QuArterly MAgAzine of StorieS, PoeMS, And PerSonAl nArrAtiveS

A quarterly publication of, by and for the Redwood Coast Senior Center community
RC
SC
EDWOOD
OAST
E N I O R
ENTER
July/September 2015
GAZETTE
A
Q u A r t e r ly
M AgA z i n e
of
S t o r i e S,
P o e M S,
And
PerSonAl
n A r r At i v e S
Redwood Coast Senior Center • 490 N. Harold Street, Fort Bragg, CA 95437 • (707) 964-0443 • rcscenter.org
July/September 2015
Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette
Table of Contents
2 Smells, Community and Freedom
— Charles Bush
3 Working the Visitor Center on
Saturday Afternoon
— Henri Bensussen
3 Indebted to the dog haiku
— Mickey Chalfin
4 Kitchen Garden Footprint
5 Muffins and Maps — Barbara Lee
6 To Chi Or Not To Chi — Nona Smith
8 If I Forget Your Birthday
— Geraldine Pember
9 Watching — Mickey Chalfin
10 More Marilyn, Less Judy
— Nona Smith
12 Looking for Winkler
— Adrienne Ross
15 Three Poems — ruth weiss
16 Sydney’s Best Day — Gene Lock
17 And Dream — Rick Banker
18 Two Poems by Jay Frankston
Where Are The Hippies Of
Yesterday?
Like an Eagle
Cover Photo by Nancy Banker
1
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BOARD OF DIRECTORS 2015
Syd Balows, President
Bob Bushansky, Vice President
Claudia Boudreau, Treasurer
Rick Banker, Secretary
Annie Liner
Zo Abell
Mark Slafkes
John Wilson
Charles Bush, Executive Director
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Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette
July/September 2015
Smells, Community and Freedom — Charles Bush
I have managed a dozen communities of
all sizes and types over the past 50 years.
The question of what to do about the way
some folks smell, that other folks don’t like,
is always a sensitive and thorny issue. I
always think that the things we don’t like to
talk about have a lot to teach us, and smells
are high on that list.
What is it that’s so special about smells
compared to our other senses, and what can
smells teach us about managing interpersonal boundaries in a community?
In order to “sense” something, we have to
“let it in” somehow. For example, to see, we
have to let light in our eyes. Light rays aren’t
so scary, and we can just look away or close
our eyes if things don't look pretty to us. To
feel a touch, we have to make physical contact on the body's surface. We mostly stay in
control because we can usually avoid undesired contact. Hearing is a little more complicated because sound can travel a long way
and is harder to avoid. Nevertheless, at least
it is just air waves getting into us – may be
unpleasant, but at least not physically intrusive. Tastes are intrusive, but we can avoid
them by simply keeping our mouths shut.
Then there is smell. Little particles get
right in our nose, and we know there’s
something real that got inside us. Nevertheless it can come from a distance, and since
we have to breathe, we just can’t keep smells
out. They really intrude in a very intimate
way. Smells are also connected strongly to
emotion, and to attraction and repulsion. As
a result we react strongly to how someone
else smells, and all around the world, in different cultures we have different smell preferences.
All of this makes it very hard for us to talk
about smells, and
hard to listen when
someone tells us we
don’t smell good to
them. When someone doesn’t match
our smell preferences, we generally
want the “community manager” to fix
it, whether that is our parent, the coach, the
teacher, the theatre manager, the restaurant
server, or the senior center director.
Whenever folks in the community have
different preferences, styles, or “smell sensibilities” it is worth trying to make an adjustment with a simple unemotional chat. If we
turn to the “boss” to decide which sensibility
wins, or decide to make rules about it, we
always end up giving up some of our freedom. Learning how to work things out –
person-to-person – can be hard, a little scary,
but in the end very rewarding.
How we smell to one another is really
action-packed and intimate. If we can learn
to tackle a hard one like that in a personal
way, we will be on our way toward a beautiful self-governing community. So take a good
whiff, and if something doesn’t tickle your
fancy have a friendly visit about it. It’s hard
to know how we smell to others, because
were so used to ourselves. Having someone
mention it is great – like when someone tells
you your zipper is unzipped or your shirt
button undone, or there is something caught
on your teeth or coming out your nose.
Those are the times when sharing information builds community by allowing us to
accommodate one another in a kind way by
negotiating our preferences.
July/September 2015
Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette
Working the Visitor Center
on Saturday Afternoon
This is a day the clock measures slow
sunshine at 7, clouds back by 9,
rain beginning at noon
tick-tick tick-tick
shivering tourists blow in the door
pat down their hair
motorcyclists roar past on a run
to Redwood Highway 101
putt-putt putt-putt
What do you have to offer?
the tourists ask. How far, where is
what can we do/see/eat/shop for
in twenty minutes before
we leave again?
Is it always this cold?
tick-tick putt-putt
putt-putt tick-tick
I hand out maps, point out
beaches, the museum, and the best
and only place open for lunch
at 3 PM. No malls, no Wal-Mart.
(What do you need? Our homey
hardware store’s just down the block.)
Hard to comprehend a town
that lacks a super emporium.
tick-tick tick-tick
putt-putt putt-putt
Henri Bensussen
indebted to the dog haiku
dull moments, no way
my legs never find the couch
while the pooch is near
bed sandwich each morn
dog paradise strait-jacket
nobody can move
like a downhill bike
all activities are geared
seeking most pleasures
state police on trail
hide out behind redwood tree
leash way back in car
always so moving
dog nose ready for springtime
chasing rabbit scent
Mickey Chalfin
Thank You
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.
3
Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette
4
July/September 2015
Kitchen Garden Footprint
The Redwood Coast Seniors’ Kitchen
Garden is now in summer mode. We are
harvesting 50 pounds of food every Monday workday. Garden lettuce and red cabbage are going to diners and Meals-OnWheels folk. Purple peas and beets are
appearing in the salad bar and Alice is
making rhubarb crisp again. By next
month we should have the first garden
zucchini and other summer squash.
Carol Ann Walton
Realtor ®
[
Gale Beauchamp Realty
Office 707 964-5532 Mobile 707 291-2258
dRe #00483386
[
gbrealty.com
[email protected]
345 Cypress Street Fort Bragg, California 95437
Thanks to the 4, 5, 6 or even 7 gardeners
who come each Monday and help grow
our food!
Have you noticed the big lettuce disappearing from the barrels out front? That
is because we have been eating them! I
planted more, tiny lettuce plants yesterday. In 4 to 6 weeks they will be in our
salad bar. Cabbage, tomatoes, and giant
red mustard are also growing amongst the
flowers.
You are welcome to take a walk
through the garden. Look for squash and
pumpkins overflowing their containers,
the red blossoms of southwest pole
beans, and a very healthy row of celery.
There are 2 partly shaded picnic tables (a
great place to have an informal meeting)
and a cafe table with 2 chairs (just right
for tea and a chat).
See you in the garden, Linda
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
July/September 2015
Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette
5
MUFFINS AND MAPS — Barbara Lee
M
ake muffins and check maps: the
last on the “things to do” list. The
muffins were for her favorite
aunt’s birthday. The maps would guarantee
they got to Alder Springs, where the oldest
and oddest of her mother’s nine sisters lived.
Aunt Zelda never married or had kids and
she lived in a place so out-of-the-way that
none in the family had ever been there. That
was all right with her. Every year on her
birthday, she would descend from her mountain for an overnight visit to a relative of her
choosing. The entire family came together
from the Bay Area for one sumptuous night
of family and food. While there she told stories about growing up in the Great Depression and the effects of World War II. She
told of hand-me-down shoes and handeddown boyfriends, but the matriarch’s days of
independence on the road were over.
The muffin maker went into the kitchen,
located the recipe that would transform raw
materials into mouth-watering joy. She lined
up the bowls, the measures, the utensils. She
placed the ingredients next to each in order
of their use. She preheated, she gently
folded, she tarried to beat the batter into
fluffy nuggets she dropped into the greased
and floured cavities of the muffin pan she
placed squarely in the middle of the oven. At
the right time, she extracted her creation and
studied the results of her meticulous efforts.
Golden brown domes, zeniths of cracked
open crust, crooked fissures cascaded down
the sides like lava to the edge of the sea. The
spice-laden aroma filled her nostrils. Her job
was done. They were perfect.
She cleaned the kitchen, but before she
loaded the car, she looked over the California map. Take 20 to Willits, 101 to Calpella,
20 again until just before Williams, swing a
left to Leesville, Lodoga, Stonyford and Elk
Creek. First right after Elk Creek, start
climbing the Coast Range to Alder Springs.
The ride was long and arduous. Storms
had dumped rain and snow through northern California. Roads unexposed to sun were
slick and slow. Four hours and fifty miles
after the turn toward Leesville, she arrived.
Aunt Zelda greeted her from the porch in
a purple sweat suit, her bright yellow socks
rolled down over the tops of pink sneakers.
Too-red lipstick outlined her welcome
words. “I can’t believe you’re here.” She
hugged so tight and went inside to make
them hot tea.
While auntie was inside, she unloaded the
car. Where were the muffins? She looked
front and back, under the seat, and then
remembered that she had placed them on
the trunk before she packed the car. She saw
herself slam the rear door shut. She got into
the car, started the ignition, took one look
back at the house and drove off without
securing the muffins.
Aunt Zelda was flittering about the
kitchen like a big cheery grape. “You’re the
only one who could make it for my birthday.
The weather and all, you know.” She could
tell from the empty hands and sad look on
her niece’s face that there would not be
muffins to put in the bowl purposed to
accompany the tea setting in the center of
the chrome and Formica kitchen table.
Before the frustrated muffin maker could
wring her own neck, the ancient oddity
reached into the empty bowl, took out an
imaginary muffin, took an imaginary bite,
closed her eyes and savored the imaginary
flavor and texture. “Um, um, um.” She
looked into her favorite family member’s
eyes and smiled. “Barbara June, you’ve done
it again. These muffins are as good as gold.”
Aunt Zelda said that every time.
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Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette
July/September 2015
To Chi Or Not to Chi — Nona Smith
I
first met Allyson in a walking group
when our short legs fell into a comfortable side-by-side stride. She was
an attractive, petite woman whose wispy hair
framed her face and accentuated her green,
feline-shaped eyes. She spoke with a slight
southern drawl and seemed to feel comfortable sharing the intimate details of her life
with a complete stranger.
“For many years,” she confided as we
puffed along at a good clip, “I was involved
with a church group. But just recently, one of
the elders told me I wasn’t deacon material.”
She made air quotes around deacon material
and rolled her eyes heavenward. “He said I
talk too much, listen too little, and lack
empathy. Imagine that!” She looked angry.
Devastated actually. “I’m leaving that
church.” She sounded determined.
Several weeks later Allyson came to walking group again. She fitted her stride to mine
and began telling me about her new friends,
some women who study goddess worship.
They travel together to places like Delphi
and Machu Pichu to be near The Goddess
Source. (Again, the air quotes.) She’d already
made two trips with them to small villages in
Mexico and had collected trinkets and
charms along the way. “I find these spiritually energizing,” she told me, her cat eyes
narrowing.
Months later, Allyson caught up with me
again. She was no longer affiliated with those
women, but she told me about the intricately
woven necklaces she’d created using the
amulets and milagros she’d collected in her
Goddess Source travels. “They are spiritually
empowering talismans,” she said touching
her chest where an imaginary necklace
might have lain.
“But what do you know about feng shui?”
she asked.
I was confused by the rapid change of subject. “Uh … not much.”
She smiled, like I’d said The Perfect Thing,
and I felt like a fly who’d stumbled into a
spider’s web.
“It’s my new spiritual path,” she said. Her
face conveyed rapture. “Let me tell you
about it.”
I sensed this walk would be a long one
and picked up the pace, hoping to wind her.
“It’s the ancient Chinese practice of placing things” – and here her stubby fingers
made those air quotes again – “in order to
produce the maximum harmonic balance in
one’s life.”
I tried to hide my skepticism. “What kinds
of ‘things’ are you placing?” I asked.
“Good question!” she said, beaming. “I
can show you. I’m enrolled in a feng shui
training course now and I’m required to do
several consultations before I can get my certificate of completion. May I do one for you?
Then you’ll understand about placing
things.” She looked ecstatic.
The look got me. With lots of trepidation
and a caveat, I agreed. “Okay, but here’s the
thing: I don’t want to spend a lot of money
remodeling any fatal flaws you find, so you’ll
have to tell me what to do to improve
things – if you find improvement is needed –
without it costing a lot.”
She readily agreed and I awaited her visit
with … curiosity.
At the appointed time, I saw Allyson’s car
from my kitchen window. When, after several minutes, she failed to appear at my door,
I went outside to look for her. I found her
pacing back and forth on the sidewalk in
front of my house. She was swinging a small
crystal by a red thread.
“This is bad,” she announced without a
hello. She was frowning. “Your house is on a
down slope, a very poor sign.”
I could tell she’d forgotten all about our
agreement. I invited her in anyway and
hoped for the best.
July/September 2015
Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette
Standing over the threshold in the foyer,
Allyson peered up the stairs to the garage
level and down the stairs to the main part of
the house. Crystal swinging, her brow still
furrowed, she announced, “This isn’t good.
The life energy force, the chi, is confused. It’s
not good for the chi to be confused. You’ll
have to wind a silk garland around the banister so the chi will know which way to proceed.”
Without actually agreeing to do this, I led
her downstairs.
At the bottom of the steps, Allyson stood
in shocked dismay, staring out the window
in front of her. The window framed lush
greenery and a graceful but sickly Monterey
Pine. The crystal on the thread swung enthusiastically.
“Oh dear. Look at this.” She gestured dramatically to the glass. “Your money is disappearing,” she announced. “Coming in the
front door and running right through this
window. The only thing saving it is that pine
tree.”
She hadn’t fully entered the house and
already things were going badly. I didn’t have
the heart to tell her the tree had been diagnosed with beetle blight and was scheduled
to be cut down at week’s end. Instead, I
steered her toward the living room where
she discovered yet another problem.
Light streamed into this high ceilinged
room from many directions. Allyson clucked
her tongue. “Bad for the chi,” she said. “We
need crystals in this room to ‘ground’
(another set of air quotes) the chi and keep
it from charging around and causing an
energy overload. Nine crystals should remedy this situation, hanging from red threads,
dangling in front of the windows.” She made
a note of this.
I could see my home was hopelessly
inhospitable to the chi, but not knowing
how to get rid of Allyson, I showed her the
bedrooms. Her crystal swung energetically as
she walked around, offering suggestions for
additional gem placement here, wind chimes
7
there. Standing in my son’s walk-in closet, I
saw Allyson smile for the first time.
“This is the best energy in the house,” she
enthused.
Well, of course it is. This is where my son
used to hide his weed stash.
We walked down the final flight of stairs
to my office, a low-ceilinged room with
panoramic views of stately oaks. It had the
feeling of a cozy tree house. Through a large
window, I delighted in watching squirrels
cavort among the branches.
“To keep the chi energized here you’ll
need to paint the ceiling black,” Allyson proclaimed.
I bit my tongue and balled my hands into
fists. Then realizing I had no more rooms to
show her, I was flooded with relief and ventured a question.
“Chi-wise, am I doing anything right?”
She thought about it for a nano-second
before answering, “Not much.” And then, as
an after-thought added, “But if you want to
attract a ‘serious relationship’ (air quotes
again) into your life, you might try placing
pairs of things in the north/east corners of
rooms. A pair of salt shakers, gloves, anything in twos.”
Consultation over, crystal swinging,
Allyson left. But not before mentioning it
was customary to tip the practitioner. She
handed me three small red envelopes with
gold leaf designs on them and waited while I
grudgingly stuffed a few bills into them.
The experience stayed with me for several
days. In the end, I decided I was going to
increase my pace so I don’t have walk with
Allyson anymore. I also concluded I’m probably a feng shui skeptic. I never considered
painting my ceiling black and I wound no
garlands around my banister. There are no
chrysalis dangling from my living room windows, but I did place a pair of earrings on a
table in the north/east corner of my bedroom.
A few weeks ago, a guy with promise came
into my life.
The chi seems pleased.
8
Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette
July/September 2015
If I Forget Your Birthday — Geraldine Pember
When you were born
only the ones around you
wished you a happy birthday.
When you were one year old
you were not aware of that special day
At two and three and four I’m sure you
started to be aware you were
experiencing a special time of joy.
The lights that flickered on the
cake in front of you — it was
such a treat to blow them out.
At five, six and seven it became more
exciting opening the gifts you
received. At eight, nine and ten the
celebration was more delightful,
and so you counted the time
when your birthday came — and
now you have added many more.
In the years to come and go,
if I forget and fail to get
in touch to wish you a happy
birthday, I want you to know
it will never be because I
didn’t care. It will only be
because I did not look at
the calendar in my busy
world. A feeling of annoyance
will come over me, being cross
with myself.
Thoughts of you will bring back
all the times of life’s pleasures
we’ve shared, and how I treasure
the memories in all we have done
together.
I will carry you I my heart
Forever, and hope in all the
Future years you live, life will
Be gentle, kind and loving to you.
And whenever you feel spring
has come, a summer breeze
touches you, you see a rainbow
in the sky, hear a bird sing a
song, see a butterfly pass by,
hear the sound of a breeze
in the trees — please think
of me, who will always think
of you, every day wishing you
for all eternity —
— a Happy Birthday.
P hoebe G raubard
a t t o r n e y at L aw
7 07 • 9 64 • 3 5 25
[\
wiLLs • trust
Probate • eLder Law
594 S outh F ranklin S treet
F ort B ragg, C aliFornia 95437
July/September 2015
Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette
9
watching
with seconds remaining
with friends
food eaten
clock winding down
edge of couch
we suffer
the agony
of not knowing
until that last gasp shot
falls
not within the orange rim
not through the limp white hanging net
the ball bounces away
where nobody can change
what just happened
and then, with the final score
at the buzzer
we are limp
we try to breathe
and wonder
about those bounces
which did not go
our way
we have another game
in two days
to willfully guide
that damn bouncing ball
this time
through the hoop
mickey chalfin
Do not regret growing older.
It is a privilege denied to many.
- Anonymous
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
10
Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette
July/September 2015
More Marilyn, Less Judy — Nona Smith
spotted them as soon as we entered the
store. There, on an upholstered chaise
lounge, they glittered in all their glory. I
was drawn to them like a magnet.
My friend Kay saw them too. She giggled
as she took my arm and led me in their
direction.
“Go on. Try them,” she coaxed.
The others had dispersed around the barnlike consignment store, each pursuing their
own interests. Cindy went in search of used
books, Peggy headed for the fancy dinnerware. Kay and I made straight for the shoes.
This pair was the stuff legends were made
of, reminiscent of Dorothy’s ruby slippers…
on steroids. But glitzier. Sexier. Less Judy
Garland, more Marilyn Monroe.
I hefted one of them and turned it over.
The soles were virginal. No surprise there.
Who could really wear them? The heels were
five inches of shimmery gold. The shoe itself
narrowed into what I could feel would be a
toe-cramping point.
I peeked inside, searching for the size. The
shoe glinted and sparkled in my hand as if
speaking to me, encouraging me: Try me on.
You know you want to.
“Oh, go for it,” Kay encouraged.
To humor her, okay, to humor me, I sat on
the chaise, removed my clunky black leather
clog, and slipped on one ridiculously shimmery silver spiky heel. Wouldn’t you know?
It fit. I put the other one on.
“Can you stand up?” Kay asked.
“I can try,” I said. With effort, teetering, I
did.
Cindy and Peggy, finished with their
explorations, wandered back to us.
I stood unsteadily, hands at my waist, right
hip thrust forward, one foot tipped sideways
I
and waited for comments. “So, what do you
think?”
“Huh,” Cindy said. Her tone was flat. She
studied the shoes in earnest. “And where
exactly would you wear them?”
She had a point. I live in a place of
crooked streets, wooden sidewalks, dusty
roads and uneven pavement.
“But Art will love them,” Kay said, referring to my husband. Her eyes twinkled.
Peggy kept still, her lips pursed, looking
skeptical.
I took a few tentative, wobbly steps to see
if I could actually walk. I hadn’t worn high
heels in a long time. Heels this high...never.
“You have to get them,” Kay said. “Think
of the possibilities.”
I thought of the possibilities: Halloween. A
sexy evening at home. Bed. Those were the
only three I could come up with.
The angle of the heels made my knees
lock and I had to concentrate hard to keep
from tipping forward. I could hardly stand in
these shoes, but being five inches taller, I
could see more. Still, I had a hard time imagining walking in them.
“They make your legs look sexy,” Kay
said. She raised an encouraging eyebrow.
Cindy raised her shoulders in a you-gottabe-kidding-me shrug.
Peggy raised the issue of finances. “How
much do they cost?”
Good question. How much indeed?
I reached for Cindy’s shoulder to balance
myself, lifted one leg and wobbled on the
other, toes painfully pinched. Tipping my
raised foot upward to scan for a price tag I
felt I’d invented a new yoga position: Downward Twisted Stork. Not a relaxing pose, but
one that certainly fostered mindfulness.
July/September 2015
Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette
The price tag said $30. I read it aloud. The
hand that cradled the shoe was now covered
with glitter.
A forty-something guy, with slicked-back
hair, not unattractive, strolled by. The store
manager. “Nice shoes,” he said. “Expensive,
originally. They come from Red Carpet Shoes
in Hollywood. The woman who put them on
consignment is a designer and sometimes
gets paid in fancy shoes.”
So. The shoes had a history. A mystique.
Glamour.
“I’ll give you $25 for them,” I heard myself
saying.
Kay smiled with satisfaction. Peggy
shrugged. Cindy shook her head.
“Deal,” he said.
When I arrived home, Art was busy in the
kitchen. “Have a good time?” he asked.
I began pulling purchases out of bags to
show him what a good time I’d had: a
blouse, some humorous birthday cards, a
rain jacket for him.
“And wait,” I said, holding up an index
finger.
I rushed upstairs, wanting to slip the shoes
on and make a grand re-entrance. But once
up the stairs, sparkly heels on my feet, I realized I couldn’t possibly walk down a whole
flight without breaking something.
I removed the shoes, sauntered down all
but two steps, put the shoes back on and
extended my arms.
“Ta da!”
Art stared at me. He rolled his eyes from
the glitzy shoes to my face. I could see from
his expression he didn’t get them. The shoes
held no sparkle for him. He stood in silence,
waiting for an explanation.
“So?” I asked.
“So?” he asked back.
“Do you find them…sexy?”
He gazed at the shoes again then
11
shrugged. “Not really. They look…” I saw he
was searching for the right word “…lethal.”
Fear is not an emotion I want to promote
in our bedroom. “Lethal wasn’t the look I
was going for,” I explained.
“What then?” he asked looking at me over
the top of his glasses.
I told him about Kay’s fantasy and how
she’d encouraged me to buy them.
“Sorry,” he said. He shook his head slowly.
“They just…don’t do it for me.”
Deflated, I placed the shoes on the top
shelf of my closet, pushed to the back.
Some days, if I’m standing in the closet and
the sun hits the shelf just right, the shoes
wink at me. Truthfully, I don’t see myself
wearing them. I can’t imagine a practical use
for them. But I also can’t quite bring myself
to dispose of them. It’s like letting go of possibility and I’m not ready to do that yet.
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Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette
July/September 2015
LOOKING FOR WINKLER – Adrienne Ross
W
inkler has been in England for six
months. Now he’s back, and Mimi
can’t decide to call him. She’s been
visiting in his town, Iowa City, sitting at the
Great Midwestern every afternoon gazing
out the window. Students walk up and down
Washington Street, backpacks dangling from
the sodden shoulders of their loden coats.
She’s been in town the exact same period of
time he’s been back from England: one
week. She’d know Winkler anywhere, his
pointed long chin, downturned mouth,
angled beaky nose. Faculty members stride
by, turning their scarfed necks to get a
glimpse of their bespectacled reflections in
the steamy window. Mimi searches out the
passing cars, surely he will still drive a black
car? Her coffee cools, its froth descends.
They could have bumped into each other at
the camera counter in the student union, she
to buy film, he to pick up his developed pictures. Mimi slumps in her chair and reads
another time the story on page one of the
Iowa Daily.
Read the letter, he said, his voice urgent
and thin. Mimi remembers his dry voice very
well. She didn’t understand his letter ten
years ago, and she doesn’t understand the
newspaper article today. Winkler a racist
bigot? How could that be right? She reads it
again and again. Of course it doesn’t say anything about his state of mind. Maybe he has
forgotten by now how ten years ago he fled
from her apartment. Ten years is a long time.
Mimi remembers his voice on the phone.
Just read the letter, he said. He spoke slowly.
He said: read the letter, and hung up. The
letter in her hand said he’d taken his things
away and didn’t want to see her again. Of
course she’d read it several times already.
UNIVERSITY RESEARCHER SUED BY
TENANT
Professor Ernest Winkler, Director of
Research Services at the U of I prestigious Institute for Data Acquisition and newly appointed
Chairman of the Applied Statistics Center, was
brought to court on a Discrimination in Housing charge by his tenant, Jillian Dixon. Dixon,
who is black, claimed that Winkler evicted her
from his duplex in the Campus Heights district
because of her race. Dixon said today that she
and her husband, from whom she is now separated, had first rented the lower flat from Winkler two years ago. Winkler served an eviction
notice to Dixon claiming she was “making
[his] life a living hell. Her loud music, constant
stream of visitors, belligerence and hostility
when asked to comply with garbage and parking ordinances, all caused [Winkler] to ask her
to leave.” Winkler further alleged that Dixon
has not paid rent for six months despite three
requests, two of them in writing.
Dixon contends that she played music neither late at night nor at any other time. She
has no friends in Iowa City, does not own a car,
takes out the trash every week, and has paid
rent through the next year.
Prof. Winkler has just returned from England
where he directed the establishment of the
American Data Center in Cumberland.
Mimi thinks she should call him tonight,
she’ll be gone tomorrow. What if she calls
him and he says: Did you read about me in
the paper?
Yes I did.
So you’re just looking to satisfy your
prurient curiosity?
July/September 2015
Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette
No, not at all —
Well, I don’t need it.
No, really, I live in Berkeley. I’m only here
because of the conference —
What if he says: Mimi. Of course I remember you. My god. I think of you every day of
my life.
You think of me — ?
I wonder if you’re single. If you’d ever
come to Iowa. If I could ever see you again.
I’m lonely. I miss you. I behaved badly to
you and I fear you’ll never forgive me —
Oh, yes —
You must be married, happy —
No! No!
Mimi sips her coffee, now cold. The café is
nearly empty now, its steamy warmth dissipating. Of course she had read the letter several times already, her heart smashing against
her chest and sounding in her ears with a
thunderous rending noise like an earthquake. Just thinking about it now twists her
stomach like an icy fist squeezing. He never
wanted to see her again, prohibited any form
of communication. Before she leaves town
she wants to encounter him accidentally, in a
way that will somehow be easy for him and
not shocking or painful. His Institute is
across the river, in the third and fourth floors
of the Economics building; while the conference, attended by over a thousand people, is
held in the Union Building nearly a mile
away. Mimi was in fact invited to a reception
in Winkler’s department on the first night of
the conference but didn’t go. She didn’t want
to run into him at a party, her throat would
close up, her creamy silk blouse would soak
through with sweat. But it would be okay at
the café, the camera store, the bookstore,
best of all here at the café. She doesn’t know
if this is his favorite café, she doesn’t even
know if he goes out to cafés, she has chosen
to maintain her vigil at this particular café
because it is her own favorite, the coffee is
13
wonderful, she can look out the window at
the passers-by.
It is getting late, it is getting dark. Mimi is
leaving early in the morning, this is her last
night, the last night of the conference, she
hasn’t packed yet, and she will soon meet
some other conference participants for dinner. She leaves the newspaper on the table
before her, and swathes herself in her down
coat, her suede beret, her gloves.
She pauses in the muffled temporal gap
between the comfortable café and the freezing sleet which can stab your cheeks with a
hundred knives of ice. She sees through the
chilly early evening gloom the back of a
man’s head as the man gets out of a car
across the street. He locks his car, pulls his
hat down, the hat is a fedora, how unusual.
He walks gingerly to the icy sidewalk, the
walk of someone who knows how to pay
attention to icy streets, walks gingerly into
the flower shop where a display of hothouse
palms is illuminated in the window. He
never used to like plants, what has happened? Does the Director of an Institute
have to buy plants to decorate his big office?
In her mind Mimi sees the office, it has
bulging leather furniture and the carpet is
definitely on the light side, maybe even pale
blue. Could she buy a small bunch of flowers for the local friend whom she will shortly
meet, a small potted plant? Yes, midwesterners definitely need a plant, need many
plants, in the deep pale Iowa winter with its
landscape of twigs and skeletal branches, the
big sky all shining white and cold, crystals of
ice implied in its gleaming clarity. She
decides to leave the shelter of the café’s
entrance and walk across the street, carefully
on the icy road, carefully, and enter the
flower shop. She will look around, she will
see Winkler, she will speak, she will say, Oh!
Is it you, Ernest? Winkler, hello. Hello,
Ernest, she will say. He will turn, he will
14
Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette
stiffen, he will clear his throat. Hello, Mimi,
long time no see.
No. Winkler, my goodness. Shall we have
some coffee and catch up all our years? No.
Ernest Winkler, hello.
As Mimi writes and discards each script
she is immobilized within the shelter of the
café’s entrance. In a way she is ready to walk
across the street right now, but she can’t
think of the right words to greet Winkler. So
she turns her face away as Winkler exits the
flower shop carrying what looks like a big
bunch of white chrysantheumums. She sees
him get into his car and drive away. The car
is dark green.
Mimi walks up Washington towards College Avenue and the Holiday Inn. Her boots
make crunchy grating sounds on the ice. She
keeps well away from the curb.
Mimi sees it all now: Ms Dixon and Ms
Dixon’s ex-husband, bright young graduate
students, bright young black graduate students, arrive from the east coast. Winkler is
assigned as their advisor, Winkler is asked
where they can live, Winkler offers them the
downstairs flat on a “temporary” basis. The
Dixons split up, Winkler gets emotionally
involved with Ms Dixon, who is maybe more
attached than he, certainly more attached
than he. Then Winkler goes to England for
six months to set up the American Data
Center. What a coup for the University, for
Cumberland, for Winkler! “Be gone when I
get back,” Winkler probably tells Jillian
Dixon, “you have six months to find another
place and another lover, pack all your things
and just get out.” “I will, don’t worry!” she
says. But she likes her lower flat, she likes
the neighborhood, perhaps she has another
love affair, and she simply doesn’t bother to
move. Now Winkler is caught in exactly, precisely, the kind of situation he most detests,
is most hostile to, has put the most energy
July/September 2015
into avoiding. No walking out on Jillian
Dixon leaving only a letter, Mimi thinks, Jillian Dixon has legal remedies.
She remembers his voice dry as a bone,
dusty dry, when he said: Read the letter, just
read my letter. Of course she’d already read it
several times, and was reading it again as he
spoke.
Lizzie was a busybody. She
loved to spread gossip and to
tell people when they were
doing something which, according to the Gospel Of Lizzie, (as
her late husband used to call it)
was a sin.
After service one Sunday
Lizzie rushed after Joe who
was just getting into his pick up
truck to drive away. “Now, Joe,”
she said. “You know very well,
drinking is a sin. Your truck was
parked out front of the Tip Top
Saloon all night. I saw it there.”
She shook her head, and
pursed her lips. “The whole
town saw it.”
Joe looked at Lizzie. He put
the key into the ignition. Turned
on the engine. Shifted into first
gear and drove away.
That very night Joe drove into
town, pulled up into Lizzie’s
driveway. He turned off the
engine, got out of the truck,
locked it and walked back to his
home.
July/September 2015
Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette
for PAUL BLAKE
may 16, 1949 – october 2, 2014
OCTOBER 8 2014
15
ANTONIA LAMB
10/03/43 — 9/9/13
again & again
she was seen
after her sudden exit
it is the dark of the moon
you passed before it
into the everlasting light
OUR TIME AT PLAYLAND
there’s a tug on my heart
it hurts
unshed tears
i did what i could
even to becoming objective
to steel myself
from feeling your pain
not to enter your rollercoaster ride
again & again on the the merry-go-round
reaching for the brass-ring
up & down went the horses
i rode the white one
with the angel on the back
you on the black one
with the grinning devil
the fun house with the mirrors
showed us elongated or fat
the burlap bag slide
had us screaming all the way down
my fright in the spook-house
was not faked
but the tunnel of love was romantic
the tunnel of love was romantic
you’re gone
i keep telling myself
or are you?
ruth weiss
seems she wanted to let it be known
that what seems far is near
and what is near is dear
ANTONIA spread your wings
we hear you.
ruth weiss
t his really did not happen
the young waitress didn’t touch my arm
did not get my attention
she wasn’t wearing a silky blue blouse
i didn’t see her next to me
i was unaware of her warm touch
didn’t feel her soft pressure on my skin
i never noticed how beautiful her face was
her perfectly aligned white teeth
never saw her red hair tied up in a bun
my breath wasn’t taken away
when she spoke i didn't hear a word
i’ll have to pay more attention
to these details
when they might just happen again
and she persists
mickey chalfin
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Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette
July/September 2015
Sydney’s Best Day — Gene Lock
H
er wide eyes scanned the canyon walls.
Sydney, after all, is a Blue Merle Australian Shepherd, and this is Desert
Mountain Sheep country. She is tall in the
passenger seat as we crawl off Highway 395.
This road runs north and south, on the eastern side of the mountains you see in
Yosemite. We are headed into the Eastern
Sierra’s Lundey Canyon. Lundey is north of
Mono Lake, but shoved hard against the
peaks. It is lots of places: Miners camp, once;
a drop off spot for trailheads to lead the sorefooted up through Yosemite’s backdoor;
salad bar for beaver and bear; and one building — the Lundey store. Rough pitchpine
boards, charred by desert sun, rusty roof.
The open porch floor is big handhewn
planks, pulled from one of many landslides
now covering gold rush mines up the
canyon walls. Sydney takes cautious steps
around floor cracks as we check out the leafy
vines that shade the one rocking chair. It
holds a woman in her late 40s maybe, hair a
dusty tan-gray, eyes green. Birkenstocks,
shirt and cargo shorts, normal high desert
business attire. A lightly sun-seamed round
face smiles. “They’re hops vines,” she says.
“Miners here made homebrew from mule
and horse feed, and grew hops to give their
beer a bite. Miners probably froze, but the
hops are still with us.” She and her husband,
an LA cop, own the store, and she runs it
summers, with his help when shift work
allows. Beer, Slim Jim jerky, fly fishing stuff,
maps, canteens. An old cooler groans in the
corner. I take a beer out of it, pay the
woman, as Sydney sniffs the one room store
over. She and I spend summer days on this
side of the Sierras, walking creeks, peering
down cliffs, mostly just enjoying the silence
that sticks to high desert gorges and meadows. But a store! Here are scents of old fish
bait, dropped food, spilled beer, a feast of
blooming flora. Sydney’s nose goes to Shop
Vac mode. I chat more with the woman, and
view browning photos of Lundey winters, of
fish, of bearded, tired men with hopeful eyes.
Sydney is gone only a minute or two. She
comes back from another room, living quarters, maybe — some old tables and chairs,
salt shakers, I think. She’s shifted into her
sneak-up-on sheep gear, head and tail low,
eyes on mine. Her gold-furred face clamps a
cold pork chop. It is going with us, her eyes
say to mine. The woman doesn’t notice, and
I think it not a good time to tell the cop’s
wife that shoplifting is in progress. Sydney
goes off the porch first, waits at the getaway
van’s passenger door, then vaults onto her
seat, grinning around the pork chop. I drive
away slowly, like it says in the thieves’ manual. About a mile down the rocky road, we
park under creekside cottonwoods, and Sydney eats the best pork chop ever stolen. Even
the next day, her pink tongue reaches far out
onto her cheeks, to savor the moment. She
catches my eyes and we laugh the way good
friends do. I hope Aussies are still welcome
back in Lundey Canyon.
July/September 2015
Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette
And Dream — Rick Banker
“You see”
I said to myself when I
woke up,
“I was standing so cold on
An iceberg and I wasn’t
Really cold; (I wasn’t really
Breathing either) and I said
Boy I’ll bet that water is Cold”
Head first!
And the ice blue water welcomed me!
And the far away shelves of ice so blue
In the ice light said
“You can come up this way if you want to”
But I didn’t want to. I wanted to go
deeper and deeper to
where the light was better
and
I could see
the blue nothingness
that stretched down
and even deeper
where the water was heavier and
weighted me up but I
went down down deep
doom down
and
then there weren’t any more
friendly shelves of ice blue but
Crystal bubbles all white and blue
They fell
Even faster than I and
Laughed as they blew past me leaving trails
of blue silver that got in my noseand my
eyes and
I laughed too while the bubbles danced
through my hair
But then the blue water
Swirled heavier and
heavier
and
Hard lines grew together and
Loved each other and
Tried to push me out but
The light got brighter and
Brighter and
Soon
I was pushing my way into
The heart of a blue crystal and
The light was so bright and
The lines got harder and
Harder and harder and
The light was so bright and
I cried and
Struggled and pushed but
No closer no closer
No closer
Round and around that
Burning heart of clear light
so blue
Crying blue bubbles that
Froze next to my eyes and
I couldn’t see the
Light
and
A million billion lights all blue ice
Froze
But I couldn’t see the light
And I died.
17
18
Redwood Coast Senior Center
July/September 2015
WHERE ARE THE HIPPIES OF YESTERDAY?
Where are the hippies of yesterday
who burned their draft cards
and chained themselves to the gates of the White House?
Where are those longhaired, dope smoking demonstrators
who shouted "Hell No! We won't go!"?
Where is the "counter culture"
who sought peace and brotherhood
and raised the level of hope for the rest of us?
What happened to the brotherhood, the sisterhood,
the activism that brought us all into the streets
to protest an unjust, uncalled for, disastrous war?
Have they all gone back to the fold?
Do they march again to the drummer's beat?
Are they selling real estate? Insurance?
Margin buying on the stock exchange?
I call upon you, hippies of the sixties and seventies
to rise again from your long sleep,
go down into the streets
and shake the establishment once more to its senses
that peace may have its day
and, with hope renewed,
we can all live our lives without shaking.
Jay Frankston
LIKE AN EAGLE
Forever flew like an eagle
in the liquid primordial sky
wings stretched wide across the expanse
the flutter and sway
of an eternal dance.
It had no beginning,
no middle, no end,
and its white light was pure crystal
in a boundless sea of mirth
Then time dropped out of the sky
and spread over the earth
scattering clocks and watches
and bells on church steeples
to mark the days, the hours wasted
counting the sheep, the calories,
the ways in which our life goes by
while we sit on the sideline and watch.
Jay Frankston
July/September 2015
Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette
19
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Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette
20
July/September 2015
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