes long walks, politics, creative writing and traveling.
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HOW I GREW INTO BEING AN ARTIST
Stephen Tchudi
My elementary school art career was not successful. A lot of it had
to do with shading, which Mrs. Beardsley, the once-a-week art teacher,
explained over and over, but which I just didn’t get. I confused shading
with shadows. When she called for more shading to add dimension to a
picture, I just drew long shadows coming out of people and objects.
Something else was wanted.
In junior high, Mrs. Beardsley was still coming in once a week, but
it was my buddies and I who figured out how to draw in three
dimensions, so you didn’t actually need shading. It was 1954, and 3-D
comics had just come out. You wore cardboard glasses with one red lens
and one green, and the pictures had depth—in fact, stuff popped off the
page! We studied the drawings with glasses off and saw that there were
actually two images, printed in green and red very close together. With
the glasses filtering the colors separately, each eye saw a single image
that the brain then put into 3-D. We fooled around drawing almost
parallel lines in red and green pencil, and when we donned the glasses—
Eureka!—our drawings took on depth! If you drew the green line farther
and farther to the right from the red, what you drew appeared to have
greater depth. And—get this—if you reversed things and drew the green
to the left of the red, objects popped off the page. We could draw flames
that would singe your eyebrows, bullets and arrows and daggers that
were headed straight for your heart.
So for parents’ night in seventh grade, my pals and I created 3-D
drawings that we left displayed on our desks, tying a pair of the
necessary glasses to the desk so parents could view the art. My drawing
was of a mountain climber suspended by a rope from a sheer cliff. In the
distance (green line far to the right), was a deep river valley like the ones
Wiley Coyote falls into in cartoons. Above the climber (drawn with green
to the left so it popped off the page), was a huge falling boulder that
would obviously send him to his doom in the valley below. His face bore a
three dimensional look of surprise, terror, and fatalism. This was Great
Art! The next day, my parents made kind remarks about my picture but
were clearly puzzled by it and me. And the next time Mrs. Beardsley
came to class she gave the 3-D artists a look that said, “Harumph!”
My art career went on hold through college, but in graduate
school, on impulse, I signed up for a course in cartooning taught at the
YMCA night school. I enjoyed that and teamed up with a fellow grad
student who was a gag writer to submit cartoons to national magazines.
In those days, the New Yorker, paid $100 for a cartoon, and we figured
that if we just published one a week and split the fee, we could give up
our assistantships—give up grad school altogether—and become
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professional cartoonists. Unfortunately, the New Yorker and every other
magazine rejected our work. I thought it was because my friend’s gags
were not funny; he said it was because of my lousy art.
More time passed—forty years, in fact—and I retired from my
career as teacher-not-artist. I had enjoyed photography for a number of
years, but with the advent of digital point-and-shoot plus Photoshop, a
lot of the challenge of photography had disappeared. So I hired a former
student who had minored in art to teach me the basics of pencil drawing.
On a long bicycle trip in Europe, I sent my daily drawings as postcards to
my friends and family. A year later, I graduated to pen-and-ink with
water color and again sent postcards far and wide.
To refine my emerging skills, I signed up for a watercolor class
through Washoe County. On opening night the teacher made everybody
say, “My name is __________, and I’m an artist.” When it came my turn, I
could only stammer out the word “ar-ar-ar-t-t-tsk.” It would have been
easier to say, “I’m an alcoholic.” I still didn’t feel like an artist.
Then Lifescapes let me put one of my paintings on the cover of the
anthology. And the next year, you invited me to do it again! And this
year makes three. You have allowed me to grow into thinking of myself of
an artist, and for that I am deeply grateful.
Moreover, if you look closely at this year’s cover, you will find both
shading and shadow. Mrs. Beardsley, I now know the difference.
I’m an artist.
Stephen Tchudi was one of the founders of Lifescapes while he taught at
UNR; now retired, he is an organic farmer and peace and justice activist in
Yankee Hill, California.
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IT’S GOTTA BE FAIR
Susan Tchudi
We were sitting on the floor of the living room watching the Lew
King Show. I was probably about eight years old, and she was probably
just a little younger than I was. It was the only time I ever went into her
home, and I don't even remember her name. My mother must have had
to fill in for a missing worker at my dad's store in South Phoenix.
Otherwise, I don't know why I ended up in this little girl's house in the
same block as my dad's store in the “bad” part of town. Tonight the little
black girl with the big voice was singing. My hostess said, “She's my
favorite, and it's not just because she's colored.”
I think that little girl's statement was the beginning of my
awareness of race.
Oh, I knew that there were “colored” people (the polite term in the
1950s) and Mexicans. Most of my father's customers were black and
hispanic, and I spent a lot of time at the store. And I knew “we” must be
“superior” to them. I knew that by the way my parents talked about
people of color.
Unwittingly, I think, my father taught me racial sensitivity. He was
a member of the South Phoenix Optimist Club, and every year we stuffed
Christmas stockings to give away to the poor kids. I knew he extended
credit to people who were between paychecks, and he gave away food to
people who ran out of money. But I also knew that we were different,
superior.
In March of 1965, as a junior at Southern Methodist University, I
was determined to join the march from Selma to Montgomery, Alabama,
in support of voting rights. I had become involved with the Civil Rights
Movement through the church organizations on campus and had
participated in Civil Rights activities in Dallas. This was the third
attempt to march from Selma to Montgomery, and the brutal treatment
of marchers on the first attempt had motivated people across the country
to join the effort.
In order to participate I needed my parents' permission. For the
past couple of years, my father and I had been having fights about civil
rights for black people. He was enraged that I would spend time worrying
about “coloreds” when I should be doing more important things. My
father refused to give his permission. After a number of agitated long
distance phone conversations, my mother interceded on the sly, and sent
her signed permission. On March 25, 1965, I joined 25,000
demonstrators who marched to the steps of the capitol building in
Montgomery, Alabama, to hear Martin Luther King speak.
My sense of fairness is deeply rooted. For me being fair is a Truth.
It is in play when I think one individual or a group doesn't have the same
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opportunities as the privileged in our society. And if people have been
held back or held down, I believe in compensatory action. I believe we
“owe” African Americans for all of the ways our society has oppressed
them and then held them back and left them out. I think Japanese
Americans interred in World War II deserve the compensatory payment
they received and more. I believe that we have not yet done what we need
to do—financially or socially—to compensate American Indians for the
ways they have been treated throughout American history. We can never,
never repay that debt, but we sure ought to start trying. And I believe
that veterans are owed big time for not just the injuries—but the
traumas—they've suffered when our middle-aged leaders put them in
horrendous situations.
Now we're in the midst of the fight for equality for gays and
lesbians. “Separate” is not equal. When some people can get married
and others can have civil unions, that's not fair. And marriage is not the
only obstacle homosexuals face. Witness Leslie Hagen, the Department of
Justice attorney who, in 2006, was fired because of rumors she was a
lesbian.
Last year, when California's supreme court ruled that same-sex
marriages were legal, our county recorder coincidentally decided the
recorder's office didn't have the resources to marry people. So, I decided
that's something I could do. I married couples under the auspices of the
Universal Life Church at the Chico Peace and Justice Center. Right now,
we're experiencing some backlash from people who are somehow
frightened by homosexuals. So until everyone can get married again, I'm
taking a respite from performing ceremonies. It seems like the fair thing
to do.
Susan Tchudi retired from the UNR English Department after teaching
for 30 years (16 at UNR). She now works in Butte County on TurkeyTail
Farm, the family farm, growing flowers and vegetables and occasionally
helping with the animals--sheep, pigs, goats, chickens and ducks. She
and her husband Stephen have a weekly radio show on KZFR 90.1 Chico,
where they interview guests and focus on international, national, and
regional environmental issues. She also tries to support a fairer
world through her work with the Chico Peace and Justice Center.
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EARLY MORNING TRAPPING
George L. Thomson
When I awoke one morning recently, it was a little chilly. That
evoked memories from my childhood. When I was sixteen in 1948, I got
up early each morning to milk the cows. During the fall and winter I had
a trap line on my Uncle Frank’s creek. It was about a half mile long on
West Buffalo Creek in Buchanan County, Iowa. I had to drive one and a
half miles each way on a tractor without even a wind screen. To shorten
my tractor ride, I cut through the farm of another of my Duckett family
relatives. I then put on waders to my hips and started walking up the
creek. By walking up the creek, I avoided the severe drop off created by
the upstream current. I put my traps near the bank as my father taught
me. The muskrats had places whey slid from the bank into the creek
from the surrounding ground. The stake to hold the trap was a forked
dry tree branch that was sharpened at the tip. The fork kept the trap
from sliding off. When the muskrat sprung the trap with his foot, he tried
to swim away but got tangled in the stake and drowned.
Trapping was done in the fall and winter when it was cold. The fur
of the animals was thickest at that time of the year and produced better
pelts. By the end of the trapping season, the morning temperatures were
only a little above zero. When it got this cold, the running water in the
creeks froze. Just before this happened I took in my traps, closing the
season.
Each day I brought my catch home and put them in the cellar
where they would not freeze. That night my dad and I would skin the
muskrats and put them inside out on a torpedo shaped board to dry.
Periodically a fur buyer would come by and offer us a price depending on
the size and condition of the pelt and market prices. We usually got three
to five dollars for each muskrat pelt. On the last day of the trapping
season as I was picking up my traps, I caught a very large mink. The
milk pelt sold for thirty dollars which was a lot of money in 1948; about
the price of my high school graduation ring as I remember. That made all
the getting up early, riding in an open tractor, and wading an almost
frozen creek seem worthwhile.
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TRANSITION
Vickie Vera
My Mother was perfect in my eyes. She was loving, compassionate,
stylish, even glamorous, generous, thoughtful, and all the other fine
qualities one hopes to find in a human being. She was a great cook, a
great homemaker/decorator, a diligent nurse, talented, and she was my
friend, my defender, my mentor, my example to copy. I do believe it’s true
that what you learn, experience, or are taught by age three will be the
foundation for what you will be as an adult, and for the rest of your life.
It is also true that at some point, either in the teens or young
adulthood, children begin to rebel against the ideas of their parents to
become their own person, and form their own ways of doing things, or
viewing the world. It was then I suddenly became critical of the woman I
had once idolized. She hadn’t changed to my knowledge, but I had.
Nothing terribly significant, I just began to realize I did not see eye to eye
on a lot of subjects, and it was often times a bone of contention. For
example, it annoyed me to hear my mother tell her friends how much
she’d paid for something if say they complimented her on her couch or
some other item. I’d tell her, “Why do you do that, brag, it’s as if you are
a mercenary or haughty?” to which she’d get angry. Another example was
when someone would give her a present. She’d be grateful, but would
turn around, and immediately give them something in return. It was as if
she couldn’t just say, “Thank you,” and let it go at that. It seemed to me
that she was trying to outdo them in the generosity department, instead
of just being gracious and humble, and returning the favor at a later
date. It seemed to take away from the other person’s generosity.
As the years passed, I saw my mother as a human being with the
same imperfections like every other person, and no longer at the top of
the pedestal where I’d placed her decades ago. As a child I could be
around her all the time, but as an adult within 30 minutes we were
usually at each other’s throats over differences of opinion.
My dear mother passed away four years ago, and I doubt a day
goes by that I don’t think of her, sometimes about things she did that
just infuriated me to no end, and other times when I miss her so, and all
the things we did together, and her phone calls to see how I was if I was
sick.
I’m thankful she lived to see all of her grandchildren, and at least
six of her great-grandchildren. I’d like to think that thanks to her
teachings and example that I have become a decent human being, and
mother. There are many areas in which we differ. She always kept an
immaculate house. I feel, to always be cleaning is a waste of my precious
time on this earth when there are other pursuits, more exciting, I’d
rather explore. So my kids, most of the time, felt they were living in one
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of those antique/junk stores where the isles are so narrow, and dust
covering all the mysterious looking trinkets, that one must walk sideways
almost to get through. I cook the same dishes as my Mother, only her
always tasted to much better. She was modern, classic, and stylish. I’m
ethnic, wild, and eccentric.
Sometimes I wonder where I’d gone wrong since four of my six
children always seemed to be up to some mischief, or in some sort of
trouble, and I had never given my parents one moment of grief or stress,
except maybe when I was sick.
I’m older now, and a tiny bit wiser, a grandmother myself, and
when I look back on my life and the events that have transpired, I see
plainly my own faults that I wish I could take back, or change. Harsh
words I wish had never been uttered, but I think all in all I turned out
pretty good, and I owe it all to a mother who cared enough to teach me
manners, etiquette, compassion, confidence, love, spirituality, humor,
and whatever else I possess, even the same stubborn streak. My Mother
is once again atop that pedestal where she will remain for time and all
eternity in my eyes. I miss her every single day, and I choose to think
that who I am today is all due to the example she set.
My Mother, Mary Olive Walker
Vickie, a mother of six, had to wait until her children were more selfsufficient to pursue her interest in art and writing. She would someday like
to combine the two.
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PINECREST PICNIC
Marcella Waetermans
My mother was the greatest influence on whom I have become as
an adult. Since 1951 my mother, my brother, and I travelled for a week
to the summer cabin of my mom’s friend, Rita Convery. Rita was the
office manager of the law firm where my mother had worked as a legal
secretary.
One of my fondest memories dates back to the summer of 1956
when I was 11. Rita’s cabin was on Pinecrest Lake, outside of Sonora in
the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Rita’s cabin was one of only eight cabins
on the “other side” of the lake across from the marina. It could only be
reached by boat across Pinecrest Lake. Since my mother, my brother and
I were raised in San Francisco, Pinecrest was a wonderful chance for us
to experience the country life. My mother was usually a proper model of
an attorney’s wife.
Rita’s cabin was small and rustic. My mother taught my brother
and me to adapt to the country and rustic aspects of Rita’s cabin.
We all slept outside on a sleeping porch. There was an outhouse
and a rustic bathroom building. We had running cold water, but we had
to build a fire to get hot water for a shower. The drain pipe in the
bathroom just went outside the little building to drip onto the ground.
Frogs often took up residence in the bottom part of the pipe and would
leap out of the pipe into the building whenever the water was turned on.
We soon learned that, when we brushed our teeth, we would turn the
water on, duck to the right and let the frog jump over our left shoulder
while we giggled and brushed.
Every morning we got up at dawn and Rita would take us fishing
in her rustic, green putt-putt motor boat. We would buy worms at the
little store by the marina. Rule #1 was that each person had to put their
own worms on the hook. My mom taught me how to do it. I was
surprised that my mom knew how and was not at all squeamish.
Each early evening we would go fishing again in the boat. This was
really the best time of the day to fish. You could see the fish jumping for
the flies and bugs hovering over the water’s surface. However, just
trolling on this most pristine high mountain lake was a breathtaking
experience even to a little tomboy girl.
On one evening each visit we would have a picnic at “the point.”
“The point” was a small jetty of land that jutted into to lake where the
river entered the lake at the east end. We could see the many large logs
which had drifted down the river toward the lake. Since I was a Girl
Scout, I was in charge of gathering the wood and making the fire.
Thankfully, Rita always brought matches. Rita and my mom would cook
the food over the fire. There were no grates, or pits, just nature. We
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would sit on “the point”, enjoy a wonderful meal, soak in the beauty of
the lake, the mountains, and watch the sunset.
As soon as the sun set, we headed back to Rita’s cabin so we could
use the waning light to get home. There was a rustic narrow pier near the
cabin where we tied up the boat. That year, when we got back to dock,
Rita and my mom each carried a cardboard box full of picnic supplies.
My brother and I were still in the boat gathering the fishing equipment.
All of a sudden, Rita fell into the lake with her cardboard box.
Fortunately, the lake was only about 3 feet deep at that point. My mom
reached over to give Rita a hand back onto the pier. In an instant, my
mother was also waist deep in the lake with her cardboard box. My mom
and Rita just stood there and laughed. They laughed so hard they almost
dropped their boxes. My brother and I joined them in laughter because
we were so relieved that they were not upset or mad. My city born and
bred dignified mother, was just laughing herself silly standing in the
lake. That evening I saw a side of my mother that I had never seen
before.
This is one of my fondest memories of my mom. She taught me
that one could be a lady and still have fun in a very un-ladylike
predicament. One can adapt to the ways of Paris, Rome, or the ways of
Pinecrest.
Marcella Waetermans is a California native and new resident to Reno in
2008 after retiring as an attorney from California. She is married, has two
grown sons, and two little granddaughters.
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PHOTOGRAPHER, BASKETMAKER, WRITER,
WHO AM I?
Billie Walker
Prior to my retirement in 1987, I did flower portrait photography
and some of Lake Tahoe and Pyramid Lake (my favorite places).
In 1987, when I retired I joined the Great Basin Basketmakers and
no longer had “the feeling” for photography.
For many years I had the desire to write the story of my family, but
didn’t know how to go about it. Then I joined Lifescapes and lost the
overwhelming desire to make a basket, and wrote my book. Now we have
an assignment to write something for the anthology and ever since we
received the assignment I’ve had writer’s block and can’t think of
anything to write, but I do have a sudden desire to finish a basket I’ve
had in my studio for a very long time. I also went through many
photographs in envelopes and put them in albums and will make photo
cards someday.
So who have I grown into? A satisfied, happy person with a large
house full of all my photography equipment, basket and beading
supplies, two studios (a studio is a room that doesn’t get cleaned), and a
caring husband who helps carry all the equipment and supplies. When I
was doing photography he said if I got one more thing to carry, I had to
get another person to take his place.
I’m happy and thank the Lord every day for all I have and have
grown into.
Billie Walker moved to the Reno
area in 1960 with her husband
Bob. She worked at Washoe
Medical Center until her
retirement in 1987 when she took
up basket making, beading and
sewing. She always enjoyed
writing letters and wanted to
write the story of her family. She
joined Lifescapes in 2006 and has
fulfilled her desire.
Bob and Billie Walker
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ROCKY ROAD
Barbara Rae Weiss
“Train up a child in the way he should go; and when he is old, he
will not depart from it.” (King James Version, Proverbs 23:6)
Seems reasonable and probably many new parents try to follow
this admonition. Some succeed, others fail; most fall in the middle as
individuality, experience, societal and peer pressures chime in.
The early times of the eldest baby of a young couple can be
halcyon, bathed in the love of doting parents and extended family,
cuddled, cosseted, admired and praised. But with time come more
babies, more responsibility, more chores, and demands for maturity. Life
starts to be work.
For me, kindergarten was the beginning of the end. Outside the
safety and comfort of the home, life seemed dangerous and hurtful.
Children can be contentious, rude, cruel, selfish, etc., etc., ad infinitum.
Worse, teachers and other adults were judgmental, unfair and unjust.
Everything had to be their way, on their schedule, to their standards,
and heaven help the child who resisted, showed independence or
innovation, or protested unfairness. I HATED school! For some reason I
always felt put down, afraid, ashamed, belittled, worthless, etc. My
parents set the bar high, and I came to believe that I had to measure up,
or else. My response was to draw away, isolate myself, and crawl into a
book. If I wasn’t involved, nobody could hurt me, I hoped.
Fat chance! I was immature, insecure and totally intimidated.
Consequently, although I knew I was bright, I was inhibited in creativity,
confidence, and social skills.
After graduating from college I made a bad marriage with the
wrong man for the wrong reason, and everything got worse. Seven years
and three daughters later I knew it was hopeless. Not only did I have to
connive and fight for every penny to care for my girls adequately, but I
realized I couldn’t protect them, or myself. Divorce was imperative, and
ugly.
Twelve years later, the girls were in college. The future looked
bleak, with little to hope for after all those years of working (usually) two
jobs.
In 1984 I came to Reno, where I finally began to heal. First I had to
admit what a mess my life had been, then start rebuilding. . . .
It’s been twenty-two years, and at first it wasn’t easy, but gradually
I came to forgive myself, to acknowledge what I have done and now can
do. I’ve learned confidence and pride, that fear and danger need not rule
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our lives, or warp our hopes. Comfort, confidence, hope and security
have come home to roost instead. Gee, have I finally grown up?
(King James Version, Corinthians 13:11) “When I was a child, I
spoke as a child, understood as a child, thought as a child (mostly): but
now that I have become a woman, I’ve learned to value and delight in
childish things.” (My paraphrase)
Barbara Rae Weiss was born in New England and raised in central
Pennsylvania. After her children were grown, she made a major life
change. Since moving to Reno her horizons have widened and her
creativity has blossomed.
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LETTING GO
Marcy Welch
As a child, I had only one sister and always wished for a big family.
As a newlywed I hoped we’d have 6 children. As a first time mother, I
thought one would be just fine. My husband said we should have two so
I agreed and six years after our second child, the twins arrived.
I really loved being a mother with all the trips to the park, the
beach, school, sports events and emergency room visits it entailed. I
loved reading to each of the children and seeing them capture the written
word in turn. I wondered how I could ever bring myself to let them go on
to lives of their own.
Ty, a close friend since 4th grade, started her family ahead of me
and had already sent one or both of her children off to college by the time
I asked her how she did it. She answered firmly and without hesitation,
“When they are ready to go, you’ll be ready to let them go.”
Now that I have sent all four of my own off I think that, for me, it
has had something to do with my feeling that we all have a certain stage
of our children’s lives that we felt particularly equipped to handle. Bill,
my husband, was wonderful with our infants with whom I felt a bit
insecure. He held them, rocked them, and walked them. He made their
bottles and changed even the most horrendous messes. Once they
became ambulatory though, they were mine. He was not the father to
take his son to the hardware store without his son’s mother in
attendance.
On the other hand I delighted in their walking and talking and in
my ability to understand them. From 2 to 12 they were all I could have
dreamed of.
Then came 13, that nightmare year, followed by the teenage years
that neither Bill nor I felt genetically equipped to handle. I remember
thanking God for sending the twins, who still thought we were right and
good and kind, to help us get through the older children’s teens, for
whom we were never right. I wondered that God would do for us once the
twins became teens! (The answer to that one is that the two older, no
longer teens, came back to help us all understand each other!)
Getting back to letting go, my friend Ty was right. As each of these
teens was ready for college, Bill and I were ready to have this querulous
person move on to learn things they could no longer learn from us. One
month after sending the twins to college my father suffered a stroke and
came to live with us. Our nest was never really empty.
Pop died a few years ago; we are retiring. There is finally time for
the memories of the children we read to and tucked in bed, as that first
son is doing now for a son of his own. Our children have become
interesting and talented and kind adults with full and busy lives of their
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own in cities far from home. Bill has developed Parkinson’s disease. As
we age, I can foresee our thoughts turning to our own, last, letting go.
I was raised mostly in the tiny borough of Allenhurst, New Jersey, 2½
blocks from the Atlantic Ocean. I received an AA degree from Briarcliff
College, a small, girl’s, junior college in Briarcliff Manor, New York followed
by a BA from the University of California, Berkeley. (Yes, in the 60’s!) I
married my Berkeley sweetheart 2 years later and we lived in Kansas and
just outside Boston before moving to Reno where we have raised our four
children. I retired in June 2007 from 17 years of church work, first with
children and then with seniors.
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SURVIVAL IN A SNOW CAVE
Floyd Whiting
My climbing partner, Hank, and I started snowshoeing our way
toward the summit of Oregon’s Mt. Hood at 6:00 am on a winter morning
in 1975. Before departing from Timberline Lodge, we signed our names in
the climbers’ register that records the departure and return times of
those who challenge the steep slopes of the mountain.
As the Lodge receded behind us we were careful to take a compass
bearing delineating our direction of travel. We wore snow shoes for the
ascent and carried skis for the planned descent. After six hours of
arduous effort, storm clouds began building up and Hank declared, “It
doesn’t look like we are going to reach the summit today. Let’s call it a
day and head back.” But by the time we had exchanged our snowshoes
for skis, a full fledged blizzard was battering us with howling wind and
freezing snow. As we lurched down the mountain the compass route we
had established became our lifeline to safety. Suddenly, Hank tumbled
over a small drop-off and I crashed down on top of him. It seems that we
had deviated toward a drop off into the White Water drainage which was
a potential death trap. As darkness enveloped us, it was evident that our
only chance for survival was to hollow out a snow cave that would
protect us until the storm was over. At a spot where about three feet of
soft snow lay on top of the hard ice of the underlying glacier we hollowed
out a very thin shaft on top of the ice that had enough snow above it to
form a roof. The snow cave had a small opening at one end, then a 90
degree turn for the main section where we would recline in the tiny gap
between the snowy ceiling and the icy floor until the storm blew over.
The blizzard continued to howl throughout the night as we lay flat on
our backs shivering against the sub-freezing temperature. Despite the
terrible discomfort, both Hank and I would periodically drift off into a
fitful sleep until our shivering, aching bodies would awaken us from our
intermittent slumber.
As the hours dragged on I struck a match to check the time on my
watch. But the match immediately fizzled out, followed by a second, then
a third. Hank suddenly yelled, “My God, Floyd. There’s not enough
oxygen in here for a match to even burn!” Fearing suffocation, I grabbed
my ski pole and thrust it through the roof, hoping that the entire
structure would not collapse on top of us. This created a saucer-sized
hole which permitted snow falling through the gap to melt on my face.
Meanwhile, when we did not return home, my wife, Judi, feared that
we might have been in a car wreck on the way back from our climb. After
calling law enforcement agencies to no avail, a friend finally suggested
she call Timberline Lodge to learn if we had signed back in on the
climbers’ register. Her query to the clerk who answered the phone got the
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reply, “I’m sorry,” he said. “Your climbers haven’t signed back in. They
must still be out in this storm.” Judi was so relieved that we had not
been in a car wreck that all she could exclaim was “Oh, Thank God.”
The poor guy surely thought that a happy widow must be looking
forward to a nice insurance settlement.
Hank and I survived an uncomfortable night and planned to ski back
to the Lodge when it was light enough to find our way. But the storm
continued to rage throughout the day. As it was a struggle to wiggle out
of the cave without knocking down the fragile roof, we mostly stayed
stationary inside. With no food and frozen canteens, we began to feel
thirsty. So I reached up to the ceiling of our cave and shaped a portion of
the soft snow into a nipple-shaped stalactite. I then took a metal band
aid can from my first aid kit and used it to collect the drops of water as
they fell from the nipple.
Hank and I made it through a second night in our frigid shelter, but
at dawn the sky observed through the saucer-shaped hole above my face
appeared to still be a stormy grey.
Unbeknownst to us, by Monday morning
rescuers were already in a snow cat speeding
up the mountainside. Hank and I were lying
inside our snow cave when we heard the faint
hum of the approaching motor. That sound
energized our lethargic bodies and we both
exploded through the roof of our shelter,
surprising our rescuers who had seen the tips
of our skis barely protruding above the
smooth expanse of the newly fallen snow.
They assumed we had abandoned the skis
and were coming over for a closer look.
Although Hank and I both had frozen feet, we were still able to walk
from the snow cat to the crowd of reporters and rescuers who were
waiting for us at Timberline Lodge. The doctor at the scene carefully
removed our ski boots and slowly immersed our feet into buckets of
warm water to begin the thawing process. Then we were whisked down
the mountainside to a hospital in the Portland area where we were
joyfully reunited with our worried spouses.
The two days I spent trapped in a snow cave on Mt. Hood was a
daunting experience. The ordeal gave me the opportunity to appreciate
the joy of living.
Floyd Whiting has been retired for 3 years and still enjoys outdoor
activities. In the past couple of years he has joined Hank, his former
climbing partner, in backpacking through the Grand Canyon and Yosemite
National Park. In 2008 they both spent 4 days backpacking on skis
around Crater Lake and camping in the snow, using tents rather than
snow caves.
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A MAN FOR AUNT PETEY
Judi Whiting
I owe much of my happy childhood to the fact that Ruth and Petey
came west in 1945, when I was 4, after graduating from Teacher’s
College in North Dakota. My mother’s younger sister and her college
roommate took teaching positions in a small town near Vancouver,
Washington, where my parents and I lived. Each weekend they came to
stay with us in the “big” city. I called them both “Aunt” and they called
me “my favorite niece.” The fact that I was the only niece didn’t change
how important it made me feel.
Much of the talk when my “aunts” were visiting revolved around
how to catch a man. Ruth had begun dating a friend of Dad’s from the
shipyards, but Petey remained manless. When Christmas time came, I
listened every afternoon to Santa Claus reading kids’ Christmas want
lists on the radio. I worked hard on my letter and mailed it without my
mother’s knowledge. The next time someone said, “We’ve got to find a
man for Petey,” I said, “Oh, I wrote to Santa, and I’m sure he will bring
her a man.”
After that, the whole family gathered around the radio to listen to
Santa, waiting in terror for him to read my request to please bring a man
for Aunt Petey. He never did read it, and for a long time I didn’t
understand why I’d caused such a furor.
I thought of Ruth and Petey as my big sisters. They taught me to
knit, and I worked away on my square of blue yarn while they turned out
argyles for their male friends. They cut up their old clothes to make
designer outfits for me. My favorite, a fitted red wool coat, lasted almost
three winters then met a disastrous end when I got too close to the
electric wall heater in our new home in Salem.
My first big social event was “Aunt”
Petey’s birthday party. Her actual birthday
was in July, but she objected to celebrating in
the summer when her school friends were not
available. So during her college years she had
chosen April 1 as her special date. In spring
of 1946, the war was over and everyone was
in the mood for fun, so Ruth and Mom
decided to have a surprise birthday party for
Petey. Going with the April Fool’s theme, they
bought red-hot chewing gum disguised as
Petey
Chiclets. When guests needed to cool their
mouths, they were offered water in dribble glasses that soaked their
chests. The cake was a three tier beauty frosted in pink and white. But
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when Petey tried to cut into it, she discovered that there was no cake
under the frosting—only cardboard boxes. The huge present was, of
course, full of smaller and smaller wrapped boxes. I was allowed to stay
up and watch the grownups making fools of themselves -- maybe my first
realization that adults can have fun.
We moved from Vancouver to Salem, Oregon, leaving Ruth and
Petey behind when I was midway through First Grade. But the next year
we were in Sweet Home, Oregon, and Petey came there to teach at the
high school with my dad. She lived up the street from us with the football
coach and his wife. On one memorable occasion, she took me to an
afternoon movie, a scary story about a little girl who had witnessed a
murder and remembered only the shadow on the wall that looked like an
Indian doll. The murderer turned out to be a woman wearing a hat with a
feather. The fact that I remember these details when I can’t remember a
movie I saw last week is evidence of how deeply the movie affected me.
(Had my parents known how frightening it was, I’m sure I would not have
been allowed to go.) After the movie, Petey took me to the soda shop for a
root beer float -- another thing my parents would never have done. I felt
very grown up.
The next spring, Aunt Ruth finally married
Victor, dad’s friend. When they took their official
honeymoon trip to Victoria, B. C., the following
summer, they took me with them because my
mother was in the hospital. I was the only eightyear-old I knew who had been on a honeymoon.
The anticipated highlight of our stay in Victoria
was dinner at the very posh Empress Hotel.
Dressed in my best, I tried to use my most grownRuth
up manners including eating all the food on my
plate. Unfortunately, it was more than my stomach could bear, and I lost
it on the way to the Ladies’ room. The slightly stuffy but very efficient
dining room staff quickly took care of the foul mess on the expensive
carpet, and we all three exited embarrassed, but neither Ruth nor Vic
mentioned how I had ruined their big night out. Years after, it was one of
the stories we laughed over whenever we were together.
Soon both Ruth and Petey had moved to California, and Ruth had
started her own family. Petey did finally get her man and had a daughter,
too. Nevertheless, they still sent me wonderful gifts and called me a
favorite niece. Every only child should be so lucky.
Judi Whiting retired from teaching four years ago and fills her time with
traveling, being Gramma, and chairing the Curriculum Committee (with her
husband) at OLLI.
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MRS. MEETS MS.
Deanna Yardic
Tumultuous times, the 1960's and 70's. Less so for those of us
living in National Parks than for others. With no newspapers and limited
television, even the catastrophic event of the Vietnam War made only a
small blip on some of our personal radar screens. The women’s
movement was way out there in some other world. Not something given
consideration in our conservative park service enclaves. Those strident,
bra burning harpies were of no interest to me.
That is until I met my new sister-in-law. She was a radical
feminist, an ardent soldier in the battle for women’s equality and the
fight for ratification of the Equal Rights Amendment. She was the most
interesting woman I’d ever met. I liked her. My husband disliked her in
equal measure. He tolerated her presence out of consideration for my
brother.
Darlene’s first visit to our home passed uneventfully. No doubt
because she was sequestered in the guest room for the entire week with
a massive case of Montezuma’s revenge. Just punishment, my husband
believed, for abandoning my brother to spend six weeks alone while she
was in Mexico City perfecting her Spanish. That hadn’t bothered my
brother. He’d been fending for himself since he was seventeen.
Darlene’s second visit made seismic waves in the small pond of our
family’s life. Winter was a busy time at our house. Living just eight miles
from the ski area in Lassen Park, we often had a houseful of guests in
search of an inexpensive skiing vacation. That particular week Darlene
and Phil were joined by Dan, a young Air Force lieutenant, long time
friend of our two teen age sons. Head count: five men, two women.
The shock waves began the very first morning when Darlene came
into my kitchen. I’d been there since long before dawn packing lunch for
all of us and getting dinner into the crock pot before starting to cook the
big breakfast we’d need to fuel us for a morning on the slopes. “Why isn’t
anyone helping you?” Darlene said. “Who?” I wondered. She’d just
crawled out of bed. The guys were doing what they always did in the
mornings, drinking coffee, gathering their gear and waiting for breakfast.
“Them”, she said gesturing toward the masculine contingent. “Oh, I don’t
expect them to help”, I answered. “Why not?” she asked. I didn’t have an
answer. Things just were the way they were. Women guests lent a hand
but not the men. And certainly not my guys.
Darlene took her first stand. If the men weren’t going to help, she
wouldn’t either. Taking her coffee into the living room, she put her feet
up and waited for breakfast to be served.
Later that day, tired to the bone from a great day on the slopes, we
all sat down to dinner. The mound of wet clothing waiting for my
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attention included everything Darlene had been wearing. “If they aren’t
going to take care of their own clothes,” she said, “don’t expect me to
take care of mine.” She sat by the fireplace pointedly reading her book
while the guys watched football and I cleaned up the kitchen and ran all
the wet clothes through the dryer. Philosophically I knew she was right.
Still, I wasn’t yet ready to fight that battle in my own home. She and my
husband sat up every night long after the rest of us had gone to bed
arguing the issues, her issues. I think he argued more to annoy her than
for any other reason.
I didn’t like her quite as much by the end of that week. I thought
she could have set aside her ideals long enough to give me some much
needed help. But, of course a zealot could never do that.
Not long after Phil and Darlene left, we received a thank you note
from them. Enclosed was a gift card in my name for a subscription to Ms.
Magazine. I read that radical rag, as my husband called it, from cover to
cover for many years. In the process, I learned to think for myself. I
learned to form my own opinions and be willing to defend those opinions.
I started the journey from the girl bride I had been toward the woman I
am now.
Not much changed in our home. I liked my life. The boys grew up
and left home. After I’d taught them to cook and do laundry. My husband
was still more pampered than most because I liked doing that. He did
learn to make the bed every day and wash dishes occasionally after I
went to work full time. Not enough to satisfy Darlene, I’m sure, but good
enough for me.
Deanna Yardic has lived in Reno for ten years, moving here from
Roseburg, Oregon. She’d rather write than do most anything. Her
companions now are Winston, an over sized Golden Retriever and Miss
Betty Boop, a geriatric girl cat. They don’t do chores.
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FOOTPRINTS ON MY HEART
Patricia Zimmerman
People pass through our lives leaving their footprints on our hearts.
My grandmother, Whilmina Zimmerman (1888-1960) left a part of herself
in me. She was born before the turn of the 20th century and actually had
a career outside the home long before women worked.
Grandma Zimmerman liked to tell us about her life in rural Wisconsin.
She was a change of life baby, meaning she was probably a surprise to
her parents who had adult children when she was born. They named
her Whilmina Charlotta Louisa Esther (Noth); I always thought she was
named for the first several people who walked through the door but that
was probably my childish reasoning. Her oldest sister, Louisa, gave birth
to a baby girl one month before grandma was born, making grandma an
aunt at birth. This child was named Whilmina Charlotta Louisa Esther
(Vieth). Maybe the same four women walked through the door of that
house first. In any case, my great-grandmother and great aunt set up a
lifetime of confusion for their daughters. These two girls were raised
together and were best friends all of
their lives. They married brothers
Benjamin and Raymond
Zimmerman. My grandma’s sister
Elizabeth (Aunt Lizzie) also married
a Zimmerman brother, Arno. It is
not surprising that my cousins and
my father looked a lot alike…they
were double cousins. The family
distinguished between the Minnies
by adding their husband’s name to
their first name, thus my grandma
was Minnie Ben and her niece was
Minnie Ray.
Minnie Noth graduated from the
Monroe County Normal School and
was a teacher in a country school
for several years before her
marriage in 1911. After she
married, she worked with her
husband in the mercantile
business. Family history says they
lost the general store
Minnie (Noth) and Minnie (Vieth)
overextending credit to their family
wearing identical white dresses at
and neighbors. This part is cloudy,
their Confirmation
and there is no one left to verify it,
155
but I have the impression that my
grandfather was struggling with heart
disease at this time. In any case,
Minnie became a saleswoman and later
a sales supervisor, for the Pitkin
Cosmetic Company from 1930 to the
early 1940s. Ben assisted Minnie in
the sales work and they traveled
around the country in a trailer. To my
knowledge, Minnie never drove a car so
I am sure he was the chauffer. I
suspect Minnie was not unhappy to
leave the very rural area where she was
born and raised to explore the big wide
wonderful world outside of Norwalk,
Wisconsin. After World War II, she
worked as an assistant dietician at the
University of Wisconsin in Madison.
Minnie & Ben Zimmerman
Ben died in 1949 so I have no memory
of him and always think of my
Wedding Day
grandmother as a widow.
She lived in an apartment in Madison not far from the university and
rented rooms to students in addition to her work at the university. She
loved her work and the students she worked with…their nickname for
her was Zimmie. She convinced the university to keep her on for many
years beyond normal retirement age. When she did retire, her health
deteriorated quickly and she was gone within two years.
She was tall, or at least it seemed to me, and thin. The most she ever
weighed was 110 pounds before giving birth. She had red hair all her life
albeit in later years it came in a bottle from Rexall Drugs. She favored
Evening in Paris perfume also from Rexall. She never knew a stranger
and would tell the ticket seller at the theater her life story while
purchasing tickets. She may have been the last in line at the bus
station, but was always the first on the bus so she could sit by the driver
and chat. I have fond childhood memories of her as a strong,
independent woman and relate to her as the youngest child. I was with
her in the 1950s as she was preparing to go back to Norwalk for a
funeral. She was careful to change from her summer white purse to a
black one fearing criticism from her older sister Lizzie who was “strict,”
an indication her sister was old fashioned and thought my grandmother
needed to show proper respect for the dead.
Patricia Zimmerman is a transplanted Midwesterner who retired to Nevada
in 1990. She loves the Silver State and its sapphire blue skies. Her
greatest joy is teaching adults to read, write and speak English.
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