EDWOOD OAST ENTER ENIOR January/March
Transcription
EDWOOD OAST ENTER ENIOR January/March
A quarterly publication of, by and for the Redwood Coast Senior Center community RC SC EDWOOD OAST E N I O R ENTER January/March 2016 GAZETTE Redwood Coast Senior Center • 490 N. Harold Street, Fort Bragg, CA 95437 • (707) 964-0443 • rcscenter.org Premium roofing services for the discerning property owner. FULLY LICENSED & INSURED COMMERCIAL & RESIDENTIAL www.dunlaproofing.com Dunlap Roofing Inc. Ukiah 462-ROOF Coast 964-ROOF dunlaproofing.com CA LIC# 806498 Casino Fun & Great Food on the Mendocino Coast! www.TheGarciaRiverCasino.com 707.467.5300 22215 Windy Hollow Rd, Pt. Arena, CA (Take Riverside Drive in Pt. Arena) January/March 2016 Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette 1 In This Issue Be a Part of the Future ! 2 No Resolutions – A Checklist Please! • Charles Bush 3 THE LOGGER’S LAMENT Yesterday’s Hero Jay Frankston 4 6 Ideograms • Joe Smith Swimming • Adrienne Ross 13 The Town • Rose Mary Hughes 14 Not Anymore • Gene Lock 16 Waiting • Nona Smith 18 Our Journey to Isreal Orah Young Get The GAZETTE on your computer, tablet or smartphone! Save paper! See all the cool photos and art in col or! Poetry Go to rcscenter.org Mickey Chalfin Rick Banker Steven Huber Rose Mary Hughes Laurel Moss Jay Frankston and click on the Ga ze tte button on the home page Questions? Rick Banke r 937-3872 rick@ wreckle ssmedia.com BOARD OF DIRECTORS 2016 “The Happy Couple” Cover Art by Richard Rios Rick Banker, President Bob Bushansky, Vice President Claudia Boudreau, Treasurer Zo Abell, Secretary Charles Bush, Executive Director 2 Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette January/March 2016 No Resolutions – a Checklist Please! — Charles Bush Resolutions drive me crazy. One more thing hanging over my head. Another obligation which creates another possibility for not succeeding. At the same time I love the idea of a “new annual start.” As I get older, I prefer working with a simple checklist. It’s a way of reminding me how I want to act, and what I want to express in my life. The items on the checklist affirm what I believe to be the kinds of actions that increase happiness, health, prosperity, and meaningfulness. What works for me about this checklist is that I can do something about these little “vision statements” almost anytime. I just read through them every morning, then plan to move in the direction they point toward in some small way. No obligations, no deadlines, just a little direction and lots of success each day – or so. 1) I am aware of any ongoing health issues which are causing me discomfort. I’m getting good professional support and treatment focused on improving the way I feel and function. I understand the advice I am being given, and do a good job of implementing the advice and instructions I’m getting. 2) I move around a bit every day, enjoying the feeling of having a functional body. I exercise a bit; stretch some; take walks regularly; do a bit of physical work each day; and dance, stretch, or move my joints regularly. I feed my senses with a variety of physical experiences and appreciate all the capacities of my body. 3) These days I am eating moderately, never stuffing myself. I try not to binge on sugar, refined and processed foods, and salty greasy snacks. Every day I enjoy a wide vari- ety of different types of food, including whole grains fruit and vegetables. I enjoy my food a lot, and especially like having social meals with friends. 4) I maintain a fulfilling and interesting social life. This includes spending time with friends, and scheduling some enjoyable activities that involve the company of others. I stay open and enthusiastic about having some new experiences in my life. 5) I stay interested in what is happening in my community and actively enjoy the many things that living on the north coast has to offer. I regularly try to learn new stuff. I like finding things out, especially when what I learn “changes my mind.” I’m still growing wiser all the time. 6) I find ways to use my skills, knowledge and time to help other people. I make myself useful in ways that improve the lives of others, and help to create a more comfortable community. 7) I am actively engaged in running my own life. I plan for the future and organize my responsibilities in the present. I spend time keeping my personal life and my affairs “in good order.” I am realistic about the changes the future will bring to my life, and I spend time planning so that I am ready for what comes. By the way, the mission of the Senior Center is to support healthy, joyful aging by supporting exactly the things on the checklist! January/March 2016 Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette 3 THE LOGGER’S LAMENT – Yesterday’s Hero – Jay Frankston “I was 12 years old when I got my first axe. Fifteen when I got my first chain saw. I was young, and strong, and proud. My father took me into the woods with him and showed me how we could tumble those giant trees, lash them to ropes and load them into trucks driven by men who, like us, were pioneers in the remaining wilderness of the Pacific Northwest.” “Axes would swing and chips would fly and chain saws would buzz loud and long under the tall canopy of leaves a hundred and fifty feet overhead. The noise was interrupted now and then by the shout of “TIMBER,” the cracking of the trunk at the base of the giant, the whistling of the fall, and the massive thump as it hit the ground, the reward of long hours of hard work. This was followed by a hollow silence throughout the forest before the resumption of intense activity.” “We were men then. Real men! I was strong as an ox. My skin was tight and red as all outdoors and no one asked me my age when I ordered a beer. I was part of the crew, a woodsman, a lumberjack right out of the movies of the 50s, respected, admired, a hero of sorts. Then someone went into the forest and counted the remaining trees and everything changed. What was good became bad. The hero became a villain and everything turned upside down. I never grew to understand it, and if I did, I couldn’t deal with it. My life had leaned too far in one direction to be felled in another.” “I am much older now and I drive a logging truck. I no longer stick my head out of the cab and smile proudly at my cargo. I try to protect myself behind rolled up windows from the curses of people who curse under their breath as they see me drive by with, they say, a litter of dead trees on the back.” “What I was made to be proud of, I am now made to be ashamed of. And the medal I won for bravery in action during the war remains in its box at the bottom of the drawer. It is no longer the measure of my worth as a man and I feel as though my life is for naught. I have been used.” “And now, toward the end of it, no one is there to acknowledge the houses that were built with lumber from the trees I felled when I was young, strong, and a hero. Harvest Market makes weekly vegetable, fruit, and bread donations and supplies much of the fresh produce for the 800 lunches we serve to elders every week, in the dining room or delivered by Meals On Wheels to shut-in seniors at home. Harvest Market also collects close to $900 a month for the senior Center through their bag purchase program. Without this generosity we literally could not operate the lunch-for-seniors service, because our federal subsidy does not cover the cost of the program. Harvest Market is truly an anchor for redwood Coast seniors food services. Many, Many thanks. Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette 4 Sixteen She grows arises awakes Becomes becomes … Another day clear ice blue warm Like the middle of a diamond I suppose (I’ve never seen a diamond) Awakes and kitteny Is enchanted is enchanting Licks tawny fur and lightly, Lightly, softly Becomes becomes … Rick Banker January/March 2016 How can you love your mind and not your heart? How can you care for your left hand and not your right? How can you nurture one part of your body at the expense of another? And aren’t I a part of you? And aren’t you a part of me? And isn’t mankind a single body? And aren’t our feet starving while our heads are bloated? And shall we not live in absolute harmony or all die for having failed to recognize that you and I are one? Jay Frankston The Goddess Creator I am the aftermath of floods The leavings of fires and war The bodies of families Skeletons of children and the old I am the afterbirth, the blood and guts Prime earth air water and fire I am nourished And more, I am Rhododendrons waltzing through redwoods pinking past curves glistening pine needles attracting deer, squirrel, fox and hare awakening the eye springing in the wind I am Laurel Moss ENDOCINO MF I D U C I A RY Maggie Watson CA Licensed Private Fiduciary 707-397-1655 [email protected] www.mendocinofiduciary.com Need a neutral, professional to act as trustee, executor, power of attorney or conservator? Maggie brings years of experience and knowledge to each situation. She is the author of A Graceful Farewell: Putting Your Affairs in Order. January/March 2016 Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette Ideogram: Polliwog My worst nightmare? To grow up to be like my mother, green and goitery, with a croak they should’ve oiled into oblivion years ago. Her, a senior amphibian, still doing the soft shoe on the lily pads! The way she spreads her eggs any old where is shameful. The Frog King’s marvelous gift to males? Can’t she see her pop eyes and bumpy skin in the mirror of the pond, the pouch under her jaw? Talk about lazy, she sleeps all winter in a muddy house. But come spring, you can bet your sweet bippy the floozy’ll be puckering up her fat lips for fat kisses from randy lads in search of a princess. Ideogram: Worm So there’s no big diff between our fronts and our derrieres? Why do you choose us, then, to wiggle underwater on the hook, to dance the hoochie-koochie and make big goo-goo eyes at fish? Yeah, we’re about as welcome as halitosis or fancy Italian designer patent leather pumps that pinch, till it’s time to dig us out of the earth and put us on the menu for the finny ones you hope to fry. Think twice about laughing last and best before tossing us into the lake. Think about the time there’ll be no taste or tongue for laughs, when we squirm in the void where teeth and tonsils used to meet. Ideogram: Shell I’m not the pretty shell you admired on the beach. That shell began to lose its luster, its iridescent shimmer, the moment you picked me up and thrust me into the miasma of a pocket where money goes. The moment you tried to own me. As if you could own all the swell and froth, the rumpled sea! I was a whorled mobile home 5 for a live animal. Now, faded and forgotten, I do tricks for dust from a shelf. Pick me up again. Hold me to an ear. Hear the roar, the crash, the hiss as the ocean takes back a wave, again and again. Feel sand slip away between your toes. Tell me once more I’m so beautiful. Ideogram: Weeks Fifty-two may seem like plenty. To those sentenced to hard labor or invited on vacation with a mother-in-law, it may seem about half an eternity. It certainly seems enough weeks for an ordinary year. For one birthday to the next. And then the weeks begin flashing by faster than cards in a marked deck shuffled by a riverboat gambler dealing himself aces off the bottom. Faster than a speeding haiku. Listen. The last few weeks are already ablaze, panting loud as a prairie fire sprinting for the finish line, gasping for breath. Suddenly all the time left is burning, all the time left behind turning to cinders. Ideogram: Cramps All writers dread cramps, even bards. A bard resembles a weather emergency radio — always in standby mode, awaiting the broadcast of a poem. His task is to bottle it in a vessel of transparent words. To trap the poem like a firefly in a jar with air holes punched in the lid, then let it go free, like a spark from a campfire in spooky woods leaping into the infinite. But a bard with a cramp catches not a line. When a charley horse nips the sonnet muscle, the rondeau bone, verse swoons away. Flowers hum with poetry, but the bard hears silence roar. The sea has turned into yogurt, and he has no spoon. Joe Smith 6 Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette January/March 2016 Swimming – Adrienne Ross “No impact. No gravity,” Craig said, “You could try it for a couple of days.” Craig was the physical therapist. With one hand flat against the sole of Ellie’s bare foot, he rhythmically and gently flexed and extended her ankle. “What about riding a stationary bike,” Ellie asked him, “or some kind of aerobics class?” “Uh uh.” Craig pulled Ellie’s leg out straight and bent it back, then started pulling and pushing her foot again. He looked at her over her bent knee. “No pressure on the ankle. Oh, a little walk won’t hurt it.” “I’m not a very good swimmer,” Ellie said. “You’re not competing in the Olympics. Just conditioning and endorphins. Okay, that’s all for today.” Craig dropped Ellie’s leg, no longer a topic of interest, on the table. “Ice every night and don’t forget the exercises. The more repetitions you do, the sooner you can ride a bike.” “No more jogging?” “Never say never.” “Aging, too, I guess...” Craig held out his hands, palms up, in the universal but ambiguous gesture of partial disagreement. In this case, Ellie knew, it meant: “In some people aging plays a part, in others not.” Craig was slim and neat, smaller than Ellie who was by no means a large woman, and he had a look of wiry endurance. Ellie was older than Craig and had gray hair, but in this situation he had the authority. “Try swimming,” Craig ordered, “it’s a good workout.” *** “Swimming, mom,” said Rose. “Swim- ming will strengthen your entire upper body.” “I don’t know how to do the breathing,” Ellie said, “I don’t want to change my clothes. I don’t like to get wet.” “I’ll teach you the breathing,” said Rose, who was presently teaching 6- and 7-year old day campers how to swim. “The chlorine will ruin my hair.” “I’ve got this great Australian shampoo that washes out chlorine, it has little bits of fresh fruit in it.” “Indoor pools give me the creeps.” “The pool is outdoors.” “I don’t look like a swimmer.” “What does a swimmer look like?” “Swimmers have long arms. Their faces look smooth and big under those caps. They have great haircuts, like Janet Evans. I look like a jogger.” “Mom—” “You know. Solid. I look good on the track. I look awful in a bathing suit.” “Mom. Everyone looks awful in a bathing suit.” “I don’t like to be cold.” “The pool is heated.” Oh, god, there was nothing for it. Craig could equivocate, but jogging was out forever. Rose was leaving for college at the end of the summer. Ellie had two months to learn breathing from her daughter. *** On her first day she threw a sweatshirt over her bathing suit, which was actually an old unfashionable leotard, the kind that came up to the collarbone and covered the hips. She carried her towel and her money in her hand. The dressing room looked scuzzy; there was a cement floor, benches around the walls, and tacky green net bags January/March 2016 Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette for swimmers’ belongings. Barefoot she walked outdoors to the pool. She did not look at anyone. She walked down the steps into the pool quickly, as though she knew what she was doing. The water was not cold, but neither was it warm. She struggled and floundered, gasped, choked, gulped and coughed, thrashing her arms and legs from her imperfect kinetic memory of childhood swim lessons, 40 years ago. Panting, she grabbed the other edge of the pool to get her breath. A long wait. Then she groped her way back and stumbled up the stairs out of the pool. At least I got wet, she thought. Back in the dressing room, she realized that if she took off her wet suit, she had nothing else to wear. It’s all right, she comforted herself, how was I supposed to know? This is my first time. She drove home shivering, sitting on her towel. “I swam one lap,” she told Rose, “and swallowed half the pool.” “Everyone swallows half the pool, mom. Even lifeguards swallow half the pool.” The next day Ellie bought goggles. She swam two clumsy laps and swallowed half the pool. The third day she swam three laps. “If I can swim ten laps I’ll die happy,” she said to Rose. Rose went with her, and gave her instructions. “See, mom, tilt your chin up. You don’t have to turn your head all the way, just enough to get some air. You don’t have to sort of lunge out of the water. Just turn your head.” Ellie watched her, then tried it. She swallowed half the pool. “Oh oh oh,” she sputtered and moaned. “Try it again, mom. Watch me.” Ellie practiced breathing that day and every day for the next two weeks. She bought another leotard. *** Every day after work she went to the 7 pool at the hour of afternoon adult lap swim. There was a terrible cold ten-minute interval between the warm dressing room and the first few laps. During that period Ellie was miserable, self conscious and uncomfortable. When she walked into the pool her skin was surprised. She always expected the water to be slightly warmer than it was, more welcoming. She stood waist deep at the shallow end of the slow section. The water positively glowed an unearthly turquoise color. When she lay down in the water and began moving off slowly, she saw through her goggles magical fractal patterns made by the sun falling through solid wetness and skimming over the floor of the pool. Patterns like woven ropes glittered and flashed. Her routine was to dress in jeans and a t-shirt over her suit before she drove to the pool. There she took them off again and put them together with her towel in the green net bag. After swimming and showering, she rolled up her wet swimsuit in her damp towel, and over her bare skin slipped on her pants and shirt. The first few times she put on her trousers without panties underneath, she felt strange, almost wanton. She stubbornly felt it was important to carry back and forth only the essentials, just as she had always refused to buy any special gear for running except shoes. When she learned to breathe, swimming was easier. Not fun, not trance-like, not energizing, not like jogging. But easier. She practiced every motion she had learned from Rose. Back and forth she swam. She grew to recognize in herself a fondness for the pool. Every day when she arrived the pool shimmered aquamarine in the late afternoon sun. She began to look forward to this radiant color which appeared nowhere else in her life. At a yard sale she found a little duffle, once black but subsequently faded to a 8 Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette patchy amorphous watery color, in which to keep her by now numerous swim things. She had shampoo, conditioner, skin oil, soap; ear plugs and goggles; even a cap, which had to be wiped dry and dusted with talcum powder after each use, just like a diaphram. She kept her swim card in a little zip pocket of the bag, and some extra money, just in case. Her bulging swim bag did not contain excessive equipment. On the contrary, it made her feel like a pro. *** “My goal is 20 laps.” “36 laps is a mile, mom. That means you’re already swimming over a quarter of a mile!” Hearing Rose, Ellie felt confident. Rose came again and gave her another breathing lesson. Ellie now felt that her movements back and forth across the pool were more like swiming and less like struggling. She bought a waterproof watch with a lap counter. “Swimming is so boring,” said Lynne, one of the slow section regulars with whom Ellie had quickly made acquaintance, “that it absolutely taxes one’s imagination.” But Lynne was a more accomplished swimmer than Ellie. Ellie never tired of concentrating on her breathing, or of watching the underwater light show, or of counting laps and lengths and parts of lengths. All summer long, while Rose sorted things and packed things and gave things away and bought new things and took boxes of things over to her daddy’s basement to store, all summer long Ellie swam every day. *** Ellie was doing her ankle exercises while watching a rerun of Cheers. She braced herself against the wall with one hand and went up and down on her toes 50 times. Then she pointed her toes in and went up January/March 2016 and down another 50 times. The doorbell rang. “Mom!” Rose yelled through her bedroom door, “Daddy’s coming over to pick up boxes.” “Right,” muttered Ellie through her teeth, “thanks for letting me know.” She opened the door to her ex-husband. “Hi, Richard.” They exchanged kisses. Rose pushed a box into the hall. “Books,” she said. Back she came with another box. “More books, “ she announced. “The kid is organized,” Richard said. “How are you, Ellie? Rose tells me your ankle went out, is that true? Is it true you’re not running?” “I’m swimming,” Ellie told him, “swimming is much better for you than jogging. Swimming is one of the best conditioning exercises you can do. It strengthens your upper body as well as your back and legs.” “Mom is getting to be a real jock, dad. She gets out there every single day and does it.” Rose threw her athletic young arm around her mother’s shoulder. Ellie pulled her daughter near and gazed upon her marvelous skin. Thank you, Richard, she thought, as close to prayer as Ellie ever got, thank you for this perfect child. She quickly imagined herself knocking wood. “Look at Rose,” Ellie told Richard, “she never catches cold. It’s easy on your joints, too. No gravity.” “Hey. I only asked.” *** Ellie was soon swimming 20 laps. She now knew she would be able to swim a mile. She bought a real bathing suit and a pair of thick Brazilian zoris that cost $15. At the end of one month she went to see Craig for an evaluation. “You’re still doing your exercises?” “Yes, three times a week.” “Ice?” January/March 2016 Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette “I’m not using the ice any more. I’ve been swimming.” “How often?” “Every day.” “Three or four times a week is probably enough. Your ankle looks good, Ellie. I wouldn’t jump on it if I were you but there’s no reason you can’t start using a bike now. Go slow at first.” “Does that mean you’re discharging me?” “Clean bill of health,” Craig said. *** Rose, her summer job over and her packing nearly finished, spent most of her time driving around town to say good-bye to all her friends. She didn’t come to the pool any more. She was too busy, she said. The night before she left for college, she stayed over at her boyfriend’s. The boyfriend was going to an entirely different college, and this was their big good-bye. Teenagers don’t need sleep like we do, Ellie thought, they don’t feel the cold. Early in the morning, with four cardboard boxes and two immense suitcases, mother and daughter drove to the airport. “I just hope my roommate has a stereo,” Rose said, “Mine is in daddy’s basement.” Ellie saw that Rose was tense and raggedy. She bought her daughter a pale waffle, which Rose criticized for its plastic quality and then devoured. She bought her a magazine and some sugarless gum and stuffed two $20 bills in her pocket. “For travelling,” she said. Rose’s flight was called. They hugged for a long time. Rose began to cry. “Oh mom,” she said, “I don’t want to go.” Ellie held her daughter in an embrace she had practiced for 18 years and finally perfected at this very moment. “You’ll do fine, honey.” She gave Rose a tissue. “And,if you don’t like it there, you can always come right back home and go swimming with me.” Rose laughed a croak- 9 ing little laugh. She kissed Ellie’s ear and left. Ellie felt tired and a little gritty, a familiar airport feeling. *** On the way back from the airport, Ellie decided she would not go to work that day. Instead, she stopped at a cafe and drank foamy coffee and read the newspaper. At home, sun streamed in through the windows and she felt sleepy and stupid. It was only 12 noon. Slowly she changed into her bathing suit and put on her jeans. She spent a long time deciding which sweatshirt to wear. She slipped into her $15 zoris and rolled a clean towel into her swim bag. Driving to the pool she felt mechanical and mindless. The sun was too bright. It was hard to think. She had never before been to the pool in the middle of the day. The light was different, the pool was a different color, the contrast between air and water had moved into another range. Dreamily she went through the familiar motions, slipping off her outer clothes, putting her gear in the green net bag. The pool was practically empty at this time of day. It had a new greenish tint she liked very much, like a tiny square ocean. She walked into the water, adjusted her goggles, and swam slowly off. Her arms and legs moved as of themselves. She breathed calmly, turning her face rhythmically to the left as Rose had taught her to do. To and fro she swam. She thought of nothing. She glided through this alien element as though it were native to her body, as though she had been born to it and grown up in it, as though she were composed of its substance. The old landdwelling self within her, the mammalian self, knew what had changed. From her eyes another kind of water flowed and flooded the lenses of her goggles, so that she couldn’t see where her daughter had gone. 10 Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette January/March 2016 Mourning Death doesn’t come at a convenient time like a period at the end of a sentence, the amen at the end of a prayer, or the bell at the end of class. It drops in on you unexpectedly while you are eating or watching a movie, an unwelcome guest for which there was no seat at the table, a power outage that turns off all your lights and ends your existence on this plane to the dismay of those who loved you and wanted to have another chance to tell you. Death doesn’t walk a straight line or stand mute like a solid brick wall. It zigzags and dances at your wake allowing you a brief glimpse of the mourners assembled in celebration of your life before taking you across the rainbow to eternity. Death doesn’t mourn or grieve, no tears of sorrow from the great beyond. The reaper separates the wheat from the chaff freeing your soul from its earthbound shackle and letting you soar free and undefined. Death doesn’t recall your moments of joy or sadness. Nor does it place your life on a scale to sing your praises or bemoan your failures. It opens the pores of your being to allow your essence to mix with the ether. Jay Frankston Michael E. Brown, M.D. Psychiatry & Psychotherapy 347 Cypress Street, Suite B Fort Bragg, CA 95437 (707) 964-1820 Free and Low Cost Classes & Therapies Everyone is Welcome! Donation Only Yoga, Tues 4³5 pm 7·DL&KL7KXU-6:30 pm Meditation, Sat 8:30-9:30 am Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette January/March 2016 11 Steven Huber, our bus driver. Fort Bragg-Mendocino Coast Historical Society 343 N. Main Street, Fort Bragg, California ~See Local History Displays ~Enjoy Local Stories ~Love Local History? ~Join the fun ~Learn to be a Docent ~Welcome Visitors ~Tell Local Stories 961-2840 <fortbragghistory.org> On a rocky point, pine clad of the north woods where the glaciers scraped off all they could, my Finnish friend and I toiled cutting logs, scraping bark the traditional way, ‘til, by the lake there sat our log sauna, Built to stay. Through the winter every Saturday night we’d gather Build up a good sweat, then work up a lather In a cove free of ice we’d plunge Just a minute, then up the bank we’d lunge Back to that baking, glorious warmth so fine So intense it sent cold chills up your spine. Near the stone hearth, in the dark, we sit Salty sweat we’d taste as it dripped, More fulfilling than church this ritual, I must confess A blast of steam could make me utter, God Bless. So light and supple, when complete did I feel So convinced fire and ice all things could heal Next Saturday my friend, shall I come and getcha And smiling he’d say, ya’ sure, you betcha. Haikus Coal Steam rising up Early morning river of sun Dreams evaporate Tree Limbs, like bare bones Framing a cold, slate grey sky A warm breeze whispers Perched on my arm A friend finally trusts me We enjoy the warmth 12 Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette January/March 2016 poetry reading in a small town P hoebe G raubard a t t o r n e y at L aw 70 7 • 964 • 3525 [\ wiLLs • trust Probate • eLder Law 594 S outh F ranklin S treet F ort B ragg, C aliFornia 95437 44951 Ukiah Street Mendocino 707-937-2436 frankiesmendocino.com Homemade pizza ǯ Falaf alafel, el, soups & salads Gluten-free & vegan options Organic ingredients Beer & Wine Free WiFi Dz“NOURISHING COMMUNITY” dz we have been notified we have several weeks to prepare something of value to share an inside look at what makes us get up in the morning how we arrange words to define our take on life we choose our favorites our greatest hits poems that move as a grand river or a roadside gutter big thoughts and muddy thoughts all mixed together and out comes a blend of joy and longing then, another storm arrives washes everything away until we notice something gently nudging us or screaming at us to keep it going strolling they hold hands as they stroll in unfamiliar towns stick close together only let go when the sidewalk gets narrow and crowded their eyes turn towards shop windows with strange art objects or crazy shoes this is a vacation letting go of home-life and routines now, just holding hands and strolling Mickey Chalfin January/March 2016 Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette 13 The Town — Rose Mary Hughes Highway 24 runs more or less from Kansas City to St. Louis. Driving down from Kansas City there’s a forked junction and turning left is the town of Clifton Hill, Missouri, population 100. A tall pole with a sign reading “Prepare to Meet Thy God” greets one on arrival. The houses are all white not to mention all the people. Most of the houses are humble two or three small bedroom homes. The Kruse house sits at one end though: two-storied, vacant, Victorian, abandoned and ghostly. Up from the Kruse house is another small house whose owner was said to have been related to Sally Rand, the Fan Dancer. Upon entering the town and passing a few houses, crossing the railroad tracks once stood a bustling little town with a drug store and general store on one side and on the other, a bank, barber shop, post office, and grocery store. One time the bank was robbed. The town consisted of two sides with a railroad track dividing the two. The “wrong” side of town is the side one first enters after the junction. The cemetery is also on that side. A small building stands beside the railroad crossing and is emblazoned “City Hall.” Years ago, one could travel via train back and forth from St. Louis to Kansas City. As children, my sister and our friends could run from one end of town to the other. In the evenings, we played a game called “Mark Up.” One side would chalk up the black tar streets and hide while the other side would trace the marks to find them. On Halloween, we would let the air out of tires and turn over outhouses. We could run, play and hide in bushes around the houses. Cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians. No one watched us. We only went in to eat dinner. When we became older, we would walk two miles in the country to a friend’s house. No one tried to kidnap us. There were no computers, no cell phones (in fact, phones were something we cranked on the wall and the numbers were all like 4 and 6), no newspapers, no bookstores, no libraries, no museums, no sidewalk cafes. It was just a place where we knew the names of all the cows, horses, cats and dogs. The streets were paved with gravel and tar with no street signs or names. There were exactly two churches and one school where the elementary and high school were in one building. In retrospect, it was a magical time and place to be young with more freedom than any child or teenager these days could ever dream or imagine. Singing, Dancing & Dying The back row of a movie theater. Singing and dancing on the screen. Musicals of the 1950’s. Large piano playing woman Babysitter with Visits to the dead; People we never saw alive. A childhood my sister and I regurgitated. Rose Mary Hughes 14 Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette January/March 2016 Not Anymore — Gene Lock I t’s gone. Not slowly faded, but there every morning. And then never. Where I live, I can gaze north, all the way to the King Range on Mendocino’s Lost Coast. Just over the nearby cove lies tiny Caspar; A few houses and a Christmas card church, left over from the lumber rush of the early 1900s. Lovely to look at, kind of Currier in need of both Ives, and a little paint. This I watch over, with first cup of coffee in hand. I never knew it as my ritual, until a small piece of it went missing. “It” is that familiar grey spiral of chimney smoke, from the white clapboard cabin just seaward of the sharp-steepled church. The smoke floats up around 7 each weekday. I imagine someone in stocking feet, stoking the fire in a little stove, maybe for heat, or breakfast bacon, maybe both. I must wait until the rising sun shortens the church steeple’s shadow, to then shine where the smoke curls up from the chimney. Just a few minutes more. Ah, there it is. Or was. I never wondered who lit that little fire, or how many people depended upon it. It was just that familiar smoke, an unfurled flag, for the new day. I miss it every morning, now that it’s gone. I mean, I’m doing my routine, but you are not. I discover I am quite selfish about this: Dammit, I need your ribbon of smoke to wrap up my little scene here. So get moving, why don’t you? Maybe whomever did move away, or got a plug-in Keurig coffee thing for a birthday. But that would so lack drama, here where waves growl, osprey soar, and smoke swirls. So what happened? In my version, the person doesn’t move, nor disappear. It’s a she, a writer. Like some of us, her words don’t come until nightfall, and then they run over the keyboard, jostling for position on the page, some settling into an orderly (Keep calm, carry on) file, and some not. She writes, and writes, while the cove’s tide moves in unseen by her, slow below on the moonlit beach. There’s a rhythm, but is it good enough to share? Alas, not all. Some are good, really good. Some can be saved, but need another twist. Each night around one, the stack of printed out good pages slowly grows, and the tale glows coherent, interesting. The pages touch, in theme, texture, and tone. She puts them in the long-worn file folder, and turns out her light. Darkened Caspar sleeps then, with just the lighthouse ray sweeping the waves. When morning light again falls west over the steeple onto the little house, there’s that faithful faint gray smoke, from paper sheets blackening in the heat. These are the nightly pages that don’t make the cut. Finally, one morning, there is no smoke. The best, the kept, pages are all stacked neatly, and digital copies made. The words start their own journey, entrusted to the postman. She waits. Meanwhile, I wait, too. She’ll write again, I’m thinking. January/March 2016 Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette Hera’s Harvest Under trees apples rust Summer’s season passed Sweet final sweep of sun Eats at fallow fields Tipped earth and cool moon Hera knew when to take possession of the land After earth’s bounty had swelled and fallen Ripe and rich to the ground Vested in a cloak of russets, orange, yellows Each a richness in its givings Seasons show a generosity of apples to Take us through gaunt times. Bounty Huckleberries, hunkering under leaves Fumbling fingers combing branches Berries bouncing, ting-ing into tin bowls The air clear The aroma a bit musky Little movement or sound But of the crackling of branches underfoot The revelation in shadow of beaded clusters Black and blue berries Sweet, sour, shiny And spider webbed in this late October day The taste of autumn in the air. Laurel Moss Paper Dolls For 25 cents Glamorous, beautiful Paper dolls Cut out clothes with tabs To wrap around Piper Laurie, Betty Grable Where hours flew by like magic In our days of make believe. Rose Mary Hughes 15 the line moves slowly there was nothingness it took billions of years to create our universe some say 14 billion all we know of stars and planets of comets and black holes we can thank those billions of years of evolution (theoretically speaking) for the grand canyon, dinosaurs, tectonic plates, rain, redwoods, van gough, michael jordan, sunday new york times everything had to wait its turn the line is very long we’d love to take a peek; see what's coming get a head start ... tell that to india or saturn’s rings alas, we can only join in as the line moves forward even though we are intoxicated by possibilities of the miraculous ... showtime will begin not a moment sooner than possible between rains haiku between rains moment best time to get poetic necessary thoughts along shiny path rivulets doing their thing unpredictably treetop waterfall earthworms not under cover like the rest of us roads closed, stay at home prayers for rain worked this time great inconvenience Mickey Chalfin 16 Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette January/March 2016 Waiting — Nona Smith On a robin’s-egg-blue-sky morning in early spring, I dawdle along the sidewalk from the parking lot to the entrance of the assisted living facility where the woman who used to be my mother now resides. Tall rose bushes hug the building, their thorny branches covered with tight, promising buds. Closer to the ground, night blooming jasmine defies its name and gives off a fragrance that makes me want to linger in the sun and simply inhale. But my mother is waiting. I stir myself and step forward. As if in greeting, the building’s automatic double doors swoosh open. Moving down the hall, my mood darkens, aided by the flickering fluorescent lights that create a dimmed version of the brilliant out-ofdoors. A larger-than-usual group of residents is parked in wheelchairs near the nurses’ station. My mother is among them. I’ve been told they’re situated here so the short-staffed attendants can easily monitor them. The sight of these people waiting for nothing unnerves me. Before approaching my mother, I take a deep fortifying breath, and my nostrils fill with a chemical-laden, lemon-y scent meant to cover up worse odors. I recall the sweet scent of jasmine and wish I’d plucked a sprig for her. I touch my mother’s bony shoulder. She looks up with a wan smile. She doesn’t seem anxious today. Today she’s content to sit patiently and pick imaginary lint from her twill slacks. Seated in a wheelchair adjacent to her, an Asian woman with thinning hair holds an open passport up to a woman in a white uniform. She’s speaking a sing-song-y language none of us understand. Her voice is filled with angst and it seems she’s pleading for something. She thrusts the passport out, then clutches it to her chest. “Speak English,” a white uniformed woman tells her. Ramrod straight, her voice is soft, but I hear no compassion in it for the woman who has lost her English words, if she ever owned any. A deeply tanned man, one who might be considered lanky if he were standing, sits on the other side of Mom. A blanket rests on his shoulders, giving him the appearance of an Indian chief in an old western movie. He’s studying his lap with great concentration and from time to time looks up and asks no one in particular to take him back to Room Two. The woman in white catches my eye. She stands behind blanket man, shakes her head and purses her lips. She mouths, “Room Four,” and tilts her head in that direction, but she doesn’t take him there. I look away, pretending not to have noticed her eye roll. The hallway is already crowded when a woman with tiny hands and a moon-shaped face is wheeled in. She’s slumped and appears relaxed until she stiffens and leans forward in her chair, raising her hands to her cheeks. “Help me, help me,” she bleats, her voice urgent, distressed. Between cries, she settles back, her body relaxes and a vacant look comes over her. It pains me to watch, but the others, including my mother, seem unaffected. I bend and kiss my mother’s papery cheek. She looks up at me, then her eyes glaze. The woman who isn’t speaking English presses her passport to her chest. Blanket man studies his lap. “Help me, help me,” the woman with tiny January/March 2016 Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette 17 A Song of Fire hands moans. The uniformed woman in white examines her fingernails. We continue our assemblage in the cramped hallway, each in our own reality bubble. I imagine the woman with the passport wants to leave this country and go home, go anywhere but this gloomy, flickering corridor. Perhaps blanket man has a romantic liaison in Room Two. Maybe the moon-faced woman believes she will actually receive help from the attendant in white who is clearly just marking time until her shift is over. I press my nails into my palms and shift my weight from one leg to the other, grateful to be mobile, longing to walk through those automatic doors and out into the bright sunshine again. But I can’t bring myself to leave. Not just yet. Inspiration percolates, bringing with it a gritty momentum. I kneel in front of this woman who gave me life. “Mom, would you like to see the spring flowers? The sun is shining and it’s warm outside.” I want her to say yes. She doesn’t answer. I‘m not sure she can make these kinds of decisions anymore, doesn’t even know who’s asking her to decide. She goes back to lint plucking. But motivation seizes me. I grasp the handles of my mother’s wheelchair and push her forward toward the swooshing double doors. It’s unclear if she wants to do this, but she’s not protesting. “Wait!” the white-clad matron cries after us. “You have to sign her out.” “No. I don’t,” I call back over my shoulder. I’m not sure this is true. But I am certain that I’m taking my mother outside to share the scent of jasmine on this cloudless azureskied day A song of fire Its metamorphosing alchemy Destroyer, creator Melder and molder Piping and drumming Cool calories Hot fudge It leaps, flashes, crackles Explodes into ribbons Blue, orange, purple, yellow Leaving Gray, black, char Flaky ash It sweeps clean With its voracious appetite Eats flesh and bone, leaf, twig There is no sanctity in houses Churches melt as well An acrobat Flinging itself from tree to tree To roof top, down into valleys To mountain tops, exploding volcanoes of Fire Fire music Sputtering, crackling, roaring, Hissing an anarchistic symphony Fire is amoral is God is humankind Is healing is a sizzle in space. Laurel Moss A collectively operated NATURAL FOOD STORE Open Daily 8 - 8 P.O. Box 367 45015 Ukiah St. Mendocino, CA 95460 www.cornersofthemouth.com 707 • 937 • 5345 FAX 707 • 937 • 2149 18 Redwood Coast Senior Center January/March 2016 Our Journey To Israel We arrive at the Tel-Aviv airport. No trains into the city until the Sabbath is over. The Jewish Sabbath begins at sundown on Friday and ends at sunset on Saturday. During these twenty-four hours, Jews are forbidden to work — not light a fire, ride in a vehicle or push a button or turn a switch. This is a day of rest, specifically commanded by God. Modern life comes to a halt. Sunset arrives and we find a taxi driver, Eli, who says he’s too wounded from an injury incurred during one of Israel’s wars to load our suitcases. Steve and I stow our luggage in the front seat and climb into the back. “Where you from?” “California.” He pushes a button and yells over “Caifornia Dreamin,” “You need taxi later? I take you where you want to go. You want to see Tel Aviv, tomorrow? I show you. Go to Jerusalem? I drive you.” He doesn’t stop talking till we arrive at our rented apartment. We yank our suitcases from the front seat, pay him what he demands — twice the going rate — and stand dazed in what appears to be a sleazy neighborhood. On the ground floor is a restaurant with outdoor tables, so crowded the overflow spills onto the sidewalk and street. Nearly everyone is in costume: little girls in princess attire, little boys in cloaks with swords, adults in masks and Technicolor wigs. We are overwhelmed by noise, rock music from the cafe, techno from a couple of blocks away. “It’s Purim,” I say to Steve, worried that he might think all Israelis are mad. Our landlord meets us on the sidewalk. We drag our luggage through the crowd and up three flights of stairs into a modest, clean but shabby, apartment. Despite our jet lag, we are anxious to experience the evening’s celebration. We descend into a throng more numerous than when we arrived. A cross between Mardi Gras and Halloween, Purim celebrates with fancy-dress costumes, dancing and special foods, the deliverance of the Jews from their enemies. We follow the loudest music. A half-block away, we find a crowd of teenagers wearing Goth costumes, dancing, hands above their heads. Electronica blares from the corner cafe. Revelers pour in from every direction. Night falls and colored lights play on the surrounding buildings. The noise is deafening. We weave through narrow streets. Competing music blares from every corner. Swarms of young people in rainbow wigs, clown and sailor suits flow past. We round a corner and find a jazz band playing in front of a restaurant. It is now dark. Outsized pornographic cartoons are projected on the apartment walls across the street: turtles with outsized genitalia perform unspeakable acts. I’m not a prude, but these are bad. I hope no one sees me watching. After all, I’m old enough to be these people’s grandmother. It’s late and we are hungry. We decide to return to our street where we spotted an Italian restaurant named Papa’s. In the light of the moon and the occasional streetlight, we walk through narrow alleys, past homes and apartments, paint peeling from their walls, iron bars on the January/March 2016 Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette 19 Orah Young windows. I had imagined Tel Aviv as a pristine white Mediterranean beach city. Nothing could be further from reality. For all its high-rise buildings, theaters, and museums, Tel Aviv looks like a third world country — shabby, dirty and shopworn. Plaster crumbles from walls, weeds abound, and graffiti decorates the buildings. The larger ones look vacant and abandoned. The cats, however, are great. Two distinct tribes: one orange, the other white and gray. They are sleek, healthy and everywhere. A blond bewigged ballerina with curly black chest hairs enters the restaurant before us. Steve and I share an excellent pizza and an even better bottle of Israeli wine. In the street, the noise shows no sign of abating. We decide it’s useless to go back to our apartment. Steve wants to hear more of the jazz and I’m curious about the porno. We return and the images have changed for the worse, from Disney to Japanese-style Manga, so graphic that I turn bright red. But Steve has only eyes and ears for the musicians; he barely looks. We forget our age and dance. Coast Hardware Big City Items in a Small Town Store! Apple iPads, iPods, and Accessories Action, Outdoor Games and Security Cameras TV’s & Accessories, Phones and Accesories Counter Top Appliances, Microwaves Coffee Pots, Toasters, Skillets, Pots and Pans Irons & Ironing Boards, Canning Supplies Housewares, Plumbing, Electrical, Automotive, Hardware Lawn and Garden, Fishing, Hunting, Camping & Pet Supplies Paint, and Computer Color Matching Paintball Supplies and Much More! Coast Hardware & Radio Shack Dealer 300 North Main, Fort Bragg Ca. 95437 Store Hours: Mon-Sat 9 AM - 5:30 PM • Sunday 9 AM - 5 PM 964-2318 20 Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette January/March 2016 CANCLINI TELEVISION & APPLIANCES MATTRESSES Marilyn (Pixie) Canclini 636 S. Franklin, Fort Bragg, Ca 95437 707 • 964-5611 • FAX 707 • 964-8227 [email protected] Stop in and say hello to Pixie, Lynn, James, Miles 1-877-964-2001 (toll free) 707-964-2000 • fax 707-964-5557 MENDOCINO COAST PHARMACY 350 Cypress St • Fort Bragg, CA 95437 (Located between the Police Station and the Hospital on Cypress Street) Mon-Fri 8am-7pm; Sat 10am-4pm Phone: (707) 962-0800 M e n d o c i n o V i l la g e P h a r m ac y I n s i d e H a r v e st M a r ket i n t h e v i l la g e o f M e n d o c i n o a n d at M e n d o c i n o C o a st P h a r m ac y 3 5 0 C y pr e s s S t r e et N ex t d o o r to t h e h o s p ita l i n Fo r t B ra g g . Great customer service in a caring environment. Competitive prices. Most insurances welcome. Free local delivery available. Se Habla Espanol • Professional service you can depend on. Auto Repair in Fort Bragg Let Gordon’s run a computer diagnostics test on your vehicle. Tires Gordon’s offers competitive prices on brand name tires. Brake Repair Schedule an appointment for brake repair services at Gordon’s Auto Service, Inc. Transmission Repair Gordon’s offers transmission repair for all of the Fort Bragg community. I’m Fernando Gordon, resident of Fort Bragg, California and proud owner of Gordon’s Automotive Service, Inc.. I made professionalism, support and total customer satisfaction the cornerstone of my Auto Repair Business when I first opened it over 20 years ago. I still hold those core values today, all backed by some of the best warranties in town. Call Us: (707) 964-7095 Address: 524 N Main St • Fort Bragg, CA 95437 Shop Hours: Monday - Friday: 8:00AM to 5:00PM Homes of refreshing tranquility The Woods offers beautifully constructed manufactured homes for 55+ adults on 37 acres in the North Coast. Just a few minutes’ scenic drive reaches a pristine golf course, tennis courts, one of six state park beaches, or Mendocino’s famed art galleries, shops, and restaurants. Come see for yourself how active and vibrant, yet comfortable and secure life can be. To tour this exceptional community, contact The Woods at (707) 937-0294. 43300 Little River Airport Road Little River, CA 95456 (707) 937-0294 | ncphs.org The Woods is a community of Northern California Presbyterian Homes and Services.