NSNETNOV LATITUDE 33

How the Jewish hostages survived Hamas: The answer is simple but profound

2026-06-15T09:23:07.669-07:00

Published by the American Thinker, June 2, 2026

How the Jewish Hostages Survived Hamas: The answer is simple but profound.

Those who have faith and trust in God gain strength from their beliefs, no matter what situation they find themselves in. In doing so, they find meaning in the act of survival.

Over 85 years ago in Auschwitz and Dachau, Jews held on to their religious beliefs even though they were terrorized by their experiences in the concentration camps. Faith became an antidote to the degradation, terror, and hopelessness they experienced. Judaism helped them build a sense of community, which helped them survive their imprisonment. This community spirit persevered in spite of the Nazi ideology, which operated through fear, punishment, and death. Through faith, their lives gained purpose and meaning.

Victor Frankl and Hannah Arendt survived the World War II camps. Frankl, author of Man’s Search for Meaning, understood that finding meaning and purpose is a way to survive even through extreme suffering. Arendt in The Origins of Totalitarianism delineated the psychological and physical effects of isolation that erase personal identity and autonomy — not just in the camps of the past, but in the current terrorist regimes that stifle personal and political freedom, those two aspects in the common world of free societies. What could replace that world for those in the camps? Faith, hope, meaning, and purpose.

For the past three years, the violent attack by Hamas on Israelis on October 7, 2023 has become a tragedy of immense importance in news cycles. The atrocities on October 7 rivaled those of the Holocaust with the kind of brutality that is difficult to hear or believe because of its depravity. Whole families were destroyed, mutilated, and their corpses defiled.

The hostages of October 7 who survived have been clear about what they experienced. The Israeli hostages have begun to relate their imprisonment under Hamas terrorists to the world. Having purpose saved them. They never lost hope or their faith.

Eli Sharabi, in his book Hostage, recounts his resistance to the terrorists in Gaza. By creating a cohesive group in captivity, he initiated a somewhat common world in which a shared religious reality sustained him and his fellows.

But that was not the beginning of his strength and purpose in captivity. After being attacked, beaten, and kidnapped on the holiday of Simchat Torah, Sharabi believed that his wife and daughters were alive. Unfortunately, after he was freed, he found out that they had been murdered. The initial hope that they were alive, however, gave his life meaning and purpose. He was Eli Sharabi, the survivor.

Sharabi and other hostages were moved from a home to a tunnel under a mosque, and then to more dark tunnels. Sharabi mentioned his fear of the underground prisons, away from the light of day. Each move could have been more defeating for him, but Sharabi and the others began to seek the comfort of purposeful small rituals by saying Birkat Hamazon, the grace after meals. When all were starving, Sharabi, at fifty years old, held the small group of younger men together as rations shrank and their bodies lost mass and strength. A shared common space and community of faith gave them courage to resist the terrorist tactics of their captors. The hostages did not comply with the demands by guards to recite verses from the Quran in order to get food and maintained an invisible wall against their captors’ radicalism. That barrier promoted trust and cooperation within their tightly-knit group. They made their frightening world more habitable.

By staying alive, the hostages realized that they were bargaining chips for the Israeli government to seek their freedom. It was necessary to survive. Their Jewish faith allowed them to go on.

Months went by. Faith showed up in shared memories of past Jewish holidays of Hanukkah, Rosh Hashanah, and Passover. Faith became the way to begin and end each day. One hostage recited morning prayers out loud, and on Fridays, Sharabi sang Eshet Chayil before Kaddish. Even in his early days in captivity, he murmured Shema Y israel, like a mantra, to keep himself grounded. He imagined his release, and his family waiting for him, “enveloping him in light, whispering Shabbat Shalom, Eli. It is good to have you home.”

After 491 days, Sharabi,the hostage, the survivor, arrived home. The quiet power of faith kept him and others free in their captivity.

Norma Sadler, Ph.D. professor emeritus, Boise State University, is a writer now living in California. She is a member of the Lutheran Church of the Cross.

Reflections in the Fairy Gardein

2025-12-24T09:02:00.000-08:00

"Reflections in the Fairy Garden" as it appeared in the Laguna Beach Independent, December 5, 2025

By Norma Sadler

During a Christmas break from work, Vivian sat in the Fairy Garden at the Laguna Beach Library. With her drawing pad balanced on her knees, she was all set to work on a charcoal sketch. Around her, kids came and went, peering into small habitats or hunting in the garden for butterflies.
She put on her glasses, squinted at the paper, then concentrated on a hidden fairy home near the Christmas tree. Shiny ornaments caught the light. The garden grew quiet. A shadow crossed the paper. She turned her head. Nothing there. She closed her eyes, daydreaming in the warm sunlit afternoon. When she opened her eyes, a fairy fluttered in the air before her. Nonsense, she thought. A pine sprig dropped from the tree onto the paper and slid down to the bottom. She continued drawing.
'What are you doing?" a voice asked. On the roof of a tiny home, a fairy stood in a white dress with her wings folded behind her.
Vivian was sure she was in a dream.
"Who are you?" She asked.
"I'm Poppy. I live here." Flouncing her dress around her, Poppy settled herself at the top of drawing. "What are you doing?" She asked.
"What I am doing is an outline of what I want to paint later," she said. "This fairy home reminds of a dollhouse that I decorated each Christmas. I could place my doll in any room I wanted and rearrange the furniture around her. For Christmas Day, holly berries and leaves filled the space. Postage stamps of a wreath and candles that I glued on the walls became permanent paintings. I hung a mirror in the bedroom for my doll to see herself."
Poppy glanced at the drawing. "I've only seen my reflection in pools of rainwater in the garden, but I would be happier if I had a mirror in my own home. You don't have a mirror in your drawing yet. Can't you draw me a mirror?"
"I could, but – "
"Please do it," Poppy said. "Our garden was named for an anonymous fairy who lived here, but no one in charge bothered to ask any of us if we wanted mirrors in our homes."
Vivian wasn't frightened, but things were getting stranger and stranger.
"I can't draw you a real mirror in charcoal," Vivian said, "but I could outline a round shape." She drew a circle.
Poppy looked at it. "I'm not in the mirror you drew," she said.
"See, I could sketch your face in, but it wouldn't be in color. You're made up of shapes and colors.
"I am?" Poppy asked. She glanced back at her wings, then down at her white dress.
"Yes," Vivian said. As she tried to figure out how to draw Poppy in the mirror, she felt herself drifting away. Then she looked up. Poppy was gone.
A kid ran by. "Hey, look," he yelled. A Monarch butterfly glided through the garden.
Vivian lifted the sketch pad to see her work more clearly. The fairy home was a cutaway of two floors. In one corner of a bedroom, a pine sprig lay below a mirror, postage stamp high. In the mirror Vivian could see a reflection in full color. The face had Vivian's nose, mouth, and even the glasses she wore. White gossamer wings fanned out behind her. The scent of pine filled the air.

Too Many Tomatoes: A Poem

2025-08-04T14:32:00.000-07:00

Too Many Tomatoes

Alone now, my mother
Is like my Polish grandmother.
She is growing
Too many tomatoes.

A six pack starter kit.
Two plants dry up.
She buys another six pack.

Now ten plants occupy
A very straight row,
Mounted against steel poles.

Now growing strong
With bits of egg shell
Spotting the soil.

Now tied up with torn strips
Of white sheets,
Yellow blossoms form.

Now bright red tomatoes
Hang heavy, vines droop.
Too many tomatoes.

I am there for her and the harvest.

Krystal's Notebook: Not a Romance

2025-03-16T18:45:00.000-07:00

From the back Cover:

Krystal's Notebook: Not a Romance published as a paperback 2025

You might know a girl who loses a boyfriend, then has to figure out how to survive without him. It isn't that easy. By writing in a notebook for her English class, she sorts out her life. In the school office, she assists the secretary, and in doing so, has access to what happens to other students and teachers. Trying out for the lead as Eurydice, she meets Gary, cast as Orpheus. They will have to spend time together learning lines and blocking scenes. But then, she notices David, new to her high school, who walks by her locker on the way to a class. Eventually, she wants to know everything about him. Could he become her one true love?

Troubled: A review of Rob Henderson's book

2025-02-21T15:05:00.000-08:00

Not like in Hillbilly Elegy, where J.D. Vance survived in a rural environment with his grandmother, Troubled shows us Rob Henderson, having his family fall apart, leaving him to bounce around in foster care systems in small or large cities in California. Even after he is adopted, his world is not okay as his parents divorce. He never had a family through his life that he could count on. What I think is important is his position that family and bonding to those who care about you is way more important than educational goals and social achievement in our society, as if attaining success can win out over the need for a sense of belonging.
Limousine liberals with luxury beliefs have created a world of many troubled children, young adults, and adults because of their zeal to assume belief structures for others that are not the same as for themselves. To them, it's okay if those below them in society are not encouraged to get married, then have children. It's okay for them to have helter skelter lives, with no marriages, children out of wedlock, and homes where police have been defunded and crime is now even worse. How can elites be so arrogant (my word, not his)? It is because elites do get married, stay married, have children, and can protect themselves from crime by burglar alarm systems, body guards, and the luxury of their addresses.
This memoir is about more than that though. Henderson spent lots of hours reading books that dealt with persons having tough lives. By reading those books, he gained a sense of understanding of what he was going through. I loved how Henderson talked about his own life and minimal survival until he joined the Air Force, where he finally attains a sense of belonging. This book is one for those troubled among us so that they can seek a way out even if the odds are against them. Perhaps this book might help to change the way institutional foster care functions in this country and also help individuals in the system cope and find a sense of belonging that we all need as children or adults.

The Crystal Elephant

2024-12-11T10:27:00.000-08:00

   The Crystal Elephant
                                                  by
                                        Norma Sadler

    Jim and Annie lived in a small rental cottage on Cypress Street in Laguna Beach. On the day before Christmas, he wanted to buy a present for her, something different, something she would really love. Each year he bought her a Radco ornament for their tree. This year there would be no tree as they were going to have Christmas with their now grownup children and their grandchildren in Dana Point.
    Jim drove down to Forest Avenue, at a time early enough for the streets still to be not crowded with traffic and before the lunch crowd showed up. He parked and walked to a store on the corner In the window, crystal shapes caught his eye, but large sculptures on pedestals would never fit in their living room. Maybe there would be small figurines inside.
    A young woman in a bright red sweater and black slacks stood behind the counter. She smiled. "Can I help you?'
    "I'm looking for something in crystal, like a figurine maybe," he said.
    The sales clerk turned and pointed at the shelf.
    "Here we have a Baccarat tiger. It's 200 dollars."
            "Maybe a smaller figurine," Jim said.
             "Sure," she said, and walked over to mirrored shelves that held crystal animals, perfume bottles, abstract pieces, even geodes. By itself in a corner, smaller than the other pieces, stood a lone crystal elephant.
    "May I see that elephant?" Jim asked.
     The clerk picked it up carefully from the shelf and handed it to Jim.
      The elephant, solid crystal and elegant, would fit in Annie's connection of elephants from around the world. It was different though from the wood, silver, and pewter ones that she already had. She loved them and could remember how and where she acquired each one.
    Jim remembered that the first and most important elephants came from Walter, her brother, who served in Africa under General Patton and followed him in the long march up the boot of Italy. Walter carried three wood elephants with small white tusks in a knapsack for Annie, his only sister. He mailed them from post-war Paris to her. A father, mother, and baby elephant reached Annie and Jim when they were expecting their first child. That was the beginning of Annie's collection
    Now in their living room Annie's elephants traversed the mantle, making their way through pine boughs and lights.     .
    "I'll let you decide," the clerk said. "Let me know if you need anything."
    Jim turned the elephant over. A smooth flat bottom with an etched number signified its history in a Swedish company. He noticed that unlike Annie's other elephants with their heads down, either standing still or walking through imaginary jungles, this crystal elephant raised a trunk in triumph or happiness. The elephants on the mantle could use another companion.
    Jim turned to the clerk.
    "I'll take this elephant. How much is it?" he asked.
    "It's fifty dollars," the clerk said.
     He took out his wallet, paid with cash.
    The clerk wrapped the elephant, cozy in a box, then in silver paper with a red ribbon. She handed the package to him.
     "I don't know who this is for, but this crystal elephant is a perfect gift," she said.
     Jim nodded. An elephant for Annie to remember.

Norma Sadler is a member of Third Street Writers, Laguna Beach.

Elvis: A great story in a movie

2024-02-07T16:49:00.000-08:00

Elvis is one of the best dramatic movies ever, and I have no idea why it didn’t win any major Academy awards. Taking the story of Elvis and creating, not just his life story, but also the pathos and tragedy of an international singer, who starts from nothing, becomes the most popular singer in the world and then falls from grace (Graceland), loses his marriage, takes illegal drugs, and then faces a coming financial ruin all by the age of 42. How much more Shakespearean could someone’s life get?

Like Mose Allison and Charley Pride, who also sounded black when they sang, Elvis too became popular with blacks. This film is a tribute to how a white kid, growing up in a black neighborhood obviously loved the blacks he knew and loved their gospel/church music. His earlier music paid tribute to those songs, but later, which I did not know, he wrote many of his own. He became friends with B.B. King, He made sure that blacks were part of his prominent lineup of singers in Las Vegas, because black groups like the Imperials were the best. . Earlier going against segregation laws in the South, he got on the wrong side of the Southern Democrats who wanted him jailed. His activism was born of values that transcended the old-fashioned rhetoric of that time.

Austin Butler IS Elvis,and I was transported back to the 1950's easily with his character’s looks and voice. Tom Hanks as Colonel Parker, Elvis’ conniving manager gets kudos for his excellence in body makeup a Dutch accent, tinged by the South and the part he plays.. Amazing characters, scenes, and story. Best of course is the story. You wouldn’t be taking a chance on this film now on Netflix. Press the button on Elvis.

LETTERS TO MY MOTHER AND FATHER

2023-09-15T18:57:00.000-07:00

Letters to My Mother and Father

After Typewriters, Jeff Rovner Artist

   I am snipping the Sunday crossword from The Idaho Statesman to go along with a letter sent home. It’s just to my mother now, but back in 1973, puzzles went along with the letters to both of them.
    At first, I wrote longhand and not very often. At UCLA, even though I borrowed a typewriter to write the never-ending repertoire of papers for different courses--The Domestication of the Cat, Irony in Porter’s Ship of Fools, Poison Imagery in Hamlet, I still wrote very short letters home.
   Then in graduate school, married, with a newly purchased Hermes portable typewriter, I completed papers on Renaissance literature, and I typed longer letters. Still in graduate school on a Ph.D. program, I typed my way through papers on Oscar Wilde and John Hawkes. Shifting keys and locking them in time and place, I created papers on values and creativity on my way to finishing my degree. I wrote letters telling my parents about my research, about our prolific gardens attached to married student housing at the UW-Madison, about the car battery freezing when it hit -30.
   The “a” key started to stick about l983, and I was propelled into word processing on an IBM computer.   My sporadic letters became weekly, single spaced sheets that I’d send with the puzzle. I could hear my mother’s voice as she sat, working a puzzle at her kitchen table with the white tablecloth, as if I were right next to her.
   “You were the English major, so who is the main character in For Whom the Bell Tolls, or what is the French word for “lake?” Sometimes I filled in spaces with a few words in ink before I sent them.
   Although my teaching schedule was never the same, I wrote at six in the morning or on the weekend. Somehow that personal writing cleared my head for creative writing. The letters became a way of enticing myself into writing manuscripts that later could become poems, stories, or novels.
   My father died in l99l. I continued letters to my mother about family, my job, and events in my life. In a short story that I was working on, I wrote that nothing was happening to my characters. They were just standing there, oblivious to my ideas. I was so angry at those characters that I wrote to my mother to tell her that I had placed them all on a raft out in the middle of a lake, and the raft was sinking.
   “What a terrible thing to do,” my mother said in a phone conversation back to me. She called this time, did not write, and became part of the next generation without knowing it.
   I think now that my letters were limited monologues, with time for me to sort out my life as my letters flew to California. When my computer had user friendly graphics, I placed small images on the pages -- a rose (my father’s favorite flower) and a woman golfer (for my mother who played into her eighties).
   On the computer, I learned to copy and paste images in sequence. Now across a page, a row of horses galloped, cheetahs ran with the same exact stride, or wolves howled in the same sitting position. Then once, a frantic cyclist, obviously me, a mountain biker here in the west, racing toward some imaginary finish line, writing more, publishing more.
   And so, along with the letters and the crossword puzzles, I finally sent my mother a short story. Presto, ready to go. Like magic, really. I pressed the print button. The one-page letter, the crossword puzzle, and the added short story. Sent off. No longer sinking on a raft, my characters were flying home.

THE NETANYAHUS: Heroes and their Stories

2023-03-25T07:23:00.001-07:00

Published on THE AMERICAN THINKER BLOG: March 25, 2022

The Netanyahus: Heroes and their stories

By Norma Sadler

Once upon a time, I used “Let’s Bring Back Heroes,” an essay from Newsweek by William J. Bennett for a class in Literacy at Boise State University. My idea was for students to talk about using magazine essays for their future classroom students and let those students riff on it. One hero mentioned in the Newsweek essay was Yoni Netanyahu, who died in the hostage rescue mission at Entebbe. Could my students get past heroes like Superman and other fantasy figures and find real life heroes to write about that meant something to them? They could. Family, friends, those who made a difference in their lives took center stage. For one, a grandfather who served in Vietnam became the hero in an essay.

Fast forward. I am hooked on Bibi, My Story, by Benjamin Netanyahu. Did I know 35 years go what I know now -- that Yoni was Benjamin’s brother? Of course not. So another military hero who becomes prime minister of Israel crosses my path in an autobiography. For me, Bibi, My Story is the clearest most comprehensive work on the history of Israel through the life of an extraordinary man who lived through much of it.

Netanyahu takes us with him through the beginning of the state of Israel, the Six Day War and others, the ordeals of freeing hostages, to the difficulty of dealing with propaganda on all fronts that diminishes Jews and attempts to destroy the country of Israel. It was hard for me to handle sometimes the anguish of the terrorist attacks, the loss of lives, and the struggle of Israel to survive surrounded by countries ten times its size, but I wanted to know more. I kept reading.

In 1979, Netanyahu arranged an international conference on terrorism in Jerusalem under the auspices of the Jonathan Institute, named for his brother. Much of what came from that and later conferences helped the United States understand and take action against terrorists in countries that supported terrorist activity.

I am halfway through Netanyahu’s book heading to the Abraham Accords, which have become a testament to the humanity of those around Israel who seek peace and recognize its legitimacy. Much to read ahead. I shall know more about Israel and a hero and a story than most citizens in this country. Others might consider this journey with Netanyahu and discover a hero and a story that is illuminating and worth reading.

So much to be learned from a play: Guest Opinion Capital Times Madison, Wisconsin June 12, 2022

2022-06-13T08:26:00.001-07:00

https://captimes.com/opinion/guest-columns/opinion-so-much-to-be-learned-from-a-play/article_f9ebd478-b71b-54a9-b8e9-02e4def0bc25.html

The Scene: 1969, Sauk Trail Elementary School, Middleton, Wisconsin. With my fourth- and fifth-grade students, I am producing "A Midsummer Night’s Dream." It is right on schedule, as much as anything can be on schedule in an elementary school.

The rural landscape is the perfect setting, with huge rocks for Puck to leap from, woods for sprites to hide in, and lovely green grass for the court of Theseus. These students, the Sauk Trail Players, are the young local talent, becoming characters for one more play before their summer begins. Complicated names of characters, such as Hermia and Lysander, Oberon and Titania are no problem for them. An abridged play with the poetic meter of iambic pentameter, no problem.

The plot, a clever story, is filled with magical events that change lives. Children become their characters, suspend their own disbelief, as they hide among the rocks and behind trees. They create action, interpreting lines as they go. The play is the important thing, after all.

Going through scenes, children see what life is, feel what their characters feel, even if from old times and old places. They experience the vulnerability of being in a play, showing who they are by what they know about their characters. They figure out how to use gestures and pauses to make their characters "real.” They learn how to work together in order to create a play, and, at the same time, they learn how to keep their own characters’ identities intact.

The play is a huge success. The audience claps. The characters come out for bows. Standing off stage, in the grass, I am absolutely certain that drama is a way to show what it means to be alive in our time, in any past time. As characters, the students have gone through adventures, solved problems, and changed along the way.

Scene: 1973. Evening. I am finishing up my Ph.D. at UW Madison. The phone rings. One of the former Sauk Trail Players, a junior high school student, is on the line. “I learned to read from being in the plays,” he says. “Do you remember me?” he asks. Of course, I did. But somehow I wasn’t aware that plays performed years earlier had helped him learn to read.

Scene: 2003, Boise, Idaho. The memory of the play is tucked away, far away in the past of 30 years. I see Mike Hoffman’s film version of "A Midsummer Night’s Dream." The film captures my interest, but I don’t expect it to capture my heart and carry it back to the 60s. Once again, I see my students as characters in the play, then lined up center stage front, bowing and ending their parts in a dream.

Such a dream of my own — that drama would make such a difference in their lives. Yes, I thought in l969 that drama would enrich their lives. Yes, I thought that they could learn to appreciate the form of theater and understand what actors went through to become characters. But students also became literate by reading to learn lines as they began to understand more about their characters and themselves.

The world of the play and their own worlds combined to change them in ways that I, as a beginning teacher, could not have predicted. And they did it all themselves, really. And so to the Sauk Trail Players, where ever you are, for what you learned about drama, about reading, about yourselves, more applause, like fragile notes on a butterfly’s wing.

Norma Sadler is professor emeritus at Boise State University.

Share your opinion on this topic by sending a letter to the editor to tctvoice@madison.com. Include your full name, hometown and phone number. Your name and town will be published. The phone number is for verification purposes only. Please keep your letter to 250 words or less

At the Victory Girls Blog: my poem No Exit: Afghanistan Then and Now

2021-08-31T10:16:00.000-07:00

I am the Guest Poet at https://victorygirlsblog.com/

I have written a poetic piece about Afghanistan. The poem is an important one I think, entitled, No Exit Afghanistan Then and Now. The first part of the poem I wrote in 2000 and the second part in the last two weeks 2021.

Here is poem as it appeared on victorygirls.blog August 31, 2021

President Biden,

You have destroyed the truth of this earlier poem.

2000 Women In Afghanistan

If you wander far enough
You come back to the beginning.
On T.V. a woman was
Executed in the open space
Of a soccer stadium
in Afghanistan.
A public spectacle of a woman,
In a burka. You couldn’t see much
Or understand why she was there.
Before drawn weapons,
People came to see the sport of killing.
That was then, this is now.
Other women are coming out of hiding.
They bring schools into the open.
Into the cold, crisp air of the fall
In Afghanistan.
Schools that had turned into barracks,
Where books were knocked about, bruised,
Where wooden beams were torn down,
Falling apart even before
The Taliban fell together.
But so,
Women shrug their shoulders,
Take off their burkas,
Take back the space
Around them with children.
The stadium is empty of corpses.
The beginning will be the first soccer game,
The first child at a desk,
The book open, its spine trembling
At its history.

2021 And now a different truth

The Taliban are back.
A woman in a burka is shot,
Dies in the road.
A sports coach tells her girls sports team,
Burn your uniforms, hide. She knows.
Women and girls sold into slavery.
A child thrown over a fence at the airport
To a British soldier: Save that child.
Sharia law.
Watch out.
Door to door,
Taliban harassment and death.
Christians, hide your Bibles and your beliefs.
The killing fields of Afghanistan
Are operational.

President Biden,
You have erased my truth
About Afghanistan
And left us
With despair and
We aren’t even there.

______

Our Guest Poet is Norma Sadler, Ph.D., a published poet in literary journals online and in print.

Old Hiking Boots Gone

2021-04-19T11:21:00.003-07:00

Old Hiking Boots Gone

My hiking “boots were made for walking” (you could sing here) and hiking and they have bit the dust. Long ago in 2007 I bought my La Sportiva boots the day before a several day 35 mile hike in the Seven Devils in Idaho. They fit like gloves, but as I sat in a parking lot while fellow campers went in to make sure the trails were open, lots of snow that year, I had the car door open. A guy from Texas sat in his car. His door open too.

I asked him, “Did you just do the trails in Seven Devils?”

“No,” he said, “we just drove up to the top to see the view. “ I, of course, had to show someone my new boots. “Be sure,” he said,” you leave them loose going up and tighter going down. Ah ha, tight in the toe going down, tight in the heel going up.

So I did the 35 miles in several days, up and down, lots of switchbacks, high elevations, crossing streams. No blisters. Perfect. That was the first trip. The shoes became part of my life.

My boots have made history, my history, hiking around Idaho, traveling to Europe, England, tromping around Venice, always near canals, quietly surveying d’Avignon, sitting in St Chappelle in Paris for a concert, standing on the Bart in San Francisco, winding around the Sequoia National Park, hiking in Montana, climbing stairs in the Hermitage in St. Petersburg, walking with Russians on May 9 Parade to celebrate the ending of the Great War. Finally, so many years later in January 2021, the boots that even made it through the Pandemic, hiking most weeks in Wood Canyon gave out. How could they do that to me? One separated sole, slightly worn heels, a hole in top from one of my hiking poles, yes, they were worn out, but they were supposed to last forever.

So now, after trying La Sportiva which now has changed their shoe lasts, and the fact that my feet have also changed, I can no longer fit their shoes to me. I try on a pair of Oboz, I can’t believe it.

The young woman who helps me at our local REI says she wears them hiking. She points to a guy working near by. He has them, wears them every day. I put them on. Fit like gloves. I don’t believe it. How could they? But they do, and the next day, just like in 2007, I hike many miles, through live oak, sycamore, near a stream, up to the ridge and around the circular route and back down. It is great to be with my hiking friends, great to be hiking again, great to be in my brand new boots. My history continues. My boots are keeping me healthy, physically and mentally, I am sure,

You Don't Leave Your First Amendment Rights at the School House Door or "Gate" as Supreme Court Justice Abe Fortas Said.

2021-01-02T13:23:00.029-08:00

You Don’t Leave Your (First Amendment) Rights at the School House Door
                      or “Gate” as Supreme Court Justice Abe Fortas said.

You don’t leave your First Amendment Rights at the school house door. You don’t leave your rights at the door of a college or university either.

You take your First Amendment Rights with you, and you may call on local, state or federal government officials to protect you as you profess those rights through the freedom of speech, which can take many forms, but you shouldn’t have to go to court to preserve your rights.

One of the most important Supreme Court decisions that dealt with freedom of speech was Tinker vs. Des Moines, 1969.   Mary Tinker, a 13-year old, argued that wearing a black armband to protest the war in Vietnam was her right, an expression of free speech. The court ruled in her favor. Wearing the arm band did not cause “substantial disruption” to her school, and the rights of students to express political opinions were upheld.

Recently, in Florida, an l8-year old in high school, with a painted wooden elephant in his truck in his school parking place, (which they could decorate as they wished) was told he had to remove the elephant because someone or some people didn’t like an elephant, Republicanly-painted with Trump on the side.

At the University of Kansas recently, a woman in a sorority was being “disciplined” for questioning on social media and in speech where the money for black lives matter was going.   Someone she lived with was offended and made a complaint. The student was not breaking any rules for her sorority or for her university in expressing her opinion.

But these kinds of incidents are not new: At Orange Coast College in California, immediately after the 2016 election, an instructor called out students in the class who had been wearing Trump t shirts. She demeaned students who expressed their support for President Trump and used her classroom for her own forum, attempting to silence dissent, by her position and authority. I mean she did give out the grades after all.

Today, universities (most of whom receive federal funds, even for construction of buildings on campus or student aid) could be violating students’ first amendment rights. Surely, the universities are aware of
Tinker vs. Des Moines, and that federal funds could be withheld for violating student rights.

Nothing good can come of those in authority who are unaware that students have rights to express their own point of view. Do schools and universities really want to go to court every time a student exercises a first amendment right? Universities pay hundreds of thousands of dollars for officials, who seem to be glued to positions that outlaw some sort of speech they don’t like. Perhaps those officials are not aware of Tinker vs. Des Moines. Could someone please let them know?

An Orange, a Banana, and an Apple

2020-12-16T13:43:00.000-08:00

An Orange, a Banana, and an Apple

It would come as no surprise to all of us in our seventies that many of our relatives, now gone, experienced quite different gifts from what we receive now.

Take my mother, for instance. For Christmas in a family of eventually eight kids, before the Depression, she received an orange for Christmas. As did her brothers and sisters. One orange. With much enthusiasm, she would say, “It was such a treat.” My grandfather, like some of Vance’s relatives in the book, Hillbilly Elegy, worked in the steel mill. Tough work but since he spoke several languages, he could explain to newly arrived immigrants from Europe what to do, so he ended up as foreman

My grandmother made almost all their clothes, my grandfather repaired all their shoes. They canned produce, smoked meats, had geese and a milk cow. One orange at Christmas for each of them.

Shifting to my husband’s family, with grandparents growing up in the wilds of Canada, a treat for his mother at Christmas was one banana, cut into three for her and her two sisters. Such a different world from Reading England where they lived in somewhat of a more civilized fashion among others rather than out on a prairie, alone, in a small house that I would call “a cabin.” My husband’s grandfather was a wheelwright in England, and when cars came in, wagon wheels disappeared. So on to the promised land of Canada and later the U.S. where he became a general mechanic and custodian in a department store.

And then we were talking to a neighbor, who grew up in the Philippines. He could remember his grandfather getting an apple for the holidays, trying to explain the smell and taste of such an exotic fruit from abroad, perhaps from the U.S., to his grandchildren, who saw apples in stores everywhere. Hard for them to understand joy at such a present.

So each gift was exotic, something from somewhere else that was special, unique, and cherished. I hope that it is the same for all of us this Hanukkah and Christmas, that family, health, and time together are not taken for granted, and remain simply and exquisitely part of exotic future memories, like an orange, a banana, and an apple, as we grow older and maybe wiser.

J.D. Vance Hillbilly Elegy Netflix

2020-12-01T18:40:00.002-08:00

I didn’t think that Hillbilly Elegy, being a long narrative about growing up in a holler, could turn into a film with immediacy, dialogue and action, but under the direction of Ron Howard, it did become a story that works on the big screen. A grandmother (Glenn Close) wants her grandson , J.D. to become someone. J.D. without a father at home, an addicted mother, somehow manages to escape this world, get educated, and find a woman to love. Still, it is a mournful elegy of a tough childhood and adolescence. Having grown up in Appalachia, I could see some of my family and friends bump into the people in Hillbilly Elegy, and fit right in. A story well-told with a message to all of us about the importance of believing in oneself and becoming self-reliant and holding on to love for those in the past that made it possible. Sometimes hard to find good stories that hold together in feature films these days. Thanks to Netflix for getting this one out to us. I hope you find it, not delightful or fun of course, but important as a way of seeing the world through a different lens.

From Italy to the U.S.A.

2020-06-24T08:48:00.002-07:00

From Italy to the U.S.A.

He was five years old
When he got off the steamship
To the pandemonium of Ellis Island.

His mother's arms
Let him go.

Hands passed papers
Over his head.

Noise flowed from the mouth
Of the man in uniform.

The boy shrank back,
Leaning against a stranger
Who spoke Italian
Because it sounded good
To him.

Homage to the Rust Belt and Beyond

2019-09-22T16:57:00.000-07:00

Part I

The Ohio River begins at Pittsburgh,
A smoky city in day and night,
Where coke fires burn from giant steel skeletons.

Downtown, dense haze crowds Hill District tenements
Fire escapes, ladders hang down to cracked sidewalks,
Dusty old Chevrolets parked alongside.

Uptown, sycamore trees frame cobblestone streets.
Fireflies pop from thick bushes behind brick houses
with tall narrow windows, white trim,
Clean, neat, orderly.

Allegheny, Monongahela, sung to the clackity clack
of the onehundredormore dizzying boxcars with doors shut,
Or open hopper cars mounded with coal and scrap iron,
Going, going, gone.

Nurses in glaring white uniforms
Hover over very small children
Giving shots,
If she could only hide.
Her mother pulls her toward the line.
Fear. For her own good. She drops back.
Her turn. No more tears.
Big people dressed in white.
They never seem little.
Even after she is grown up.

PART II:

Shards of glass rained down in the early morning dark,
When Al Capone's casino blew up
In the downtown section of Youngstown.

But there was always Squint’s Place.
With machine guns in balconies,
Crystal chandeliers hanging,
Poker playing, gin, shining bright
In swirled glasses, ice cubes crashing,
people knocking, always knocking.

Squint, hungry dog at the door,
Peered with his good eye
At newcomers in seal coats,
Silk stockings, Fedoras,
Shiny black Plymouths on the street.

Machine guns pointed from balconies
Over crystal chandeliers.
Noisy poker players leaned over tables.
Gin sparkled in swirled glasses.
Ice cubes crashed against each other.

Everybody played, danced away the dawn.
Squint's never closed, not even when the cops came by,
Brushing bits of glass from blue work shirts.
Hey, they came in too.
Everybody had a good time
After Al Capone's place burnt down.

PART III:

Cold winds shivered her skin, swept over Lake Erie
To rough sand and driftwood.
Toads cowered against grotesque gray logs horizontal
Thrown to shore sometime long before.
The water leaped at the shore. Waves shifted her feet
Back to the driftwood to toads paused in the shadows

She caught five toads, dumped them in a large tomato can.
They hopped around sealed in with a metal lid,
Holes punched, still alive, they popped around,
Banged against the sides.
Uncomfortable, she still took them home,
Scattered them into the green of woods
To the still cold winds, just a different place,
Like Squint's, the same, only with different characters
Shuttled around after Al Capone's place burned down,

She was playing God, like Caliban upon Setabos,
Or maybe even Lady MacBeth, who should have
Washed her hands of it, but couldn't really.

Part IV:

The old man with the horse pulled up close,
"Scissors sharpened," he yelled, "knives too.
Whatever you have I do."
"I`m afraid I have scissors done special," her mother said,
He didn't need to hear so many excuses.
His horse pawed the ground.
The winged chariot drew near that horse too, bent with age,
Tied to his master forever.
She, peering through the curtains,
Wished for knives to sharpen.

A circus of clowns, and elephants, and big top tents
Never seen from the inside, but she could imagine the fat lady,
the tattooed man, the lions on stools, paws out, roaring,
Leaping through hoops, then behind bars.
She could see a long time ago,
Her mother under the Big Top.
Elephants escaped,
Thundered around the tent,
While she and other small ones hid
Behind huge ropes.
Watching elephants shy away from ropes,
Wanting to be free, angry, and afraid,
Captives of locked spaces, like Squint's place,
But the elephants unable to leave
When they quit dancing.

Toads, elephants, prisoners with numbers on their arms,
She saw them. She did not want to know she saw them.
They came back to Pittsburgh.
Not many came,, because there weren't many left
Over there,, because nobody took the lid off,
Let them out soon enough, to live, maybe sharpen knives,
Live forever with their horses, to die in due time
With the chariot coming by to take them home.

Part V:

A world of Oz, and tired tin men selling aluminum,
But then Lassie always came home, a dream,
Jumped through windows, out into freedom again,
Like the Black Stallion who wanted run,
Never free to run as fast as he wanted to,
Only as fast as he could for someone else,
Peter Pan whisking people away to Never Never land.
She believed it was just so,
But it wasn't that way anymore.
Squint's place torn down. Prohibition ended,
Too much competition. The end of an era, everyone said,
But she said, things don't change, do they?

Part VI:

"Strike three, your out," the umpire hollered out
to the Forbes Field crowd
Everybody booed.
Then the Pirates were up to bat.

PART VI:
Walking over trestles,
Waiting for streetcars, then trains
To squash pennies in Pittsburgh.

Walking and waiting
In California, along tracks,
Weeds coming up through,
The smell of disinfectant strong
Sharpening her nose,
Making her aware
Of how things don't fit like
When Kennedy died. Homecoming floats
Never finished, flowers strewn around,
No one working, everyone crying,
Sitting, wondering, never knowing either
After Korea, during Vietnam, or before Nicaragua,
For what? someone asked, before fingering
Ban the bomb necklaces again
.
The old days of Hiroshima and Nagasaki,
One less step for mankind, breaking down
Form into dancing horses, and flowers
That swirled around each other,
Tempting the impressionist Matisse
Too crawl in and stay there, encapsulated
In line, color, form, and still life,
No numbers on arms, but
Wild prancing horses
purple and pink flowers
No graves.

PART VII:

The boat people have landed,
Clinging to each other, anyagestyle.
The waves sock them to the shore,
In their own war in time and out of time,
Repressed newspapers, Cambodia bombed and gone,
No boats to take them anywhere, except the River Styx,
In the light or dark of killing, he died
Flying over the Me Kong Delta, and beyond,
Up in the wild blue yonder of navigator
And button pressers. He,
With the flowers from Hawaii,
Kissed her and made her laugh,
Played bridge better than anyone, gone.

Police beat up demonstrators in dark alleys.
No one objected, not even concientious objectors,
A large heavy-set man wanted everyone on the streets,
Like it was before, only too late after McGovern
Lost the election, too late to go down the dim lit alley.

Who are the peace officers of this society,
Maybe the pilot playing bridge, not playing flying ace,
Who never came home, from Vietnam,
From burnt out buildings,
Who could have known that it was all wrong.
Nothing was all right, the darkness of Picasso
Winning out over the lovely light of Matisse.

All is dark, velvety, and very real,
And absolutely perfectly colored
Into wartorn cultures.
No new portraits to save
Because everyone is gone
That mattered to someone.
Close the door, lock it tight,
And wait to find out who and where you are,
Because there is no sound.
All is quiet, no one is left
To hear the sound of one hand clapping.

Climbing in the Big Horns

2019-07-09T08:34:00.002-07:00

    The sun disappeared behind billowy clouds. Eddie and Joanne climbed single file up the steep trail around the outcroppings. Taking the lead with his long stride, Eddie distanced himself from Joanne. He turned to look at her, knowing she was hanging back.
    "You're not even trying to keep up," he said.
    Joanne stopped. She resented his being first because he always set too fast a pace. She liked it better when she lead up the trail. Her pace would be more even, and they wouldn't fight about how she was slowing them down to be in control. But then again, they would fight about how long it took them to get anywhere.
    "We have all day to get there," she said. "What's your hurry?"
    He shrugged his shoulders. What could he say? He turned back to the trail, climbing much higher toward the summit.
    Joanne shook her head and squinted as sunlight broke through the clouds. She saw Eddie disappear around a switchback above her. She thought they were supposed to be together on the trail. Getting there was supposed to be romantic, supposed to make them feel more together, being in the mountains of Wyoming that they both loved.
    Eddie, though, wanted to get to the campsite and relax. He imagined a fire crisp and crackling in the fall air and saw himself lying by it, playing his harmonica. He had all the tunes in mind. A perfect romantic time for the two of them, her special Chardonnay, even if it was in a plastic bottle, Swiss cheese, those yummy crackers that he loved, and she loved too. At least she said she did.
    Joanne looked down at the puzzle board of trees and lakes below. She wiggled her feet in her tight boots. She felt blisters forming on her heels. Lowering her backpack, she shouted, "I'm taking a break."
    From above, Eddie looked down at her. He couldn't believe it. They had been on the trail for only an hour. A break already. They'd never make it before dark. He kicked his foot in the shale.
    A small rock bounced down and crossed the trail before her, then continued rolling down the steep slope.   Kicking stones loose, she thought. What a childish thing to do! He always let her know when he was mad.
    Eddie stood where he was, but he didn’t like the quiet. He liked the noise of the shale, letting him know he was making progress toward his camp at the top of the mountain. He could see the wild animals of the past, trooping up the trail just like him. The primitive past right here in the Big Horns.
    Joanne set the backpack down. White adhesive tape would help. She took off her shoes and socks, and tore two pieces, putting them on each blister. She was sliding her arms into her pack when Eddie came up, his feet pouncing on the terrain, scattering gravel and shale. Honestly! Oblivious to the noise he made, he scared all the wildlife away. She sure wouldn’t be seeing the big horn sheep she saw years ago hiking with her father. Unlike her father, Eddie had no sense of the harmony of the peaks and valleys or of the wild animals that chose to let themselves be seen. The animals, unannounced, caught her off-guard, but she loved them for that too. It was the way it should be, animals in their world, wary of people. That made her smile in spite of her hurt feet.
    Eddie waited for her to get her pack on. "Are you ready now?" he asked.
          Joanne nodded.
           She's not speaking, he thought.   She's upset with me. So she had blisters on her feet. If she'd worn her old boots, she would have been perfectly comfortable. He remembered reminding her about the steep trail. "Wear your old boots," he said. She had argued that her new ones needed to be broken in. Now she stood next to him.
    "Why don't I set the pace this time?" she asked warily. "It would be a lot easier on both of us."
        "We need to get to camp sooner than you can get us there," Eddie said. He looked up at the clouds.   "There's a storm's coming in pretty fast."
         It was useless for her to argue with a Taurus. How could she have married such an obstinate independent man? And going on two years. So what if it rained? She'd been hiking in the rain, even in snow storms with her father. She wasn't afraid of weather. She loosely laced her boots, flexing her hot feet. "After you then," she said.   Her sarcasm slipped into the air between them.
    Eddie set out ahead. He was very aware that Joanne liked to be first, always first, but he wanted them to get there and have a romantic evening, even if it did storm. Okay, so her pace was consistent, it still slowed them down. He had timed them when she was in the lead, but he knew if he said that he had, she'd never forgive him for having to be right. He needed to be right. He liked being right.
      Joanne shuffled along the trail. If the blisters got any worse, she wouldn’t make it to the top. Ouch, that blister felt raw, even with the tape..   She bent sideways to adjust her left boot and felt her pack shift, the weight thrown to one side. Her ankle collapsed. A heavy shiver of pain darted up her leg. She lost her balance, reaching out into nothing with nothing to hang on to. She tumbled and rolled down the slope. Her hands flew up to protect her face. She stopped abruptly, wedged against low bushes. She looked up, trying to catch her breath.
      Eddie plodded along ahead, the music of the shale in his ears. His foot slipped. "Careful, it's tricky here," he called back. When he turned around, he didn't see her. Now what?   He retraced his path back down the trail briskly. She's probably sitting on another rock. He was aware of his stride, feeling sure-footed like a mountain goat. But he was aware his pacing was off for the high elevation. He was out of breath too quickly. He stood at the boulder where she had taken a break. Where was she? He pushed his feet on the trail harder now, heading again up the mountain.
    I should have let her go first, he thought. She's gotten lost. Or maybe she's turned back and left me up here alone. She’d have to be really angry to go down the side of the mountain without telling me. He looked down over the narrow part of the shale trail toward the pines and blue water. A bright piece of yellow caught his eye. Far below, Joanne lay with her left leg hidden under her right.
    She was pushing at her pack, straining to pull herself up to the trail.   She didn't call out to him. She held her head down trying to get more air in the high altitude. Pain shot through her body from her ankle to her back.
    Why didn't she call out? Eddie thought, as he headed down toward her. He would have heard her if she had. He cupped his hands to make sure she heard him the first time he yelled.         "Are you ok?" The words echoed around him.
           She turned her body, a twisted pirouette. She looked up at him, and he heard her laugh. But when he approached, he saw that her face was pale under her tan, pinched and tight. He stumbled through the low bushes to her.
    Joanne was angry. If he hadn't made such a big deal about her new boots, she would have worn the old ones. He was always telling her how to do things. Her ankle pounded with pain. Still, if she held her leg still, the throbbing didn't get any worse.
         Eddie slid down next to her, making small switchbacks to keep his balance, rattling rocks that rolled past her toward the lake below.   He almost lost his balance.
     "Something's torn in my ankle," she said. "Help me up."
    He braced himself, and finally had her sitting with her leg stretched out. He removed her back pack.
         She sat looking at him, her eyes staring far off into the mountains. She felt stupid for letting him make her angry enough to leave her boots loose.
         She won't be able to place any weight on that ankle, he thought. She will resent any more of my help. So independent. But that was why he had married her in the first place. He knew she would be offended by any suggestion he would make right now, but he plunged ahead.
    "We can be back down to the base camp in an hour. We'll leave the packs here, and I'll come back for them later. All you have to do is lean on my shoulder, and I'll carry most of your weight against me. It's going to hurt."
        Joanne didn't like having to count on Eddie. She moved her foot. More pain. She couldn't walk on it. Why should she be the one hurt?   Why hadn't it been him? She could rescue him, support his weight. She didn't like being beholding to anyone. Years ago, her father had made it very clear that a person shouldn't owe anybody anything.
    Every time they had gone hiking, he repeated the same thing, "Don't let people take advantage of you or your feelings. Keep them at a distance, like the mountains, until you go there. Then make small hikes in to them now and then, but come away so you can be yourself, separate and alone."
    Eddie reached into the pack for the water bottle. Everything would have been perfect, he thought. Now it won’t be. I’m not going to get to the top. Why did these things happen? All his life with everything he did, even his drawings, he tried to be ordered and careful. The precise engineer. That way nothing out of the ordinary could catch him off guard. He figured he shouldn't have tried to pressure Joanne into wearing her old boots. She might have worn the new ones to spite him. Could he blame her? He clipped the water bottle to his belt.
    Joanne had taken her father's absolutes for her own way of operating, and they worked most of time. When she was single, her father's words had held her up. Married, she tried to live up to the echo of his voice, but the words let her down. Now she felt a giving-in feeling, something she hadn't needed to make before. She squinted at the Eddie, now a dark outline in the bright light behind him. Who was this man she married?
    She reached into her pocket slowly for her sunglasses. She put them on. "Okay, let's get going," she said. "Ouch." Another spasm of pain rocked her body while her ankle hung in space.
         Eddie lifted her up, pulling her arm over his shoulder. He felt her body next to him. Hesitant, he was trying to do the right thing. He decided not to say anything about the loose boots.
    At least he's trying, Joanne thought. And, there was something else--the change of his stride to suit hers. She hopped next to him, slow in getting her balance.
    Eddie waited for her. He wasn't sure of anything and hoped he’d done the right thing.. He nudged her forward, and he felt her matching his step--a three-legged race down the mountain before the storm.
    Joanne saw the snow clouds. Her father would have told her to get off the mountain. And fast. But maybe, for once, even with clouds like that, there wouldn't be a storm. She gritted her teeth. She was aware of how noisy they both were with shale slipping around them.
    They headed down the trail, together, toward distant trees and the lake that lay at the foot of the mountain.

Leaving the Lazy S Ranch in Meridian Idaho for the City Life in Boise

2019-05-29T18:25:00.002-07:00

Wings on Fire

    In l974, we went "back to the land" in Meridian Idaho. Not that we'd ever been there before. And not that we understood exactly what that meant.   To go back to the land was a dream, the ideal life maybe, for the two of us, having survived with our marriage intact at the beginning of the seventies. In Madison, Wisconsin, with anti-war demonstrations, the hippie era, the chaos of it all, we had become politically crazy, or at least unstable.   We had read too many subversive texts (From the Land and Back, Five Acres and Independence, and The Whole Earth Catalogue). We thought too much about a simpler life rather than the big city lives we had grown up with, and we dreamt way too much about going to a smaller town where we could have more space around us, like a rural setting in Idaho.
    "How could you," my mother said over the phone," get all that education, all those degrees, and still end up on the farm."
    "It's the west, Mom, and it's called a ranch," I said, correcting her. "Well, a small ranch of five acres," I said, correcting myself.
    My Polish mother and my Italian father didn't get it. They saw us going backwards in time, thrown into an unfortunate reverse set of possibilities, one that reminded my mother especially of my Polish grandmother on a farm near Warsaw. But I didn't see this woman doing backbreaking work, bent over rows of beets or carrots. Instead, I saw her as a young woman, strong, growing up there, changing with the times, heading west. It didn't matter to me that my only memories were of how I saw her in her seventies, her richly wrinkled face, with wisps of gray hair, floating free from her red baboushka. I had no trouble imagining her tending an abundant garden, milking cows or planting wheat or barley. Okay, so she had turned her back on the farm, the cows, and the crops. She too was searching for a different kind of life.
    Via a freighter, Grandma landed at Ellis Island in l908, hoping to hang her own hat on a brass post in a house in a city. Her dreams had shifted to self-sufficiency, independence, freedom from the land, from the old country..
    Not for us though. Paying inadvertent homage to an ancestral past, we wanted to go back to the land. Overeducated, (six college degrees between the two of us) with a passion for books, we became novice land lovers. At thirty years of age, our childhood imaginations of the west were still fully intact. The frontier held shimmering images of cowboys and cowgirls with cap guns as six shooters.. A real estate agent walked us across a piece of property, showing us a not too detailed map of the Oregon Trail, cutting across one corner of it. Some money down and a land contract bought us a place in history. I was convinced.
    It was the kind of space that didn't irrigate well (not that anybody for the last twenty years had tried) and one that you couldn't even see with all the overgrown weeds and alfalfa with roots going down deep, deep, deep to water they found on their own. It was a huge trapezoid that had to be burned from green to brown for us to be able to see what was there.
    The day of the big burn we hoisted new shovels over shoulders not made for them and grabbed the rented burner. Making a noise like some prehistoric monster, the wand on the burner had a mind of its own. With flames roaring down the irrigation ditch, the fire took off leaving us in the dust of dirt thrown from shovels when we tried to keep the fire on some sort of path.   Moving with the flames, created back burns.
    Anxious to see the lay of the land, we burned up the weeds, old and alfalfa, and were pleased that we were half-finished. Then the fire chose to make its own path, accompanied by the not yet understood daily westerly wind, and the fire headed out right across our property line to the neighbor's field.
    "Quick, where are the hoses? " my husband asked, really to no one in particular. Who had a hose that was 700 feet long?
    "Hoses?" My question hung in the smoke. You just can't know enough before you start a burn. By the time we were finished, we had obliterated the landscape of green, both on our property and a quarter of the one to the east. All lay black. Such a large empty space. Quiet. Burnt ash makes no sound in the wind.
    Leftover smoke from smoldering grass drifted across our faces and off towards the Boise front, where Shafer Butte wore a light cap of snow.   Some of the grass had turned to grey thin lines of ash curled in on themselves.. The field mice had disappeared, heading east, before the line of fire and the smoke. We had scourged the earth. We were so pleased with ourselves, with grimy shirts and shorts, and slightly burnt tennis shoes. Red bandannas, tied around our heads, were caked with sweat. We were ready for our next adventure.
    Which meant that we needed a place to live. You can't just go to the land, without a place to live on the land. Over five years, we built a strong study Cape Cod home in the middle of the desert, with small windows facing west, an unplanned cooling feature along with the basement.
    In l975, during the first winter in the shell of that house, the wind whistled through boards. A cube of butter on a plate, sitting on a plywood counter, froze.   It's hard to spread frozen butter on toast made on top of a Coleman stove.   Blackened toast doesn't taste so good that way either. Temperatures dropped to zero at night and climbed up into the teens by late in the day. I dreamt of a house with several fireplaces, wood cracking, heat, and indoor pipes with water running.
    My parents bought us a refrigerator because they couldn't stand that we were using a cooler with ice and leaving other food outside in a world we labeled The Big Freeze.
    Cold too much for too long, we voted against waiting for some sort of proper central heating system. A wood stove took over, loaded with coal, warmed our lives.   We never thought that hard hunks of coal would keep us so warm. My mother knew and told us a thing or two, without my asking.
    "Grandma has a coal stove, "she said over the phone. "In the basement of her home. Remember?   The coal bin hasn't been used much since she's had the house modernized with a gas furnace. She wouldn't think of using the stove for heat anymore."
    "Mom,"I said, "the stove works just fine. We're pretty warm most of the time. We can cook on it, and we don't have to use the camping stove anymore." Somehow I forgot to tell her that we also had electricity, black wires that snaked through studs, one specifically for the toaster. The other for ceiling light bulbs.
    My mother wasn't through talking. She talked about how Grandma cooked on a coal stove and how she hated the gas stove upstairs in the real kitchen. The new stove never did bake good bread. Ah, the old stove. At last, I thought, my mother was coming over to our side.
    With some insulation, wall boards, and a fire down below, we curled up, cocooned in our long johns in a bed with a white down comforter, strangely like Grandma's rust-colored one on her old feather bed. .
     I waited for water. My husband plumbed. Matches, blow torches, copper tubing. Water finally running, but only cold.   A heavy cast iron white tub delivered upstairs could be filled with hot water from pots on the stove. Unfortunately, the tub wouldn't stay warm, not like the tub with a special heater, that we have now in our Boise home. Still, we could take lukewarm baths and then voila, more pipes and then hot showers.
    Outside, spring came and went, and our acreage was filled with blown-in tumbleweeds that stood raked in piles over twelve feet high. By then, we were seasoned fire fighters, with water hooked up to hoses. We had blue work shirts, long pants, clunky books, gloves, and his/her own favorite shovels.
    Somehow, we had become more cautious around a blaze, more respectful of the power of flames. We were part of the culture of the west. We knew about range fires first hand, and we knew that even if there were no trees to burn, fires could sweep through so fast, that you'd never have time to figure out what to do if you were caught in the middle of a field burn. Summer newspapers highlighted fires and fire danger. And so we became afraid, and rightfully so, of misguided fires.
    So much so that when the foothills were ablaze one summer day and a sky glowed red with heat and pungent smoke filled our nostrils, we convinced ourselves that the fire could jump the Boise River.
    "Well, Boise would have to burn first," I said.
    "Well, yeh, it could -- all those frame houses with wooden shingles," my husband said.
    We looked up at our own roof and pulled the hoses out from where they lay perpetually coiled. But you cannot seriously figure out distances easily here when the land flattens out and goes on forever to the horizon. That which we thought was so near was so far away that planes dropping retardant were mere dots against the sky.
    Year after year, until year V on the ranch, we burned off the old oat hay, the crop, to which both came to realize we were allergic. Finally, we moved to something more civilized, more permanent, as we understood that the burns, the black, the haze settling in, were just not us. Even though shovels no longer weighed heavy on our shoulders, other objects, like irrigation tubes kept us in l03 degree heat for too long each time we had to set pipes.
    Yet, we were hooked to the land, craving self sufficiency (with two other full-time jobs). From the south along the Snake River, rumblings of the wine industry in its infancy reached our ears. We read books on grape cultivating and grape grafts. A new crop. We would be part of a burgeoning industry of Idaho growers. Twenty seven hundred grape vines in quart milk containers entered the ranch and took their places in not so straight rows of steel posts, trellises and guy wires.
    We became vintners with a crop that, we were sure would yield a great harvest. Wine grapes were going for a thousand dollars a ton.. Quick calculations meant that four acres would generate us a good chunk of money indeed. Such is the wish of dreamy academics to imagine such a thing possible.
    We bought a green and yellow, repossessed John Deere, with all its parts and some to spare. Running on diesel, the tractor flew down the field with smoke curled up in small plumes and away from its exhaust. We had it made and just had to watch the money roll in. And we would be somewhat more self-sufficient. I was convinced.
    Somehow, though, as we hoped for a miracle crop, we must have known that the land could only do so much for us. From that field of green vines, we could look back and see that huge shapes concealed our home. Over seventy-five trees and shrubs blocked the bright desert sun. Bright red and orange tulips flopped on tall stems close the house, white star magnolias touched a northeast corner, lazy locust flowers hung in huge spicy clumps from trees shading a vegetable garden.. A Japanese pond with bridge and water fall whirlpooled light and outlines of gold and orange koi. We had filled the space of our lives.
    Into that space, two wood ducks with fiery red eyes would land in the pond every March..
    So each year, we waited for them.
    They haven't come yet? They should have been here by now? My questions bounced across the thin sheet of ice over water.     They came. A bullfrog entertained us in April. We learned to wait patiently for his chant.
    We took bets on who would hear the first meadowlark   Pheasants that had avoided hunters each October, squawked through the spring and summer. And the grapes grew.   The tractor kept the weeds down. The drip system kept the grapes happy.
    The first harvest time in the cold snap of a September frost came too fast for us. With neighbors, we picked bunches quickly.   Held in our hands for just seconds, a grape clusters became treasures in weight and light and color. The first crop of Chardonnay went to St. Chappelle.
    The crop wasn't big that year. From then on, sometimes there was a good year, sometimes not. And the prices dropped. More grape production in the Napa Valley, Washington, and Idaho halved the price of grapes. More zero degree temperatures and little water in winter meant ground kill. With grapes killed to the ground, we started over, bringing the grapes up again on the trellis from small green vines poking from the earth. We were two years away from a crop.
    Around our house, trees grew past twenty-five feet. Lilacs hit ten feet. Violets and violas perfumed the Japanese garden.    And we put in more and more plants. We lived on a desert "oasis," a place that diffused the heat and acted as a green barrier against surrounding dry fields, and firebreak for flames that might come from the west. Sprinklers watered the garden.   Forget-me-nots near the breeze way wall came back year after year, more profuse with time passing.
    The years went by. Tiger swallowtails, bits of yellow flew brightly around under the canopy of sycamores and Carolina poplars. Then one day, we woke up. Something was different. It was summer, and we walked out into the hot desert air, and then turned back under the shade of the trees. We sat near the pond and we talked about the land, the grapes, the last crop.
    Well, it wasn't as good as the one before, and the crop before that not as good as the one before that. The winters seemed more severe. We were old hands, pioneers meting out the hard punishment, berating ourselves for not being able to subdue the land, take it over, make it our own.
    All the leaves would be falling soon. Like all farmers, we were constantly thinking of the next season, working and worrying ahead of it   It would take days to rake millions of leaves from sycamores, maples, poplars, and locusts. At thirty, days seemed to stretch to infinity, but at fifty-four, they ended too quickly for us. We thought perhaps we could leave the land, that we had been somewhere, figured something out..
    Later, in that summer of l997, a flicker of a shadow crossed the lawn. I looked up to the bright orange and black wings of a Monarch butterfly. I walked below it, dazzled by this color in all the green, and I followed it around the Japanese garden. As I walked around our house and stood at the edge of the pond, I saw another. Then another. Then more. Wings on fire. Seven butterflies danced in the sky over my head. Psyche, I thought, our souls on the wing. It was the perfect time to think about saying goodbye, to let go of the land.
    Now I look down at the city of Boise or straight out at the sky, brushed with red and orange, a touch of aqua above lavender. The ridges of the Owyhee Mountains peek out from the distance. Most mornings, a pink dawn flames across the sky. With binoculars, I am on lookout, checking, just seeing what is out there really. Sometimes I see wisps of smoke. Fires from barbeques mostly, but once a house going up -- terrifying smoke in the distance.
    I am keeper of the sky, like anyone who wishes to stretch their arms wide. The foothills that I saw from our country home for so many years, are now familiar terrain where we walk. The rounded hills surround me, pull me towards them, but we don't need to lay claim to them.   Far to the west, the wide open sky caps the horizon line, where we lived on five acres that we once called home. We paid our dues, farmed the land, felt our earth beneath our feet.
    Memories of the pioneer spirit go with me. Some wind must have pushed us to the land, propelled us forward to the years spent there. Now a gentle breeze moves strands of my hair, beginning to turn grey. It is the same wind. I am convinced.

The Shadows of Children in Cabo San Lucas Mexico

2019-02-10T16:14:00.001-08:00

Blue egg shells clung to broken yokes on the marble floor. A bit of fluff lay nearby. The couple--Marjorie and Richard--looked up at the birds, diving and circling around the beams that held the marble pyramid above the hotel lobby. But Lupita, taking them on a tour of the Cabo San Lucas Hotel, was already down the open hallway, and Marjorie and Richard quickened their pace to keep up.
"Here is el doctor," Lupita said, pointing at closed doors. "He is on duty twenty-four hour a day. Here, the health spa." She pointed at another closed door. "You can sit in the spa hot tub for as long as you want. Just a few nuevo pesos."
Richard and Marjorie, their heads bobbing like pigeons, eyed the closed doors, as if they were waiting for doors to be opened and scenes to unfold. Here would be the doctor curing gringos of la turista; there, the hot tub with people laughing and sinking down into the water.
"This is the weight room," Lupita said directly to Richard, speaking in Spanish only to him, having learned that the Senora was not speaking, would not even try to speak the language of Mexico. She opened the door half way so that they could see that indeed there was an exercise machine, one lone bicycle in the center of mirrored walls, looking as if there were hundreds of machines going to infinity.
Richard pulled Marjorie back, whispering in English, "Looks like I work out alone," he said.
Marjorie shrugged. What could she say? Another hotel, another place to get used to. What was the purpose of all of it?
Lupita chattered along now in English, describing the gardens, the waterfalls, the four hundred rooms.
"The rooms have separate beds," she said, "double beds." When Richard and Marjorie didn't answer, she continued, "The ones over the golf course do, where you can hear the great crash of all the waves."
"Si," Marjorie said, as if she knew all along that this would indeed be the case, but these were the first words she had spoken since she'd stepped from the bus to marble floor of the hotel lobby. Yesterday, she was convinced that her heart had almost stopped, seeing the ghostly white animal, walking out in front of the rocking unstable bus, standing there, ignoring the horn, waiting until just when it seemed that the bus would crash into it, to saunter across, swing its head, its bell ringing, its tail slapping, as though that slap could push it forward faster. The bumper of the bus slipped by with few inches to spare.
She had spoken then, to Richard, asking him for Spanish words that would describe a ghostly cow, and she put them together as vacca fantasma, a strange and dangerous image --something that could run out in front of you, kill you.
It was right after the cow stepped out that the headlights flashed on the white cross on the side of the road, and Marjorie felt herself becoming afraid, the kind of paranoia that she couldn’t resist. She gave herself over to the shadows inside herself. She simply quit talking.
Now they were at the second hotel in two days, and this time traveling in daylight, she saw the white cross again, and though afraid because she didn’t know what it meant, she let it float through her mind while she followed Lupita and Richard. Could someone be buried there, right on the edge of the road. Who?
Lupita, anxious to have her potential hotel guests take part in the hotel services, addressed rapid fire questions to Marjorie, since now the Senora was also talking. Marjorie, however, did not think that one word of "yes" in Spanish meant Lupita should think she, Marjorie, should take a bigger share of the conversation.
"Are the children at home?" Lupita asked.
"No, No, not at home,"Richard said in English.
Marjorie could tell that Richard didn’t want to leave her out, wanted to keep her talking, moving away from the silence that she imposed on herself.
"Are they with their abuela?” Lupita asked.   “The grandmother,” she continued, translating with a smile, that Marjorie knew was meant to be warm, but to her came across as patronizing.
"No, no, grandmother," Marjorie said, trying to smile. "Both of our parents are dead."
"That must be hard for the children," Lupita said.
Richard launched into soft Spanish, saying what Marjorie knew without his translating as soon as she heard the words, ninos and ninas.   "There are no children," he said in English, and Marjorie stiffened and stopped. Was he going to tell their whole life story to the hotel hostess?
"Then your house is empty of light," Lupita said, with the calm matter-of-fact tone of someone in a culture that had decisions weighed and balanced before birth, a pattern that she could simply fit into at a specific point in time.
Marjorie wanted the conversation moving somewhere else.
“What’s that cross on the side of the road?” she asked, expecting a long explanation of some part of Mexican culture. Instead, Lupita looked away. “That . . . that cross is for my boyfriend,” she said slowly. He killed himself riding his motorcycle. It is three years ago now.”
I am so sorry,” Marjorie said, now uncomfortable that she had asked, feeling as though she was taking something in, and at the same time, that something was pouring out of her from somewhere deep, disappearing into the desert air. She didn’t know what else to day. Richard led her out into the tiled main hotel balcony, set with tables with umbrellas.
Marjorie’s eyes caught the blue of the ocean beyond the white bird cages that stood covered with scrolls of flowers and leaves. Two yellow parakeets sat in the cage, their little feet holding tight to wooden dowels. They made half chirps as she touched the cage.
But that blue beyond! To her, it seemed to stretch out farther than she really wished it would go, to a never-never land, past and through all trips, all the oceans of their trips. Horizons from Richard’s way of seeing, coping with the world.
Her arm was being pulled by Lupita, who pointed out, way past the pool, past the carefully situated palm trees, to the invisible world beyond.
“We even have whales here, Senora,” she said, then turned. A phone rang in the lobby behind all of them, and Lupita, with apologies in Spanish and English, clicked in her high heels back to the phone.
After they checked in, Marjorie and Richard went to their new room. Richard tipped the bellboy, and Marjorie walked to the open balcony and looked out at the magnificent gardens. Green, green, green, she saw, and beyond the bluest-green of blues to hold in her mind forever. But what would they do for two whole weeks in this room? Why had she agreed to come here instead of vacationing in Seattle, in a world, even if it wasn’t what she expected in life, was one they shared together.
Richard came up behind her. "It's a nice room," he said, kissing her neck.
Marjorie pulled away. Green, green, green. Richard didn't see the colors. The light and all the shadows, intruding on the light. The world looked best to her when desert light came alive from the giant transplanted palms and cactus.
"Look," she said, "a nest." Swinging between those banana leaves, a little hammock of yellow relaxed in space.
"A nest," Richard repeated.
She turned to him and touched his arm. He wrapped himself around her, and she felt safe, and almost said that to him as she leaned against his arm. Secure, she let him get closer to her. His hand touched her breast. She knew she was saying yes, but her voice was silent. She wasn’t really saying anything at all.
They made love quietly, slowly, and afterwards, Richard lay there next to her for the longest time, saying nothing. Finally, he asked, "So what do you think?"
"About what?" Marjorie did not want to be drawn into something unawares.
"About our new digs. Better than the hotel we tried yesterday, isn’t it?” Richard asked.
"Si, of course," Marjorie said. She rolled from the bed and slid into her robe. She stepped out onto the balcony to study the small nest. A tiny beak popped up.
Richard, now beside her, turned her away from the nest. "Over there, way beyond in the garden," he said, his eyes staring far off, a smile taking over his face.
There Lupita stood pointing in the direction of el doctor and the spa, and they both knew exactly what she was saying. They laughed almost at the same time. Marjorie felt the weight that she was never aware was there until after it was gone finally lifting. She walked back into the room and dropped her robe. She anointed her body with sun tan lotion. Richard slid it on in places she couldn't reach. She smoothed the smell of coconut oil over his back and down his legs. Now they both wanted to be at the ocean, as close as possible to it now, and they dressed without talking.
A few sunbathers gathered under the small palapas near the shore. A yellow dog and a black dog eyed Richard and Marjorie. Marjorie felt the yellow eyes go back deep inside her brain to somewhere primitive. She did not look at the dog again.
Richard tossed his towel down, took off his watch, and buried it in the corner of the towel. "I don't need this," he said. "We're not on any time schedule now."
Now Marjorie felt funny with her fanny pack, an unnecessary add on, hitched around her middle. But she just shrugged her shoulders, and loosened the belt a little.
They took off across the hot sand, walking in the water, running up, running back to miss the shallow lapping of the waves. They passed the so green, almost too green golf course with the dry sparse desert hills beyond, and headed further west up the coast. Beyond the jetty, the waves picked up power and pushed their way to shore, thumping, then vibrating the sand.
They had not gone far, when Marjorie saw shadows pass by her. She turned. The same two dogs they had seen earlier, plus three more, encircled them. She pulled her arms in close to her sides.
Richard waved the dogs away. The dogs moved a few paces away, then came back. "They're just touring the beach," he said.
One of the dogs, the yellow one, Marjorie could see, was pregnant. She moved toward the water. "I'm jumping in if they get any closer” She headed toward the water. The dogs followed her to the water.
"They think it's a game," Richard said. “Let’s just keep walking.”
Marjorie and Richard were separated now, but they tried to head down the beach. The dogs barked.
"They aren't attacking," Richard said. "They're holding us here. Wave your arms."
They waved their arms.   The dogs barked and held them in place.
"That's not doing it," Marjorie said. "You said beach dogs was harmless. You said they wouldn't harm a flea. You said they --."
"Marjorie," Richard said, his voice slipped from warmth to ice. "Quit it. They're just dogs. We can outlast them. They've got to get bored. We don't have any food or anything."
They stood still, silent, with the dogs barking and nobody else on the beach. Then one of the dogs started whimpering and took off with only the yellow dog left. Finally, she trotted away, her heavy body, swinging low against the sand.
"Should we go back?" Richard asked.
"No," Marjorie said. "I'm not scared anymore, but I don't ever want to go through that again."
"It's something to tell home about," Richard said.
Marjorie felt herself slipping back into some space inside herself where she could be very quiet and alone, with the door shut.
They walked on and soon had almost forgotten the dogs. The sea glitter had stolen both their hearts and refused to give it back. They sat in the sand and watched the horizon, scanning for nothing in particular, noting a fishing boat, a sailboat, fish jumping and the small birds that dove and skimmed above the water and refused to be pulled into the waves.
Marjorie thought she heard Spanish and giggles. No. Yes. She stood up. Two children ran across the sand, their dark bare feet, kicking up sand, their bodies as they broke out of shadow and into light, so rich and deep a color that it took her breath away. Dark eyes squinted up at her. They were so close. She backed up. They moved even closer. Richard sat watching, his face and eyes laughing as the children plied their trade.
They surrounded Marjorie. Smiling, she still put out her hands as if she could keep them at a distance. "Chiclets, Chiclets," they chanted with big smiles, white t-shirts and shorts up and down. They did a little dance around her, shouting, "Por favor, por favor. It’s cheap gum. It's good gum."
Even though she was smiling, Marjorie felt strained. Her face froze into a pasted smile, and she reached into her fanny pack and handed the children some pesos.
The children looked at the money, counted once, then again. They screamed and handed her all the gum they had and left. They yelled back, "Gracias, senora, you are a beautiful woman. You are a wonderful woman."
Marjorie stuffed the Chiclets in her fanny pack. She sat down next to Richard.
Did he miss children more than she? He was always more comfortable around children than she was even though he said that he didn't know quite what to do with them. But neither of them would have known what to do with children. It would have been an experiment for them, like any other two first time parents.
Marjorie didn't say anything about that to Richard. Things were not right. For her anyway. She pulled on his arm. "Let's walk further to that rock."
"That's miles," said Richard, an expert on how far away things were.
"Well, close to it then, as close as we want to get," Marjorie said.
They walked for another half hour and the rock grew larger, but they were no where near it. Again, they sat and watched the sea. Richard made an hour glass of his hand and let sand flow to form a small pyramid below.
"Bits of time," he said.
Marjorie nodded, hearing what she thought was bells, but it was more like jangling. Bracelets? Marjorie and Richard, startled now, looked behind them. Trudging toward them under many blankets was an old Mexican man. He smiled an empty smile, void of teeth and asked, "A blanket for you, senora, for the bed of your casa."
Backlit, as he moved closer, the old man appeared bigger and more powerful than he had before. Marjorie and Richard started to get up.
With his hand, the old man waved them back in place.
"From my casa to your casa," he said, waiting.
Marjorie and Richard tried to get up again.
"Sit, por favor" the old man said. "You can choose from there. It's a beautiful blanket, yes? He pulled out another one and fanned it across the sand. Then another, and another.
Marjorie saw more men coming across the sand.
"No, no blankets," she said to the old man, but loud enough for the others coming closer to hear.
"Only twenty American dollars, senora," he said. "We have a small one for children." He pulled out a small blanket with a grey coyote on it, turquoise and red stripes.
"No," Richard said.
The other men trudged closer. Bright blankets waved in space.
"No," Richard said, pushing himself up.
The old man put his hand on Richard's shoulder. "Perhaps, if you don't like my blankets, you will like those of my brother or my cousin."
Richard dropped back, his muscles were tense. Marjorie saw that same look on his face when he was a Golden Gloves champ in college, coming up after being knocked down, ready for bear, to win. She too started to get up too then, with one knee on the sand, and she pushed on the other. Her hand reached out to Richard to stay him, to stop him. She touched his arm, pushing against it.
Richard pulled away, rising, and she felt herself being dragged up next to him. The old Mexican touched her arm, and she said firmly now, "No, no blankets."
Richard pushed the old man away, and the old man, losing his balance, went down among his blankets. The other men moved in, upset.
"No blankets, no blankets," Richard said, over and over. He started toward the old man, to pull him up, but the old man sat. “It is nothing, senor, and he waved him away.
Aware of how deserted the beach was except for them and the blanket sellers, Marjorie grabbed Richard’s arm and dragged him down the beach back toward the hotel. "We don't need blankets, none, ever," she said, yelling back at the men.
Loud Spanish followed them, then was covered in the crash of the waves. Out of breath, they stopped.
"I've got to sit for a minute," Marjorie said. She looked back. The men had disappeared. Richard smoothed some sand, and they sat before the surf again.
"It's not okay, is it?" he said.
"You mean about the Mexicans?" Marjorie asked. "It's a good thing you didn't deck one of them. You'd be in a Mexican prison."
"I don’t mean that,” he said, " I could have taken them all on. I mean the other thing."
Marjorie didn't answer. She had thought they faced everything, solved it and moved on, but now she knew he was right. She didn’t know if she could face it now.
She imagined her feet in the water--in the sea with that soft warm feeling washing over her. That's what she wanted. A dream she had the night before flowed before her. In the dream, a grizzly bear came out of pine trees, padding toward her, where she sat at a picnic table. It came so close, so close she could smell its scent, and she turned and ran, not in control of her dream, totally immersed. . . .
Richard pulled her up next to him and they ran to the water, covering their feet. A huge wave crashed toward them, and they both ran backward, half wet, and screamed, making themselves afraid, then laughing.
"Sit down," Richard said, pulling her down on dry sand.
Marjorie sat down, aware Richard was getting more directive in his twenty-five years of living with her. She decided she really would have to assert herself more.
"I am sitting because I want to sit," she said.
"Good," Richard said, smiling.
"Yes, good," she said, looking at him more closely now.   He was greying at the temples. His moustache was totally grey.
"You are the greying of America," she said.
"You too," Richard said, pulling one strand of her hair, separating it from the others.
"I refuse," Marjorie said, but she saw herself as she had earlier in front of the mirror in their room, streaks of grey coveting her brown hair. Her green eyes would never go with grey.
  They sat, staring at the sea again. Marjorie began counting the waves, trying to see if she could predict which would be the tallest, the biggest one to pound on itself before pulling back.
. . . The bear had almost gotten her in her dream, but then she had changed it into two baby bears. When she walked toward them, she saw them tossing and tumbling on the grass. She saw sharp, sharp claws. Then the bears darkened, becoming shifting shapes that finally turned into shadows, like the shadows of the children on the beach.
"You're not over it either," Richard said. We just weren’t able to have children. You have to snap out of this somehow. You can’t let some past you never had haunt you forever."
Before Marjorie could say what she thought, say what she really felt, or even decide no to say anything at all, a yellow butterfly flew up and down in quick arcs heading toward the waves.
"No, if it goes that way, it will be killed,” Marjorie said, her body stiffening in place. "The salt spray...."
The butterfly flew above the waves, darting this way and that, and then Marjorie couldn't see it anymore. A pounding, vibrating wave, came to them, and they jumped up, moving away from the rush.
Marjorie saw a bit of yellow, struggling, pulled out to sea.
"You have to face where you are in time, square in your teeth," Richard said.
"Not now, not now," Marjorie said, knowing that she had to, that she must, but getting up and running down the beach toward the hotel, toward the lush, green, green, green, and the pyramid of a rust-colored hotel, to where the breeze would come across the balcony and she could remain hidden from the shadows of children.

Lucy: Lost and Found in Ethiopia

2018-12-06T10:44:00.000-08:00

Lucy: Lost and Found in Ethiopia

We can celebrate who we are
With our thumbs up.
Ah, that we have thumbs to use.
It’s the way we began
With flakes and hand axes
Around fires.

In the once upon a time of stories,
The magic of a gathering creates
Dancing diamonds of light
On walls in old caves far in the past.
Now we go back to ancient times
On computers.
We connect right now,
Right in the exact moment
Of finishing a sentence.
We chatter our way with keys,
And leap into the virtual reality
Of it all,
Of the desert, of the dig,
Of Lucy, found

Grandpa at the Idanha Hotel, Boise Idaho

2018-07-30T12:07:00.000-07:00

GRANDPA AT THE IDANHA HOTEL

                           Grandpa at the Idanha
                           One Saturday night.

                           In front of an old mirror.
                           He boogied,
                           He stretched,
                           Turned around.
                           Did a limbo rock
                           Up/down the stairs,
                           Turning all around.

                           His grandson,
                           In bright red knickers,
                           Doing the same,
                           The best he could.
                           Facing the same mirror,
                           Turning around,
                           Up/down,
                           Round and round.

   To Gene Harris on piano,
                           And Larry Boyd on bass.

Lightning Strike

2017-06-27T16:36:00.000-07:00

Lightning Strike

Lighting struck the ground
In Mary Ellen’s backyard
And we all went over,
Stood in a circle around
The big black spot
Where the lightning had burnt the grass.

The sycamore split, black, with its leaves
Still bright green.
The trunk jarred into jagged edges
With misshapen limbs.

Mary Ellen got out her baton.
Did a routine,
Tossing silver as high into the air
As the tree once was.

Only now she didn’t have the tree
To call attention to her great feat,
So when it came down,
Even after being maybe higher
Than the tree was before,
We couldn’t tell for sure.

The baton came tumbling and tumbling
In slow motion and Mary Ellen
Put out her arm, poised to catch it.

We held our breath.

And it came down.
Just as she was about to get
Her hand around it,
The baton did a little jump away.
One rubber end
Hit the ground and bounced up
And turned over and over,
Until it settled on the burnt spot.

Mary Ellen went over and picked it up,
Tossed her hair back
Over her shoulders
Laughed and threw it even higher,
And it came down, down, down,
And this time she caught it.

We clapped and let out our breath.

And spent the afternoon
Circled around the dead tree
With Mary Ellen practicing over and over,
Never missing her toss again that day.

View from the Russian Front

2016-11-29T10:54:00.000-08:00

By happenstance, we found ourselves in St Petersburg, Russia shortly before Thursday, May 9, 2013, in the celebration for Russians for the end of the Great Patriotic War and what we call the “Siege” of Leningrad" and the Russians called “the blockade”, carried out by the Nazis during World War II. Over a million people died, in the town designated then as Leningrad. Hitler, determined to starve the Russians, did not succeed, and the city survived and marched on. And, with the l989 revolution, retrieved its original name.

It was a time of ceremony, marches by the various military branches, including the veterans of World War II, and a time of the gathering of thousands on the streets.

We were there too, a day before, trying to find an entrance to the Hermitage among yellow barricades, set up to allow the military to practice in the magnificent square where a statue of Peter the Great towers from above. Young and old , military personnel in uniform stood in groups, waiting to march to designated positions.

And on the day of the parade on May 9th, we joined the ceremony and at first were a little apprehensive, many “what if’s” going through our heads, but then seeing families, children hoisted on shoulders to see over the crowds, couples, and an unobtrusive police presence, we relaxed in the event. Everyone likes a parade. Lots of music, lots of noise, and lots of good will. We too saluted those who fought, and were aware from a reprinted article in the St. Petersburg Times, that over 500,000 Jews served in the Russian Army during World War II. Who would have known that? We felt privileged to be able to honor all of those who served.

And when it was over, we walked with a huge crowd through a very narrow fence entrance into the park to leave, and again we felt hemmed in and thought “what if, so close to all these people,” but we all shuffled forward through the narrow opening, and out, and everyone as the Brits would say, behaved splendidly.

Fireworks at night over the river, at l0 pm, barely getting dark as white nights approached, crowned the evening. Men in their twenties feeling no pain, drank their way through the evening cheering each set of fireworks, with a loud hurrah, and made it even more fun for us. We were two of very few Americans in a crowd of thousands.

The fireworks over, we headed back to the Petro Palace, our hotel on Nevsky Prospect, enjoying the night air, and the feeling that we were a part of an important memory about the evils of the past, the loss of soldiers and those who died in the blockade, and the recognition of the survivors and the possibilities of goodness and good will in the present and future.

A Letter from Panama City July 9, 1965

2016-09-01T11:17:00.003-07:00

                              A LETTER FROM PANAMA CITY
                                                    July 9, l965

Dear Shirley,

You won't believe the turn
Our vacation has taken.

Out in the middle of nowhere,
Your sister Janet was her usual self.

Five-- Janet and I plus three men,
Rubbed sweaty shoulders,
Swayed and bounced on cracked leather
Across tree roots and over muddy hollows,
Hearing sloshing against the wheels
Feeling the car, leaving the road
(Such that it was).

Juan (who spoke Spanish) unshaven,
In a white t-shirt, old brown corduroys,
Drove us into the dark forest.

Around a tight turn was a Quonset hut,
Battered automobiles, vintage l950's
Parked. Not in rows.
Scattered over a clearing
With piles of debris shoved
Toward the edges.

I checked my gold watch.
Expedition time so far: Two hours.
The men (one of them also knew Spanish)
Handed Juan money.
Another paid more.

The cab sidled in next to other rusted heaps.
The driver led us inside. .
There, silhouettes, silent for seconds in the smoke
Hunched over a long bar.

Shirley, you know how Janet argues
About every little thing.
She's not known for sailing
Through the rough and tough times of traveling
Without a to-do about something.

So Janet decides she wants to sit "way over there,"
Way past all the men at the bar who then
Had the chance to give us
The once and twice over.

We crossed the squeaky wooden floor slowly.
Men, white teeth, high cheekbones, dark skin,
Older, maybe in their thirties, good-looking.
(You know how some Spanish men are).
But there were others--
Not the kind you'd want to come home to.

The three businessmen came after us.

We sat down at the first knife-gouged table.
Chairs swayed too easily. I am not that heavy,.
But before I knew it, I was on the floor
Being helped up by the three men
Who came with us and Juan.

My white linen suit was smudged with dirt
And when I sat in a different chair--
(I sat on the edge of the seat)
My sleeves picked up dirt from the table.

Ron, the Spanish-speaking Canadian, in our group,
Ordered five beers. The beer came in bottles,
Wet, with labels coming off,
Opened at the table. No glasses.
They were used to Americans.

The taxi cab driver hunched over,
Whispering to Billy Bob,
A thirty-five year old man from Texas cattle country.
Billy Bob laughed, pulled out a fifty dollar bill,
and said, "Let's go to the back."

The men pushed back their chairs. More squeaks.
An empty chair fell over. They weren't made that well.

Being agreeable, to the men I said, "OK," and Janet,
Being Janet, said, "I like it here. That's nice music."
It wasn't nice music. A scratchy record
Over a loudspeaker. You could hardly
Make out the words of "Mr. Sandman."
Not stereo. Hadn’t reached the jungle yet.

I dragged Janet, and we followed
The three men, (the other man was Sheldon
From New York, fabric business)
Down a long passageway.
Bits of dusty plaster covered a stained red carpet.
Walls had holes with chicken wire showing through.
From old fights, maybe.


Perfume floated through the hallway.
We walked past shut doors without doorknobs.

The three men stooped, then disappeared
Through a low doorway. Janet and I were
Close behind. One light, I mean light bulb,
Hung from a cord in the center of the room.

We sat down, up against a wall.
The words of Mr. Sandman muffled behind thin walls.
We were gathered together in a row.
Facing pink.

Pink walls met a pink carpeted floor.
The chairs, upholstered but soiled,
Had pink flowers embroidered over holes.
The door on the other side of the room
Glowed bright pink.

The most obvious and important pink
Was the round bed in the middle.
Pink sheets, pink pillowcases,
Pink satin blanket, (looked hot to me),
Ruffle pink. Overpinked.

Janet wasn't speaking. She had settled
Into a wobbly card table chair.
The men weren't making any conversation.
They sat. Quiet. We all sat. Quiet.
Mr. Sandman scratched on and on
I played with the zipper on my purse,
Running it back and forth.

A woman's voice laughed from behind a closed door.
That made me jump..
Janet still hadn't said anything to me.
She seemed content.

I whispered to Ron, sitting on my other side,
"What's going on?"

“We have about a few minutes to wait,
Then it will start,” he said.

I turned to Janet and whispered,.
"Don't you think we ought to wait in the bar?"

She sat there, ignoring me..
I leaned closer and touched her arm..

"Janet, I think we ought to wait in the bar."


"No, let's just stay here for a few more minutes," she said.
(Is Janet dense or what? She's your sister, Shirley.)

I said, "Janet, I'm going back to the bar,
And I think you should come with me."

Reluctantly, she began to listen to me.
Behind the door, the woman's voice
Was joined by a man's.

I pulled Janet up, mumbling to the men,
About hunting for a bathroom. I hauled Janet
Out. I heard the other door open.
Two voices, male and female, entered the pink room.

But we were down the hallway.
Janet, being Janet, yelled at me
For pulling her away from the show.

Back in the bar, we sat at the same table.
A man came up and pinched my arm.
Janet didn't see it. She was looking at a man
At the bar who was looking at her.

"The music is romantic, " Janet said.

"Janet, we're leaving," I said.
"Not without the men," she said.
“We can`t leave them out here
In the middle of nowhere."

Juan appeared from the passageway
And leaned over us. Obviously,
Having drunk more than beers.
He led us to the cab, put us in the back seat,
And, in very clear English, said,
"Stay put. Not safe."

The windows were open.
He locked the doors.

Expedition time: Four hours.

The men came out.
They didn't say anything
About anything. They made small talk
And joked about women always having
To go to the bathroom.

Janet said she wouldn't speak to me
For the rest of the cruise.
She said I ruined her
Trip. She's just not used to traveling,
Being ready for whatever happens.
Like I am.

If Janet doesn't talk to me
There are plenty of other people
To talk to. We have about six days
And three hours left on our cruise.
With or without Janet talking.

See you when I get back.

Love from south of many borders,

Eve