Crystal Springs Writers Summer and Fall 2022 by hayala-me

1 Crystal Springs Writers Summer &Fall 2022 Issue San Bruno Senior Center 1555 Crystal Springs Road, San Bruno, CA 94066 Top Row: Mary Heneghan, Andy Ynostroza, Hilda Ayala, Jerry Jayne, Margarita Aguirre, Robert Johansen, Bottom Row: Lucretia Leong, Dolores Fierro. Anne Jayne, Delores Huajardo, Jo Carpignano, Helga Hansen, Linda Chow

The Crystal Springs Writers is a talented and diverse gathering of people who come together each week to celebrate the craft of writing. However, they are more than just a group that meets to share their skills. They are also friends and colleagues who adhere to a disciplined but flexible schedule where each member reads their weekly writing to the entire gathering. To improve the writers' craftsmanship, after each reading, in a supportive and collegial atmosphere, the group engages in critiquing the piece by proposing changes and making suggestions for revisions on vocabulary, syntax, and punctuation, as well as providing encouragement and praise. During break time, members can enjoy treats, chat, and catch up on their personal lives.

Introduction

Each writer's unique contribution enhances this talented and gifted group of writers. At the start of the pandemic, the San Bruno Senior Center announced it would temporarily close its doors to protect its members' health and adhere to the social and physical distancing guidelines due to the COVID 19 pandemic. It was a difficult adjustment for those who enjoy the various learning, social and life enhancing activities offered by the Senior Center. Nevertheless, the Crystal Springs Writers Group decided to take advantage of new technology and continue to meet weekly via Zoom. Every Thursday morning, the group met to share and critique their writing and offer each other encouragement during this challenging time.

Because of the closure of printing services, the group decided to publish a special issue in a digital format dedicated to the 2020 COVID 19 pandemic so members could share their experiences during this extended quarantine.

Most members were able to join the weekly Zoom meeting, but a few did not. However, because they are an integral part of the group, their pictures and literary biographies were included in the booklet.

The fortuitous hiring of Frank Duffy was the major reason the group survived. He was a skilled, tactful, inspirational mentor who was exactly what the founding, inexperienced writers needed. One of his first assignments was “Write what you remember about your first house.” Of course, what that did was to trigger a flood of memories that fueled our enthusiasm to complete the suggested assignments that followed. He was also kind in the ways he helped improve our writing: the format, use of language, the development of a story from opening, to the crescendo when the tensions were at a peak, to the smashing conclusion. We were all saddened when Frank passed away in 1993.

Once each year, the Crystal Springs Creative Writers hold a writers’ festival during which friends of the public are invited to the Center to hear each writer read a piece representative of his or her work during the year. After completion of the reading, copies are available in the form of a booklet.

In 1991, in response to some serious interest, a writer’ workshop was organized with the sponsorship of the Crystal Springs Senior Center. Veteran San Francisco newspaperman, Frank Duffy was hired, using grants available to promote senior citizen educational activities. There were ten members in that original group.

The group, now known as the Crystal Springs Creative Writers, decided to carry on the Thursday morning writing sessions by being self governing, i.e. each week one of the members would be the session’s moderator and would pass out the following week’s assignment. The members are free to write to two given topics, or about a subject of their choice. The group has successfully continued its activity over the ensuing years. Members have seen books, articles, essays, or poems published, many have won prizes for their work in local competitions. Our membership usually encompasses 10 12 members, which gives everyone a chance to read their composition: essay, poetry, or prose. Following each presentation, the group offers helpful suggestions for writing improvement.

The Crystal Springs Creative Writers – A Short History

4 TABLE OF CONTENTS ANDY YNOSTROSA Literary Biography 7 Above Pacifica 8 Heard A Whisper 9 ANNE JAYNE Literary Biography 10 Old Movies 11 Summing Up 12 Take me Out to the Ball Game? 13 JERRY JAYNE Literary Biography 14, 15 A Formative Summer 16,17,18 MARIA ELENA BERNAL DE BARRE A Personal Profile 19 May La Tejanita Cotton Princess Joins the Army 20, 21, 22, All I Knew of Love Then 23 A garden of Stones 24 A Little Girl Called May 25,26 One Hot Day in the Cotton Fields 27

5 JO CARPIGNANO Literary Biography 28 Summer Breeze 29 Autumn 30 Naked Winter 31 Spring Bride 32 M. HENEGHAN Literary Biography 33 My Grandparents 34, 35,36 HILDA AYALA Literary Biography 37 The Crystal Springs Dance Academy 38 , 39, 40 What I Expect From the Rain 41 ROBERT JOHANSEN Literary Biography 42 Suckers and Creamed Corn 43, 44 Horsing Around Idaho 45 Marriage 46,47 There 48 LUCRETIA LEONG Literary Biography 49, 50 The Power of the Pen 51, 52, 53 DELORES MAE WOODS HUAJARDO Literary Biography 54 Magic Moments in Flight 55,56 Magic December Moments 57 Gratitude 58,59

6 BILLY KAKTIS Show and Tell 60 A Heartbeat in the Bay Area 61 MARGARITA AGUIRRE 62, 63 HELGA HANSEN 64 LINDA CHOW 65 DOLORES FIERRO Literary Biography 66,67 Picnic 68,69 CREATIVE WRITERS 70 Top Row: Robert Johansen, Hilda Ayala, Debi Belluomini, Jo Carpignano, Mary Heneghan, Lucretia Leong, Andy Ynostroza

Andy Ynostroza

Andy was born in 1934. Now at 88 years old, he wants his children and his family to know who he is through his writings. Andy writes about life and his memories and thoughts he would like to share with them. In the past, Andy had difficulty talking about his feelings and thoughts. His writing has opened him up to his passionate, loving feelings, as can be seen in his writing that was a reflection of his thoughts and love for life. He started on this journey, a year after his wife died in 2014 when he joined The Creative Writing Group in San Bruno’s Senior Center. Over time a better writer was Andyborn!has developed many new skills: Editing, rewrites, fluency, confidence, and all self reflective. The writing group not only supported the effort but his changes toward being a writer. It also helped him in his everyday life. He is very grateful for their input and love.

Once the sun disappeared, the blue skies above the clouds started to darken, and I saw a star next to the moon.

Then the moon was gone. Standing I felt the fog's mist on my face that left a salty Whattaste.aSIGHT

A bright sunny day was ending, in Daly City. I decided to see the sun set. And drove above Pacifica and found the ocean completely covered with Therefog.

were some small patches of the beach and some waves. The sun still had another hour before setting. There were some high clouds and a full moon to the north.Looking toward Rockaway Beach and at the hill to its left. Its base would have been skirted by breaking waves, but not today. Instead it was painted with cotton. And looking north, the top of the Marin Headlands could be seen, above the fog. The ocean was completely covered, what seemed like an Angora sweater as white as the clouds above. As the sun was dropping in the horizon, t he clouds started to change on the bottom to a golden color that turned to yellow amber. The top half was still white and blue skies above. The sun appeared only inches from touching the horizon; it also changed the fog covered ocean to a light yellow. With all the mixed colors white, yellow, blue and combined with shadows, gave the fog a textured look.

As the sun was setting, the clouds turned red. Red, the color that was seen through your hand as a kid. When the end of a flashlight was covered and red appeared through your hand.

The light yellow on the fog turned orange which was the reflection off the bottom of the clouds. I was mesmerized by all the changes and wondered did miss anything? The changes were so fast, but yet in slow motion. I noticed that the sun does not reflect across the fog as it reflects over water. It's more of a glow.

Now that the sun was completely gone, the fog's whiteness turned to a purple hue. looking toward the Golden Gate Bridge, the bright moon sprayed the fog like a huge spot light.

ABOVE PACIFICA Andy Ynostroza July 2022

The sun now gone, the Pacifica lights could be seen. Then the ocean's started to erupt like rushing waves. And started to engulf the homes and the lights and were no longer visible. waves of fog were making their way up the hill. thin layers drifted over head and tried to cover the moon, that appeared like a head light trying to break through a haze.

HEARD A WHISPER ANDY YNOSTROZAMAY2018 Rewrite 5 years after wife died Heard a whisper In my ear Hold That'soneso dear What brought that sound? Deep within The sounds of the passing wind I heard a whisper through the trees Bliss and sighs and the pain Now free The whispers on the shore Sands between our toes Wanting more The love of life Was ours to Truthlive our being Lots to give Not words of sorrow Steps to save tomorrow Heard a whisper in my ear Always cherish Love's a tear My soul cries out For you to hear Love you always Oh! the fear I heard a whisper It did stop! A void so deep It broke my heart I heard a whisper Not the same Did I hear a whisper? Call my name

ANNE JAYNE

Anne is a retired teacher who likes to write because she likes to read! Throughout her school years, she wrote essays and poems. Incidents in daily life often turn into stories in her head! Anne is an active Crystal Springs Writin g Group member. She has also attended a Writing Class at the San Mateo Senior Center for about ten years. Anne would like to write for children. She has entered the San Mateo Fair Literary Light contest, winning two first place ribbons and one second place ribbon. She has submitted works to the Writer’s Digest Children and Youth section, once receiving an Honorable Mention. Her current project is to send stories to publishers and Children’s Magazine Editors. She has vowed not to stop before getting 100 Rejection Slips!

It might not be surprising that one memory of the pandemic for me will be watching old movies. Since we have not been going to events we might have attended previously, Jerry and I have settled before our TV many evenings to see a film we missed. Some of these we missed because we were not born when they were made. Our parents were thrilled with seeing people projected onto a white sheet walking, running, or having houses fall on their heads. Those silent screen directors were ingenious in their use of the technical possibilities of their craft. Charlie Chaplain, Harold Lloyd, and Buster Keaton still make people laugh!

by Anne Jayne

We missed lots of movies in our younger days because we were too busy to spare time for them, or too poor to pay the admission price. Little did we know that someday we could sit in our room, by a TV set and see everything we missed. The most interesting thing about this experience has been observing people’s attitudes and assumptions. In earlier films racial stereotypes are made without embarrassment. Sophistication is shown by smoking cigarettes. Our current movies are not perfect, but these are not acceptable today. The change in what is acceptable over the relatively few decades that movies have been made may be because the whole country can see and comment on the same films. We are not watching any of the new movies. They must be shown on Netflick or some of those channels we would never pay extra to look at. If we manage to survive long enough, we will see them when they become old movies.

Old Movies

progressedMembers

I hope all of us, young and old are willing to use the facts about unfairness in structures of our common life which the pandemic has made clear, and change things for the better.

Summing Up by Anne Jayne

A summary of that hope is probably “we go two steps forward and one step backward.” I do believe we are a better society than when my parents were young, and our children and grandchildren will make it still a better place. I think we are managing those two steps forward.

This seems like a summer vacation moment. Some ordinary things are going to pause for a while, then start anew when Fall begins, school starts, and autumn leaves begin to fall. I feel like summingButup.summing up what? The Pandemic? Probably too early. There is going to be more to that story. Sum up what has been happening to Jerry and me? Well, we are continuing to grow older; and feel our facilities slip a bit, but we are carrying on, trying to appreciate all our blessings.

Sum up where the world we hear about every day on TV newscasts is going? Who can even understand that? Perhaps we might line up thoughts about how our small personal world has of our family, the biggest part of our personal world. have continued to work and study in the pandemic. I hope they have gained belief in their ability to handle unexpected challenges. I wonder if they have lost confidence in modern society. Even having the knowledge painfully and patiently gleaned from decades of observation and study, our society was not able to prevent the Covid Pandemic. However we must realize that our knowledge has enabled us to quickly deal with this vast medical emergency. I hope our younger family members, and we elders also, are willing to continue gathering information, and use it for next unexpected assault.

It has been a hard two years since the Covid Virus swept over our planet; harder for some than for others. Without a doubt hardest for the ones who became very ill and died, and for their families. But it has also been difficult for those whose lives were disrupted. We have had to stay in our homes (the lucky ones of us who have homes) and work remotely by computer (the lucky ones of us who have jobs). If we have gone out into the world, we have had to wear uncomfortable masks over our faces, and avoid hugging each other. People who love to socialize and enjoy parties have found isolation from their friends hard to bear. Now the hope is that vaccinations will save us! With the slightest lifting of mask mandates, crowds again gather in restaurants, and at sports events. These folks are so happy to be with friends again, singing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” I am glad for them, but am not one of them. I have been lucky not to mind staying home. This is because I love best of all to curl up in a corner with my book. It is also because being home has not deprived me of any physical necessity. Clever Jerry knows how to order stuff on the computer, and brave delivery folks are bringing groceries to our door. I am being selfish by not helping the world get back to normal. I let others take all the risks. I should feel ashamed. But instead I am singing “Don’t Take Me Out to the Ball Game” Don’t

by Anne Jayne

Take Me Out to the Ball Game?

Jerry Jayne

Midwesterner. . . Chemistry Professor. . . . Presbyterian. . . . My background challenges creativity. My writing skills were honed while writing and rewriting laboratory manuals, for which the principal objective is to be absolutely clear. Misunderstood laboratory directions can lead to really bad smells or explosions. Failed creative writing can lead to similar results, but I’m willing to give it a try. The occasion for my joining the Crystal Springs Creative Writers was my wife Anne’s giving up driving because of failing eyesight. I had become her transportation, but now that I also do not drive we come to the Senior Center via Readi Wheels. Anne, as a member of the group for several years, had often shown me weekly submissions from the group very interesting and informative sections that whet my appetite for more and made me wonder whether joining the group would improve my writing. I think there has been improvement as I try to make my writing sound less like pages from a laboratory manual.

Here are some conventional biographical details in case you want to amplify the above.Iwas born in small town Wisconsin in 1931. My parents were both teachers from large farm families in Eastern Washington’s wheat country. My father taught in the local teacher’s college. In 1944 we moved to a War Relocation Center in Colorado where my parents both taught and I was the only Caucasian in my ninth

grade class. My father then joined the faculty of the University of Wyoming in Laramie.Ireceived a BS in Sociology at the University of Wisconsin, then was drafted into the army, serving a year in Korea as the war was winding down. I next spent several years in graduate school in Anthropology at the University of Chicago, which included field work with the Fox Indians. My aim had always been to become a teacher. At this point I realized that successful teaching in the social sciences required rhetorical skills and confidence in abstract theories that I just did not have. I used the benefits of the GI bill to become a chemist. You don’t need rhetoric to explain chemistry.Anne and I became acquainted when we were graduate students at the University of Wisconsin. We were married in 1960, soon after Anne received her PhD in Microbiology. Our first child, a son, was born with severe health problems in 1961. We came out to San Francisco in 1963, where I began 30 years of teaching at San Francisco State. A daughter was born in 1965. When the children were old enough, Anne began a career as a part time microbiology teacher at the University of San Francisco and at Skyline College. We retired in 1993 and have enjoyed helping to raise three grandchildren.

The summer of 1942 began with a fight and a lost friend. It was the last day of school and we fifth graders were out in the school yard for recess. I was with two good friends Bill, “Skinny”, Sanks and Don, “Stinky”, Marquardt. A fourth boy joined us Dale Summers, whose nickname was “Asshole”. Don told Dale that he wasn’t welcome, and taunted him, using his obscene nickname again and again. I grabbed Don’s arm to get his attention and exclaimed, “Stinky that’s so mean. We should call him ‘Dale’.” What a mistake first of all to call Don “Stinky”, which was exactly the unkind thing I was faulting Don for, and second, to lay hands on the toughest kid in our class. Stinky put his hands on my chest and pushed me over backwards, but I grabbed his arm and pulled him down with me. We rolled over and over on the ground for a few moments before the yard teacher pulled us apart and made us shake hands. The problem for Stinky was that, in front of the whole fifth grade, he did not end up on top. We were no longer friends.

The gang, however, was built around Don Marquardt. I was no longer welcome. I had to look forward to a long summer alone. I decided to raise chickens. I built a little pen, then bicycled out to Warden’s hatchery to buy eight three day old chicks. Nights were still chilly, so I ran an extension cord out to the pen and built a two compartment box with the chicks on one side and a small light bulb on the other. During the next several weeks three of the chicks died, but the rest looked healthy and were beginning to show feathers. I was feeling successful.

One afternoon our next door neighbor’s eighth grade son, Al Fredoch, wandered over to look at my chickens. He was on temporary leave from reform school to come home and become acquainted with his newborn brother, Johnnie. He had been sent to reform school when the nuns in his parochial school could not keep him from starting fights when the other boys asked him how it happened that his mother was going to have a baby when her husband had been dead for three years. They had been cruelly relentless. Al was sent to a reform school several counties away where his situation would be unknown.

A Formative Summer by Jerry Jayne

Previous summers had been spent with a gang of friends, swimming, wading through the wild Vilas swamp; bicycling through the forest reserve; playing softball. . . .

The policeman came by that afternoon to ask whether what Mrs. Worzella told him was true. My mother admitted that it was true, but that her taking the

Nine months before this the Worzellas, who lived across the alley from us, had thrown a huge traditional Polish wedding for their daughter, Irene. To prepare for the huge celebration they had invested in indoor plumbing and cleared the outhouse from their back yard. They moved their chicken pen temporarily to a neighbor’s yard and harvested their vegetable crops early to make room for a huge celebration tent. After the formal church wedding a crowd wearing colorful Polish folk costumes filled the tent and danced far into the night to the music of a vigorous Polka band, with many toasts to the bride and groom and to love and to many children. My sister and I stood behind our garage and watched the celebration in astonished wonder. We saw Mr. Worzella (“The Old Man”, his children called him) wipe tears from his eyes after the ceremonial dance with his daughter. We saw Mrs. Fredoch from next door, in her colorful Polish peasant’s skirt and vest, cross the alley to join the celebration. Our parents explained to us later that, because this was the first time she had been out to a public event since her husband had slammed his motorcycle into the side of a dump truck, she had forgotten how to control her drinking. As the celebration slowed to its end she found she could not walk without help. Seventeen year old Chet Worzel la generously offered to help her walk home across the alley. Little Johnnie was the result.

Al Fredoch, over from next door, dutifully admired my chickens as I knelt beside the pen. We had little to say, and had spent some time, each buried in his own thoughts, when I heard myself muse, “Is he Johnnie Fredoch or Johnnie Worzella?”

From my kneeling position I raced off as quick as I could, but not quick enough to avoid a hard kick to my ribs that helped propel me to the safety of my back porch, grateful that Al was barefoot.

Two more chickens died, but the three remaining seemed quite healthy. One morning, however, all three were missing. We could see no way they could get out of the pen. As Mother and I were searching for the chickens, Mother noticed that the Worzellas had a pen full of chickens exactly the same age as our missing chickens. Mother looked at their pen and asserted with full confidence, “The Worzellas stole them.” I told her that didn’t make any sense, but she opened their pen, grabbed three chickens from the crowded flock and handed them to me as she closed the pen. Now I was culpable a thief! Mrs. Worzella came out onto her back porch and shouted something at us in Polish that sounded quite unpleasant.

chickens was just a matter of getting back what had been stolen. When the policeman asked if we were sure the Worzellas had stolen the chickens, my mother told him to compare our reputations we were law abiding people, but the Worzellas had a bad reputation. She made an oblique reference to Chet. The policeman turned and looked quizzically at me without speaking. I shrugged my shoulders and stared at the floor. He seemed to get the message. He said he would talk to the Worzellas about bringing charges. The Worzellas evidently decided three chickens weren’t worth any more fuss. We heard no more about it. At the end of the summer our parents bought a new home and we moved to a different neighborhood. Because there was no room for a chicken pen in our new yard, we had to get rid of the chickens. Without telling my mother, I put the three chickens into a big bag and took them over to the Worzellas. The Old Man came out and I told him that the chickens really belonged to them, so I was giving them back. The Old Man said “no” to this he would buy them from me. Chet brought out a scale to weigh the chickens, but held the bag up off the scale so that only a fraction of the weight registered. The Old Man pushed Chet’s hands down so the full weight was shown. As I glanced up the Old Man rolled his eyes and shook his head in bewilderment what could he do about Chet?

At eleven years old I was just beginning to construct a picture of what the world was like what life might have in store for me. The events of the summer of 1942 sketched in an early outline of this picture. Life is not what you plan. Life happens. Life is difficult, complex, confusing and interesting.

Since I could no longer use the chicken pen, I decided to give it to the Worzellas. My good friend, Bobby Worzella, about a year younger than I, came by one afternoon with a wagon to help me take the pen apart and to pick out whatever his family might be able to use. As we worked on the pen Kenny Nigbor, the 18 year old son of our neighbor to the east, stepped out of his back door. Bobby turned to me, anger distorting his face. Between clenched teeth “That son of a bitch. He took me down into his basement and did terrible, dirty things to me!” Kenny, noticing that we were looking at him, tossed his head dismissively and went back inside. I told Bobby how bad I felt, that Kenny had been so cruel and abusive to him. I told him that God would punish Kenny, and that it would be best just to try to forget about it. Bobby was, however, clearly still upset.

MARIA ELENA BERNAL de BARRE

Maria Elena was born in Elsa, Texas, near the Texas Mexican border. She speaks English, Spanish, and with her husband's help, a smattering of French. She started writing in 2006 after the loss of her beloved husband. Writing about her loss was too painful, so for the next few years, she decided to write about what she knew, and that led her to capture some of her father's historias and cuentos. Her writing includes prose, poetry, historical essays, and real life narratives illustrating racial or social injustice, but her strength seems to be memoir writing. She has an innate ability to transport the reader to events describing her childhood in the cotton fields of Texas, her life with her loved ones, as well as anecdotes and suspenseful short stories about the present. Maria Elena is a natural storyteller. Among her many contributions to the group, Maria Elena manages to achieve a balance in her critiques that are astute and insightful while at the same time, warm and supportive.Maria belongs to the San Bruno Creative Writer's Group, and the CWC, California Writer's Club. With help from these two groups, she has been able to write several short stories and poems: Aztec Princess, The Rising Sun, I Come From, Shadows by a Window, and an essay A Mother's Despair. She is in the process of finding a publisher for her novel, The Stolen Glory of Los Californianos.

May La Tejanita Cotton Princess Joins the Army Maria Elena Barr

Never in my wildest dreams would I have believed that my lifelong wish to get an education would land me in the United States Army. Working in the cotton fields my one wish had always been to get an education and like the Mystical Bird in my father’s stories I dreamt of flying off to faraway places, or at least out of the cotton fields.

One thing that I like about myself is my desire to do good. My dream of getting an education was to be able to help my family. For as long as I can remember, I tried to help my parents. Working alongside them in the fields when our cotton was weighed, the patrón jotted the numbers from the scale into a small brown pocket tablet. When we shopped at the local marketa, the owner would jot our purchases down to be paid when the cotton season came around. When I got my report, card sprinkled with Fs and Ds, and with slash marks across the months tha t I was not in school, my mom would want to know why.

“Saul, have we picked a hundred yet? Saul, how come we owe so much for groceries? I try to buy only what we need! Maria, what do these slashes and Fs and Ds mean?” Watching my dad’s puzzled look on his face, unable to answer Mom’s questions made me realize that one of us had to learn to read and write. Not able to attend school often and no one around to teach me, learning was a slow process. After siting up nights studying by the kerosene lamp, I was finally able to write down our figures on our own tablet and calculate what we owed the grocer, more importantly what was owed to us. The slashes and Fs and Ds on my report card were too shameful for me to explain. I did not want Mom to lose her faith in me if I told her the truth. The years went by, but my wish to learn had not diminished, though the manifestation of this wish into a reality was fading day by day. I had graduated the year before and had gotten a good job at a local granary, but my mom’s refusal to let me socialize made it hard for me to show up at a job that required me to be helpful and friendly to all the customers, especially the important farmers and merchants in the area. I stayed home, too embarrassed to show up for work. The days crept by. Watching my dad put in the seed for the next year’s crop, I decided my dream of an education, like the Mystical Bird was an illusion. My wish for an education, began to fade, until one day, the only teacher that had cared about me and helped me to graduate came to our house and told me about an Army Recruitment Event near my high school. The next day I borrowed my dad’s truck and drove to the location and enlisted in the United States Army. The female recruiter picked me up at the ranch the next day and we drove to San Antonio, Texas where I passed all the exams to qualify. Pronounced physically, medically, and morally

“No Thank you.”

Shortly after that I flew to Fort McClellan Alabama for basic training. I was surprised at how many women were in my platoon when we started, however the strenuous regiment was too hard for some so they left before completing the course. A daily two, to three, mile run, while holding gas masks and a simulated weapon, followed by a regiment of push ups, crunches and other physical exercises had been a challenge for me too, but I persevered. The war in Vietnam by late 1964 became more dangerous after the Gulf of Tonkin incident. President Lyndon B. Johnson and the experts believed the war was going to get much worse. Consequently, most of our Basic Training focused on reconnaissance and rescue. We practiced swinging on a rope from one building to another or walk on a small pipe to practice reaching a soldier that was injured.

After my basic training at Fort McClellan, I was given an assignment to the Presidio of San Francisco, however, before leaving I was called to the Commander’s office. One of the Wacs who originally came from San Francisco was pregnant and I was asked to change my destination to Fort Benjamin Harrison so she could be near to her parents in San Francisco.

21 fit, I proudly took the oath. “I Maria Elena Bernal do solemnly swear to support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies foreign. and domestic…….”

Arriving at Fort Benjamin Harrison in Indianapolis, Indiana, I was assigned to attend several college courses on Army Policies and Regulations and given special assignment to assist families of soldiers being sent to Vietnam with financial , housing and childcare programs and resources. To prepare me for my assignment I attended Finance and Accounting Courses. I was happy in the Army. My wish to get an education had come true, not the way I had wished, but here I was in a classroom full of men and women with one goal, to learn to serve. My habit of getting up early, making my bed, shining my shoes and cleaning my area made me a favorite with my superiors. In class I also tried to do my best and studied afterwards to be prepared for my next day classes. From the beginning I was chosen to be a platoon leader and given an opportunity to attend Officer Candidate School. I was on my way to building a career in the Army, until one evening I attended a nightclub dance, with the singer of the orchestra playing that night, along with two other girlfriends. We were sitting down listening to the music when someone tapped me on the shoulder. “May I have this dance?”

After“Well…..I”thethird time one of my girlfriends nudged me in the ribs, “Have you looked up at him? He is gorgeous. Get up and go to the very back of the dance floor and your date won’t be able to see you.” Nervously, I got up and I looked at the most beautiful blue eyes and long eyelashes I had ever seen. His hand on the small of my back he led me to the dance floor.

A year later to my surprise I got pregnant and did not want to leave the Army, until I completed my term. In the meantime, Richard was reprieved from his standby orders to Vietnam and allowed to serve out his term at Fort Benjamin Harrison. We bought a beautiful two bedroom mobile home and a Plymouth car from one of our friends who was not so lucky and had to go Vietnam. Our daughter Desiree was born at the military hospital and we brought her home and lived there happily until Richards’s term of duty was up and we boarded the Yellow Zephyr and came by train to San Francisco. I missed the Army, the structure, the pageantry, carrying the American flag while parading the colors to the beat of the military band. I missed the sound of Reveille waking me up in the morning and Taps the mournful sound I heard putting me to sleep at night. I had left the spirts of my mom and dad behind me, but not the values that they taught me, a belief in God, love of family and a good work ethic that helped me to make quick and lasting friends.My wish for an education is still with me, and its realization has come in some very amazing ways. My lifelong wish took me out of the cotton fields and like the Mystical Bird in my dad’s stories I have been able to fly and to travel to faraway places. Richard and my daughter Desiree nurtured my desire to learn and taught me many things, especially to love. Sadly, the Twelfth of Never, came too soon. I lost Richard on October 13, 2006. I was his caregiver for the last seven years. No longer the dashing soldier on the dance floor that night long ago, yet I learned to love him even more. His spirit still lives with me and my daughter Desiree in memories of a wonderful life.

The next dance started, The Twelfth of Never, he took me in his arms, “Will you marry me, will you be my wife?” I was nervous before, but now I was shocked and embarrassed. My knees felt weak. I didn’t know if I could be able to run away fast enough. The handsome soldier turned out to be Richard Barr one of my Instructors in the base waiting to be deployed to Vietnam. We met July 4th and were married on August 8, 1964. Not long after we were married, I was assigned to a new post in Fort Meade, Maryland. Meanwhile, Richard kept appealing his orders to go to Vietnam. We were newlyweds so Richard would come to visit me, and we would spend time in Baltimore Maryland and a couple of times we took the bus to the city of Chicago.

“May I please have this dance?”

My dad never said I love you, the words I love you were never spoken. Yet, I felt his love in every word he spoke in the old cuentos about a mythical bird that flew high in the sky. A story he told often to help lift us up from the misery of working in the cotton fields. His stories made me fall in love with words …...... I never got a kiss, a hug, or a Valentine, from them. Today I would trade all my Valentines, my champagne and my roses to feel once again, my mom's heart beating close to me. Oh, to feel the joy and to hear once again those magical, beautiful wonderful words in, dad's made up stories about a bird, that flew high, high in the sky.

All I Knew of Love Then Maria Elena Barr They were all I knew of love then. A beautiful young girl, and a young boy with twinkling hazel eyes. They were my mom and dad, upon which my world did shine. I never got a kiss, or a hug from them, much less a Valentine. Yet sure was I of their love. Constant, as when I lay my pallet on the floor at night and gazed up at the heavens. I knew that the moon and stars would shine, steadfast, like their love. My mother rarely hugged me, but of her love I was certain. Like the night when I felt her heart beating as she held me in her arms for hours. She prayed, and with her hand she fanned my face to cool my brow when with Scarlet Fever I lay dying.

A Garden of Stones Memorial Day 2021

On this cold and gloomy Memorial Day, I walk on hallowed ground at Golden Gate National Cemetery. I pause a moment, and wait for the sun to rise. I look around at the pity of war, evidenced in adumbrated writing upon the white headstones. In shadowy sketches is written the names of brave loved ones who died to keep America free. A sob escapes my throat as I survey the rows, and rows of tombstones. I whisper the names, too many to count, written on the headstones of those who now, in cold dark chambers dwell, and sleep the eternal sleep. Thou absent in the flesh, alone, and lonely, yet forgotten, they are not: for in our hearts, we cradle them in loving memory, just as their fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters did, as they knelt to pray for victory, in homes across the land. Homes where, in many hearts still echo tender lullabies, and faint memories of laughter. And when the time for tears came, they were left with only the memories of loved, brave ones now gone, but never forgotten. Deep in thought, my mind travels back to my own family's brave one. Just turned 19 years old Uncle Santos Cervantes, who is not here, but lies in a watery grave where the U.S.S. Liscome Bay was torpedoed off Makin Island in the Pacific Ocean, November 24, 1943. For seventy nine years he has lain in a cold watery grave, with no stone to mark the spot. This is why, every Memorial Day, I join others, whose loved ones lie here, and we walk in this garden of stones, to whisper, “thank you.” We pray as we walk to keep alive the memory of all the brave men and women who paid the ultimate sacrifice and who died to keep America free.

Once upon a time, in the small town of Elsa Texas, lived a little girl called May. Her mommy and daddy did not know how to read or write, and they were very poor. So, at six years old her mommy strapped a potato sack on May’s shoulder and together, with daddy they went to the fields to pick cotton. May had no toys, so she played with the bees, the spiders and boll weevils and all the critters that crawled on the cotton leaves.One morning now wearing a long cotton sack, she was bent down picking cotton when she looked up and saw a yellow bus full of kids on their way to school. She smiled at the children and they all waved and smiled back as they went by. A smile on her face May began to pick cotton again. She was happy. She now had a dream. One day she too would be on that bus. Between picking cotton, strawberries, onions, carrots and radishes May was lucky to be able to go to school only a couple of precious months a year. She loved school. She started learning, to read books that opened up a new world. Working every day, most of the year, there was little time for school. Her daddy in order to keep his children working hard, began to tell them stories. May’s favorite was the one about a mystical bird that flew to many faraway places.

A Little Girl Called May Maria Elena Barr

May smiled as she listened to the story. She too was carried away to that faraway place and forgot how tired and hungry she was. May picked cotton all day long proudly wearing overalls with colorful patches that her mommy had sewn for her. With the left over rags she learned to tie them, around her tennis shoes because the soles had come loose.

One day she was working in the field near her house and looked up and saw her city cousins pulling into the driveway. May dropped her sack and bolted inside and dove under the kitchen table. “May, what are you doing under there,” her mom asked. “Come out and say hi to your cousins and see the brand new loafers they’re wearing.” Quickly May untied the rags around her tennis shoes and stepped out from under the table in her overalls and bare feet. Smiling, she welcomed her cousins. “Oh, what beautiful penny loafers, you’re wearing,” she said staring down at their shoes. Maybe someday I too will have new shoes.

Grab my cotton sack, then head to the cotton field I pick to the end of the row I pick till the end of the day

In the haze of the noon day sun, with hope I approach the scale I vistaed wrong the scale read too low, not 100 yet In the midst of sweat and tears I collapsed. My tennis shoes

ONE HOT DAY IN THE COTTON FIELDS

Followed suit and fell apart too But mañana after a good night’s sleep with my tennis shoes tied with rags I will start over again Si mañana, My feet will follow again the labyrinth of rows Of cotton to pick: coffee, beans, rice and lard to buy Still no money, for tennis shoes, yet I pick, and I dream Mañana!

Full of hope that cool morning, I stoop to lace my faded tennis shoes

Maria Elena Barr

Jo Carpignano began writing poetry and fiction in 2001 after retiring from a 40 year career in education. She has won prizes in fiction, poetry and memoir and has won state and national awards for several of her poems. Her work frequently appears in various anthologies e.g. Carry the Light and Fault Zone.

JOSEPHINE “JO” CARPIGNANO

Jo’s first publication was a biography of her Italian immigrant mother entitled Madeline’s Story (2005). She has also published a book of poetry entitled Paper Wings and Other Things (2015). Having had many interesting experiences in education, Jo’s new novel, Nadine, In the Tenderloin describes the trials of a disadvantaged child in public schools with a fierce determination to learn. This young adult novel was accepted for publication in 2020 and launched in 20222. Currently completing another memoir about multi generations of her Italian immigrant family, Jo continues to enjoy writing in any genre and on any subject that captures her interest.

Literary Biography

Summer breezes slowly sink into contented sleep amid the sound of calling gull and traffic hum

In the turbulent Pacific a swift summer breeze is born from sea bed shifts and twisting tides it races toward our continental shores Like desert tumbleweed swift gales blow in, head over heels encounter cables at the Golden Gate

When every agitation ends they settle and descend finding their repose where gentle sloping hills enclose

Summer Breeze Jo Carpignano

While sliced and slowed by braided steel they tumble over asphalt lanes Exhausted by their dizzy somersaults, they encounter one more bridge, then slow, subside heave one more sigh then seek a place to rest’ along warm sandy beaches of the bay

Let’s not blame Winter for demise of Fall when Autumn chill appears at end of season it brings instead appearance of Fall’s finest fare in rich wines, sweet jellies, apple pies

Torn from their anchor to the branch, leaves swirl in mighty swarms, as if announcing they are free

A flock of color in pursuit of phantom butterflies

It’s then, as though seduced by Winter’s chill that Autumn answers by releasing gaudy leaves into a frenzied flight across the drying fields

Autumn Jo Carpignano

And speak of beauty? Gaze upon the naked tree bereft of leaves, eagerly awaiting Winter snow Is it not perfect in its graceful symmetry? And why bemoan the shortened days and longer nights when extended darkness means more time to enjoy rich Autumn’s sweet delights

It was January, on a rare warm sunny day I wandered in the garden but did not intend to stay just delighted to escape the confines of my room enjoy a sweet respite from the isolated gloom when, without warning, rhymes began to bloom

Reminding me it's winter - a sudden chill on breeze yet when green leaves return to decorate the trees and scen ts from garden flowers invite the hum of bees Spring will return to bring an end to cold days, please?

Tree limbs stretched out white and bare discarded leaves lie strewn everywhere stark naked now, bare branches bore no shame but proudly exposed naked limbs the same As I wandered through the garden of the rose remembered summer scents that pleased my nose and smiled at scent of perfume from my clothes

Naked Winter Jo Carpignano

Leaves on rose stems – not yet quite bare reminded me of blooms in multitudes to spare rose blossoms plump, and rich in colors rare

Spring weaves her wedding gown

This stately bride is proud white crown with veil above in trees, white garden spreading out below Enjoy this lovely thing that flows the wedding dress of Spring

As branches bloom to decorate the trees

Spring Bride Jo Carpignano

White blossoms form her crown and then the eye moves down below the crown a veil of cream and green

But look beneath the budding tree where garden flowers bloom into a flowing floral gown

An amateur, my writing is a hodge podge: essay, poems, and the inevitable memoirs. I have been fortunate in submissions to the San Mateo Literary Arts Fair, and have had work published in “Carry The Light” and “Fault Zone”

MARY HENEGHAN

I came to writing exceedingly late in years. Following retirement, in 2008 I moved to San Jose to avoid the perilous Michigan winters. As any sane person would do. In 2014, for health reasons, I moved to San Bruno, and to my delight ‘discovered’ the San Bruno Senior Center and the Thursday Writing NotGroup.aparticularly social woman I lived way out in the bush in Michigan the Thursday meetings were a wonderful introduction to my new city. The members were smart, literary people with kind hearts. I hold in deep affection members who no longer attend: Dave, Mary Stella, Greg, and Bardi, the Director Fine Arts Galleria (San Mateo), whose high caliber standards were reflected in their witty, imaginative and beguiling work.

34 Mary Heneghan

In England, V.E. Day (Victory over Europe) was a great day. I remember hearing everyone talking about it and seeing huge alphabet letters in the newspapers. We’d been evacuated to the countryside; our house and car were demolished by the Lufthansa. To the adults, it wasn’t a surprise. Birmingham was on the edge of the Black Country, the heart of the Industrial Revolution. Coventry, thirty miles away, was a major supplier in the war effort, and, like Dresden, was destroyed by saturation bombing. Now we lived on the second floor and attic of a requisitioned Victorian house, and I was in a new school, and all the kids talked about was the street party for V.E. Day. I’d no idea what V.E. Day was, but someone said “No more bombing”, so that’s why everybody was happy.

my mother would walk to Moseley, the next district, and take a bus to Small Heath, I’d no idea why. One Sunday, she made sure we had clean face and hands and we walked with her. It was a long way to the bus and I probably whined. She said we were going to visit Granny and Grandpa. I said, Who? and she said, “My mother and Father”. That really seemed funny to me. She was a grown up, how could she have parents.

After the bus, more walking and then she said: “We’re here. Mind your manners”, and rang the bell. A lady answered and we walked down a narrow hallway into a sitting room. Mommy introduced each of us to another lady who sat in the middle of the couch, parallel to the fireplace. She had white hair and was kind of plump and I was to kiss her cheek. Michael, my brother, did the same, then we repeated with the man sitting on one of the dining room chairs at the table by the window. He had a very bald head and wore a three piece suit and a marvelous striped shirt. It had a shiny hard collar that you could put on and off, sort of like a necklace.

Actually, I didn’t get to go to the party, Mommy said no. Now I know why: husband overseas in service for over four years already, four children to care for, and teaching at the local, abysmally funded, Catholic Elementary school. Food required coupons, and with three growing boys, was scarce in our house. Even bread required coupons; there was nothing to spare, let alone provide for Some“parties”.Sundays

Grandpa was more comfortable in the shop than when sitting formally with Granny. There, he didn’t wear a suit or that delicious collar, and rolled up his sleeves. To keep them up, he wore tiny metal armbands, like small sized slinkies. He and Michael liked each other. Mike especially liked being greeted by Grandpa, who always asked, “And what school are you in now?”, as if it changed every few months. Mommy said that when our house was bombed Grandpa was under the kitchen table and had been hit by shattered glass. She didn’t tell me which house he was in, but I see now it must have been his, otherwise he wouldn’t be still alive.

“Why on earth not?”, I said, more loudly than necessary. “Well,” my mother said: “Some time later I asked her why, and she said, ‘Oh, I just couldn’t’”. Evasive, self serving, and also cruel; but I need to remember: Granny was born in the nineteenth century amid the strictures of Victorian society, when it seems that women were simply puppets with charm. Young women who could afford the surgery would have their lower two ribs removed in order to satisfy the requirement of a “wasp waist”: nineteen inches was desirable. My mother would repeat on occasion, “You must suffer if you want to be beautiful”; brain washing takes many forms. Children were to be “Seen but not heard”, those who could afford it sent their male children, when seven years old, to boarding school for the majority of the year. For the less fortunate, females began work in the cotton mills at

We weren’t told when he died, but did know when Granny died sometime later. Much was withheld from children in those days. Years later, I learned some of the hidden aspects of family life. In fact, I’d been married, given birth, and was living in a far country when, on a visit home, my mother’s seemingly inconsequential remark set my world askew. God Knows, we were not talking about sex; no one talked about sex in that household. The Catholic Church, like many others of Christian persuasion, was granite faced about sex and the control of members’ bodies. Here’s what my mother said, “You know, I wasn’t told about the facts of life (her euphemism) when I got married”. I was horrified. There’s a rather famous story about that very happenstance and its lasting effects.

So, this was Granny and Grandpa. We sat quietly and listened as Mommy talked to Granny. My mother seemed a bit strange, subdued, I’d say now. Granny didn’t say much, and the lady who answered the door served cups of tea. Turned out she was my Aunt Margaret, not a servant, though over the years I found that was the role Granny seemed to favor for her. In fact, once I was grown up, and reflected to my mother that my aunt was very attractive: blond hair, blue eyes, lovely smile, why had she not married? Her answer: Margaret was told by her mother that her duty, as the youngest, required she stay single and look after her parents. Granny had also told my mother that she should go to work at fourteen to support the family. It was only when the church intervened, in the form of Father Drinkwater, who saw Teresa’s potential, and persuaded Granny to permit her to be trained as a teacher. After he died, my mother would visit his grave and say a prayer.

We went again to Granny’s house on several occasions and found we liked Grandpa a lot. He had a deep voice, a bristly mustache and wore metal framed glasses. Best of all, he had a workshop in the yard, next to the outside lavatory. He was a retired cabinet maker and his trade was carpentry, so his tiny shop was filled with a workbench and wonderful smells: pots of brown stuff, stains and paints were shelved opposite the bench. His tools hung on the wall over the bench: shiny saws, each for a specified use, awls, drills and bits ranging in size from thumb to forearm, files, both delicate and coarse, and the huge wooden block planes which rested, like sleeping animals, on the workbench. All for hand use of course.

36 that age, picking up dropped wool from beneath the moving looms, while small boys collected the coals dropped along the rail lines, down in the mines.

It seems important to extend understanding which I believe promotes compassion to my grandmother. During the Depression my grandfather couldn’t find work in their small northern town. The family was forced to move south to Birmingham, a tough, industrial, unknown. Granny left behind her own extended family and friends and, no longer young, had to learn new skills, lacking their support. It marked her.

Hilda Ayala

Hilda is relatively new to creative writing and has embraced it enthusiastically. Her favorite writing topics are recollections of her childhood, her family, her mother, her past teaching career, and some reflections on being a bilingual immigrant. She also writes about current events, politics, and hobbies such as reading, knitting, running, and walking. She hopes to gather enough material for a book of her memoirs and to share her written accounts and family history with her Hildagranddaughter.feelsthat topics chose her, and often while on a long hike, she will encounter an idea for a poem or a piece of fiction, and she’ll let it germinate until she’s ready to sit at the computer and transfer her thoughts into the digital page. She has discovered memoir writing is her favorite format, for it allows her to rescue stories from her childhood in Chile to share with her granddaughter Francisca. After retiring, Hilda attended a Creative Writing class at Skyline College. She and the students in the class greatly benefited from the professor’s encouragement to expand their writing and try genres, such as poetry, fiction, and drama. She also attended an intensive Memoir Workshop at the Writing Salon and profited from an abundance of skilled instruction and writing inspiration and reinforcement.Shehasattended the weekly Crystal Springs Writers Group workshops for about four years. She enjoys reading everyone’s writing and feels she’s learning from a diversity of themes and writing styles. She finds everyone in the group not only highly talented when it comes to writing, very helpful in making suggestions for revision, but also immensely supportive and encouraging.

The Rehearsal The 2018 Crystal Springs Dance Ensemble AHildaTributeAyala

The Dancers Dancer 1 silentl y begins her warm up routine. Her movements display loveliness and assurance that reveal her Russian training. She's a skilled dancer whose physical strength, endurance, and passion equal those with life long experience. Famous for her turns, many envy her ability to flawlessly resume a demanding routine after completing several turns, a feat other dancers may hesitate to attempt.

Dancer 3, whose petite frame may signal fragility to some, possesses the suppleness, strength, and endurance equal to and often superior to many fellow dancers. Her eclectic training in assorted dancing styles allows her to attune herself to the group's vast and varied repertoire. The unassuming nature of her motions and the beauty and simplicity of her style demonstrate self assurance, displaying attributes not easily accomplished in any art area.

As rehearsal time approaches, the dancers arrive at the studio. Anticipation and excitement mixed with a bit of trepidation are almost palpable. The dancers file into the large rehearsal room carrying their bags containing ballet shoes and dancing gear. Their concentration is apparent by the ease with which they change into their rehearsal clothes without inhibition or modesty, readying themselves for what promises to be a lengthy and physically demanding workout. The room is silent, with everyone focused on the immediate tasks. The accompanist sits at the piano, looking over the sheet music, and although the choreographer has not yet arrived, everything is in place for the rehearsal to begin. Reminiscent of a Degas painting, the dancers approach the barre and start their warm up routines, testing the limits of their bodies strength and flexibility. The mirror covered walls create a kaleidoscope of color and movements. Each dancer brings their inimitable and unique credentials, promising the audience a memorable future performance.

Dancer 2's princely looks, quiet, elegant, and some would say his aloof demeanor does not diminish his passionate and intense performance. An experienced dancer who has trained and performed in stages worldwide always returns to his Northern California roots to reconnect with the Pacific Ocean. Before and after a performance, whenever the location allows it, his routine includes a short barefoot sprint on the beach followed by a brief meditation in harmony with the ocean.

Watching Dancer 10's ease and fluidity of movement, one can only conclude he was destined to dance. His passion and sense of romance are evident in the way he approaches each piece. Since losing his life long dance partner, he has transitioned into solo dancing with the poise, composure, and charm of a dancer whose love for his craft takes precedence over earthly matters. His high extension leaps and turns are celebrated by his fellow dancers and acclaimed by audiences.

The Rehearsal When the choreographer arriv es, the dancers move toward the center of the room. Their eyes lock, and in no time, they are lost in their art. The music becomes not only what guides them but what drives their emotion as a corps. Their physical beauty, ease of movement, love of the dance, and interpretative skills, can only be communicated to their audiences through the dancers' ability to become a single unit.

Dancer 11 exudes goodwill, generosity, and a sense of humor. Her loud and deep laughter adds the perfect release at the end of rehearsal. She is a master of her craft. Knowledgeable, creative, disciplined Dancer 11 injects her love of mystery novels into her performance, reminding her fellow dancers that ballet pieces are like thriller plots where twists, turns, leaps, and pirouettes will eventually lead to the truth.

W HAT I EXPECT OF THE RAIN saturate the night delight the morning quench the rivers satiate the oceans rush down streets roam country roads nurture puddles for small feet paint the forest green appease displeasures tame singrenovateexcessesmysoulmeabedtime lullaby lighten my load silence my fears smooth my rough edges celebrate life LO QUE ESPERO DE LA criarvagarcorrersaciaraplacardeleitarsaturarLLUVIAlanochelamañanalosríoslosocéanosporlascallesporelcampocharcosparapies pequeños pintar de verde el bosque apaciguar disgustos amansar excesos renovar mi alma arrullarme como canción de cuna aliviar mis cargas acallar mis miedos pulir mis bordes á speros alabar la vida

It was his good fortune that a writing group existed in the community where he lives, “The Crystal Springs Writers.” He joined the San Bruno group in the later months of 2015. His writing improved, aided by the group’s members critiquing. He sometimes writes poetry, but has to be inspired, either by love or by sorrow. He is in the process of writing a four-chapter book. Two are complete. The other two chapters are in limbo interrupted by other writing projects, most notably a booklet of poems and short stories. Most of his writing is a departure from regular prose, taking on the unique form of Sue’s imagined diary, using her voice. Love and sorrow combined to inspire him to write a was Sue’s book. His writings are founded on personal experience, with guessing based on research to fill out the narrative. His writing style is to be truthful, and inject humor when possible/appropriate. His writing is suggestive, revealing enough detail that the reader’s imagination or knowledge will delight or disgust them drawing them into the story. He bids you welcome.

His first serious writing was handwritten letters to his wife, Sue. When his wife died, he wrote a letter of appreciation to his doctor thanking her for her sympathy and caring. The doctor commented that his writing was raw, and suggested he take up writing. He later joined a hospice group, “Writing through Loss.” The leader of the group, an author, encouraged him to take up writing seriously. The purpose of the hospice group is to ease the pain of bereavement using objective writing. The main idea is to get in touch with your true feelings, be they anger, sadness, relief, hostility, despair, regret, etc. Not all your thoughts will get on paper, but during the writing, your mind will be flooded with memories good and bad. Eventually, at a time, only the writer will recognize the pain will subside.

Robert Johansen

There were three fish species in the Portneuf that I could identify, Rainbow trout, easily identifiable by their tapered nose and brightly colored sides. Carp, a large bottom feeder that I only saw trapped in pools after a spring flood. Then there were Suckers, a bottom feeder whose fleshy lipped mouth under its blunt nose grovels through the muck, sucking up tiny morsels and expelling mud. I didn't fish for food. I never ate them. Fishing's for fun. Suckers have many fine bones, and they taste muddy. My father may have eaten the trout, but they had to be caught close to lunch or dinner. Fish spoil within hours of being caught, and we didn't have a refrigerator. If I caught something, it usually ended up in a hole as fertilizer for a rosebush or some other plant. One day, close to noon, I caught a Sucker. I ran to the house to show my mother the prize. Mr. Smith, the hired hand for neighbor Grady, would eat Suckers, and at my mother's direction, I took the fish to Mr. Smith.

Our neighborhood was an extended family. Every parent was your parent. They would tell you to quit throwing rocks and be careful playing in the street. You'd better go home now. It's getting dark. There were many children on the farms, but they were six years older than me, close to my Brother Johnny's age. My brother didn't mind me "tagging along," but his playmates objected and would tell me the bear was out of the park and I had better run for home. I had two options I could stay at home and play, or I could play with the Grady girls next door. I didn't play with the Grady girls much. Pretending to eat mud pies and drink lemonade, they insisted on calling something else wasn't my cup of tea. Most of the time, I stayed at home playing under a big Chinese Elm tree, digging holes, making motor noises, and building a mini play farm with salvaged wood.

At the river, my father had a large irrigation pump on skids that he would lower or raise to follow the water level. The pump platform was the place for a boy whose first consideration was comfort. A few weeks after the spring runoff, the river would fill to the brim and be at a depth of two feet of clear water. The pump motor was a perfect place to sit as I dangled bait in front of the fish I could see. I anxiously watched as my prey nibbled at the bait.

Suckers and Creamed Corn by Robert “Bob” Johansen

There was another activity I could do to my heart's content. I could fish in the Portneuf River. I was great at fishing, bad at catching. Equipment was a problem. I only had fishhooks. Part of the wonder of growing up without things is making them. I needed a long stick, something flexible. Willow bushes grew along the riverbank, and with a hatchet, I cut a branch about four feet long. After stripping it of small limbs and leaves, I had a fishing pole. My mother provided white cotton string for the fishing line that I tied to the end of the pole. After several tries, I coaxed the twine through the fishhook eyelet. Getting bait was the simple part. Digging anywhere in the farm's fertile soil would provide worms. With a shovel and an empty can to hold bait, I dug up enough worms for an hour or two of fishing.

Mr. Smith was a short, thin, dark man. I don't know where he was from, but working in the hot Idaho sun would turn your skin nearly black. I heard a rumor that he had been a merchant seaman. He lived on a small plot of land in a one room house surrounded by a barbed wire fence. It gave him some privacy and kept the cows from the adjacent pasture away from his home and garden. His little abode was immaculate. In the corner furthest from the door was a single made up twin bed with a plain bedspread. Near the center of the room was a small dining table with two chairs. The house had the luxury of a sink, but the facilities were outside.Around noon, I knocked on Mr. Smith's door. He invited me in and, after a few minutes, asked if I would join him for lunch. "I'd have to get permission," I said and ran for home. In less than ten minutes, I was back. Mr. Smith had a pot of water boiling and was cleaning the fish. "Will you please go out to the garden and pick two big ears of corn," Mr. Smith said. The garden was nearly as neat as the house. I found two big ears on a nearby stock and ran back to the house. The fish was clean, and I could smell fat in the cast iron skillet getting hot. Mr. Smith quickly pulled the silk from the corn and plunged them into boiling water. The Sucker in the pan sizzled, crisping its sides. "Set the table, please. The dishes are on the counter," he said. He pulled the corn from the pot and began cutting off the kernels. What was he doing, I wondered. He put the corn in a small pan, adding ingredients and stirring. It smelled good. "Why don't you sit there?" he said, pointing to a chair. I sat and waited. The fish was on a big plater along with some boiled potatoes that he sat on the table. Where did the potatoes come from, I wondered. Mr. Smith sat down and said, "Help yourself." I took a potato, cut it in two, and slathered it with butter. "Have some fish and corn," Mr. Smith invited. "No, thank you," I said. "Have you ever had creamed corn? He asked. "No. I've never heard of creamed corn," I said. "Would you like a taste? That would be the polite thing to do," he said with a wink. "Okay," I said. He put a small spoonful on my plate. I cautiously dipped my fork into the sauce and tasted. Not bad. Maybe I'll eat two kernels. A couple of kernels tasted better. As good as ice cream, maybe. Mr. Smith wasn't eating. He smiled, watching me. "Would you like some more?" he asked. "Just a little," I lied. Mr. Smith knew and gave me a generous portion. Mr. Smith started eating his lunch. Every once in a while, I'd see a grin creep across his face. After lunch, Mr. Smith thanked me for the fish and joining him for lunch. "We should do this again sometime," he said. "Okay," I said. "Bye. I liked your corn, Mr. Smith. Thank you."

by Robert “Bob” Johansen Boyd Groesbeck and I hunted rabbits south of Pocatello in an area now known as Johnny Creek Development. Boyd and I, two sixteen year olds, were on our way towards Judge Baum's Ranch at the end of Johnny Creek road. We often hunted the area but had never gone as far as the ranch. As we walked toward the ranch, to our left, a "bench" gently sloped toward the valley. A bench is a local term describing the gently sloping flat land from the mountains toward the valley. On this "bench" was a large herd of elk. Near the lower end was a big bull elk, the obvious leader. He looked like he had been through a car wash, rubbed down, then waxed. Walking with his head held high, he sniffed the air with confidence, not arrogance. I have held on to that image for over sixty years. He was magnificent. I hope he lived a long life because he would have fathered many beautiful animals. When we got to the ranch, we said hi to two men in their late teens or early twenties. I think I know who they were, but I’m not positive. They worked on the fence on the north side of the property and left some tools there. They asked Boyd and me if we'd ride along the fence and retrieve them. Neither Boyd nor I owned horses, and we rode whenever we had the opportunity. We said, "Sure." We rode either bareback or saddled, and today it was bareback. We rode along the fence until we found and retrieved the tools. When we got back to the barn, they asked us to do them another favor: would we round up the horses that got out of the corral after leaving the gate open? "Sure," but this was a one man job, and I got it. "Fine," they said, "we'll get you a fresh horse." They got me a retired circus horse. They explained the horse would go faster, urged on by me. They didn't tell me that the horse wouldn't slow down without the proper commands. I started fast. No big deal, I'll steer toward the loose horses. What became immediately apparent is that you can't herd horses at full gallop. They separated a few feet as I rode toward them and watched me go by. I thought I might as well take this horse back to the barn. The horse was running as fast as it could, and I was trying desperately to slow it down. Who o o a Nelly was not working. I was pulling back on the reins so hard that the horse's mouth was against its chest, and my head bounced on the animal's rump. Nothing changed, but we were going in the right direction. As we approached the barn, I saw a barbed wire fence directly in front of us. We were going full speed, and the two clowns that sent me on this ride were sitting on a wooden fence about to fall off from laughing. The horse saw the fence and planted all four feet, with its rump sliding on the ground. I have no idea how I got off that horse. I ended up alongside the horse, flat on my back, with the reins in my hand, no bumps, no scratches, no bruises, nothing.Boyd and I got our guns, waved a not too fond farewell, and walked home no worse for wear.

Horsing Around Idaho

Marriage by Robert “Bob” Johansen

The mountain thrusts into the sky as pressure builds

Jagged edges erode Fine particles fill the cracks and fissures

It climbs higher Clouds form

The mountain begins to soften and settle

The temperature drops snow follows Wind blows away the sharp edges from the larger pinnacles completely removing the smaller ones

Grass grows

Soil forms Winds blow seeds onto new soil

Marriage is like two tectonic plates pushing against each other

They rise to form a high jagged mountain with many pinnacles, large and small

Birds attracted to seeds bring life

The mountain is taking on a new look

It isn’t threatening It is Treespeacefulgrow

Animals of all kinds make their home on the contented mountain

Plates that formed the mountain have bonded

The marriage has become a single identity

At a table that is not there drink from glasses that are not there drink from cups that are not there travel everywhere to places that are not there go by plane, train, bus, cars that are not there

There by Robert “Bob” Johansen sit on chairs that are not there

With your head on my shoulder lie on a bed that is not there lie on the beach that is not there kiss your hair that is not there caress your back that is not there There is no there. love is …

I awaken

49 LUCRETIA LEONG

Lucretia Leong with her two grandchildren in Hawaii in July 2022. The ever spreading roots of the banyan tree serve as a backdrop.

Lucretia Leong is from Hawaii. She moved here in 2015 and considers California her home, sort of, anyway. She has a need to write, but finds it to be a hard and painful process. Like going to the dentist or trying to lose weight. It takes rigor, discipline and organization to write well. It would be more enjoyable to lounge on the beach in Waikiki watching the waves lapping on the shore and licking at a Lappert’s ice cream cone. But being raised a Catholic and having gone to Catholic schools all her life, she cannot cast herself away with carefree abandon.

On another note, the pandemic has made a big difference in her life. While sheltering in place, Lucretia found great comfort in the company and presence of her dear dachshund Palehua. In January 2022, her dog of 18 years passed away. Since the pandemic, Lucretia has given up group activities such as ping pong and hula. She now goes on peaceful, solitary walks and swims regularly at her Rec Center pool. After sheltering in place for what seemed an eternity, she now values and appreciates her interaction with other people more than ever.

Lucretia has taken up watercolor painting again after a long hiatus of many years and is experimenting with a loose method of painting. She wants to achieve a dream like painting where the colors meld and blend like clouds and rainbows in the sky. But this looseness does not come easily. Like her writing, she has to work hard towards making her painting fresh and spontaneous. Who would have believed that spontaneity is not so spontaneous? Oh, life is so full of dilemmas and contradictions! But we have no recourse but to march onward like good Christian soldiers.

This Traverse may the poorest take Without oppress of Toll How frugal is the Chariot

That bears the Human Soul Emily Dickinson

To take us Lands away Nor any Coursers like a Page Of prancing Poetry

The Power of the Pen

There is no Frigate like a Book

From the time I was a first grader and learned to read from the Dick and Jane series, there was no stopping me. From See Spot Run, I kept running with books and became an inveterate bookworm. I carried a book with me everywhere and my head was always buried in it. There were so many wonderful stories, not only the classic ones like Little Women, Little House on the Prairie, and Anne Of Green Gables, but also the Trixie Belden and the Nancy Drew series. I was also riveted to the comics in the Star Bulletin, Hawaii’s daily newspaper. As soon as the evening paper arrived, I snatched it before anyone else and thumbed quickly to the cartoon page. I had to read about the continuing saga of Penny Pringle, who had the cheekbones of Kathryn Hepburn and Dick Tracey’s jawline, Dr. Rex Morgan with his somewhat blue hair depending on the inking process that day, and the wise Mary Worth with her silver white hair. These comic strips made my day as they satisfied my need for entertainment, intrigue and suspense.Chang Store on School Street, my neighborhood mom and pop grocery, was full of delights. I stood in front of their gigantic glass display case deciding whether I yearned for the white edible paper of the White Rabbit or the circular Flicks that melted in my mouth. I also craved for the chewiness of Look or Big Hunk candy bars. Mrs. Chang waited impatiently for me to make up my mind. She was always relieved to have another customer at the counter to get her mind off her irritation at waiting on young kids. With my quarter in hand, I still didn’t know whether I wanted crack seed or li hing mui. I pondered if I would have enough left for a soda pop. After I decided on my snacks, I lay them on the counter and walked to the back of the store where on the wall were rows of magazines and the store’s most treasured items: comic books. I had eclectic tastes in comics. I loved both the romance and the kiddies ones at the same time. I’d carry my precious selections to the counter and put down my quarter next to my other purchases. I went home happy in spite of Mrs. Chang’s stern downturned mouth and frowns which seemed to be permanently etched in her granite face.

Chewing on the goodies I purchased, I filled my head with notions of idealized love from the romance comics. The men were modern day Prince Charmings of olden days. But I was also delighted by the childish antics of the little folks in Little Lulu, Richie Rich, and Little Audrey. The Archie and Veronica comics with their friends Betty and Jughead let me dream of a future, glorious high school life.

I had a movie projector going in my brain whenever I read a book. I often saw scenes played out before my eyes as my own camera spanned the horizons taking in the landscape, characters, and people’s voices. I heard the sounds of nature and voices of the characters as it played before me. As I read from the printed page, the voices I heard spoke standard American English and not the pidgin dialect that surrounded me in my local Hawaiian environment. Most of what I read was written by authors from America or England, and the actors I listen to in the movies were from Hollywood. My daily speech sounded foreign compared to the films I saw and the words on the printed page. As a young child whose life was not filled with exciting activities, books transported me to other climes. My readings made the mundane and often unpleasant events in life palatable and gave me hope, joy, and promise. Books, cartoon strips, comic books, and movies were my good friends. I preferred stories with a happy ending which made me predisposed to stories to an all’s well that ends well conclusion. To this day, when an ending is sad, tragic or open ended, I feel let down in spite of recognizing the literary qualities of the book or the excellent acting in the film.

“The pen is mightier than the sword” is an adage coined by the English author Edward Bulwer Lytton in 1839. When our 45th POTUS took office, I stopped listening to NPR and watching my two favorite news shows, PBS NewsHour and Democracy Now. I couldn’t stand listening to news about the ex POTUS, hearing his voice, or seeing him on TV. Later I didn’t want to hear or see anything about the

With the same gusto that I slurped down the alphabets of Campbell’s Vegetable Soup, I devoured the vowels and consonants in the wonderful world of comics and books. As a child I was left to fend for myself. My mother who had married at an early age was now divorced and spent her time enjoying the fun years she felt had been lost to her. My two brothers lived with my father, a stern, callous man, whom I hardly saw. My grandparents were the overseers in my life. My grandfather was a kind, gentle man who I loved dearly, but my grandmother was a religious firebrand who scolded and punished me severely. Liliha Theatre, the neighborhood movie house was my refuge. I went to the movies a lot, three to four times a week by myself, and sometimes with my grandfather. Movies like comics and books filled my mind with adventure, romance, and wondrous awe.

Jon said that reading the news about our ex president or about the decisions by the Supreme Court was polarizing my viewpoints further. He said that when you read about something as opposed to hearing it on the radio or watching it on TV, it makes a deeper and lasting impression on you. Your mind is more actively engaged when you read from the printed page as opposed to listening or viewing it. I realized he was right. I was reading The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Guardian, and CNN online, which are sources that have a liberal slant. And here I believed I was protecting myself from anger and resentment. My viewpoints were getting more fully entrenched in my mind. Besides not viewing the news on TV, radio, or podcasts, I am judicious in selecting my reading materials. Since the invention of the Gutenberg Press, the printed word is still the most powerful communication device.

three Supreme Court judges he nominated. I had just assumed that reading about the news was a more digestible and tame way of keeping up with current events without getting myself riled up. One day I mentioned this to my son Jon who is a wise old man in disguise. As a young child, he had insight into things beyond his years.

DELORES MAE WOODS HUAJARDO 11, 2022 Biography

August

I attended the excellent public schools in Cincinnati after we moved there from my birth town of Portsmouth, Ohio. After graduation from high school, I was the secretary in a K 8 school for two years before attending a small Presbyterian school, Maryville College in Tennessee. My exposure to choral and religious music as a member of the a cappella touring choir began my hobby of singing.

Woods Huajardo

MAGIC MOMENTS IN FLIGHTDelores

This time we were the only people in the cabin without any paying passengers in this, my favorite airplane, the latest and final model of the L1049, the Lockheed Super G Constellation. Such great power emanated from four 3400 horsepower Wright turbo cyclone engines allowing shorter flight times and luxurious comfort with smoother flights to domestic and international destinations. The fuselage was shaped in the form of swimming sea creatures or the bodies of birds in flight and the three vertical tail stabilizers provided a steady comfortable ride. TWA, under Howard Hughes’ ownership, purchased 28 of the more fuel efficient Super “Connies” from 1954 until the turbo jets and Boeing 707 jet (which I also worked) appeared on the scene several years at the end of that decade. Our special unique assignment was known as “ferrying the airplane” to another city where it was needed for a commercial or charter flight. Sometimes during thunder stormy weather a flight is diverted to another airport and an empty plane must be sent, after the weather clears, to assume the schedule of the diverted aircraft. During this “ferry” flight I delivered coffee to the crew and stayed to chat with them. Sometimes they liked sharing information about the aircraft, instruments and the flight assignment we were on, if we were interested. I always was curious about everything to do with flying. As I was about to excuse myself and return to the cabin, Randy, the Captain, asked if I would like to sit in his seat to FLY THE PLANE? I gulped with surprise at such an unexpected and unique opportunity, but resumed my composure and eagerly said I would love to.

A series of magic moments occurred when another flight attendant and I were scheduled with a delightful crew of a first officer, a co pilot and a flight engineer. This was a very special assignment and because Detroit was a small base for TWA, I had flown with this pilot on quite a few trips. In these very popular days of commercial passenger flights many crews worked entire assignments together providing opportunities to have meals together in famous restaurants in a destination city and also working the return flight as a crew team.

A footnote to this story is that my father John Edward Woods was an electrician at the Wright Aeronautical Engine Plant in Cincinnati which produced engines for the bombers used in the Second World War. He had a fear of flying and would not use my passes issued to parents. My adventurous Mother Ceora Duke (Haney) Woods, however, flew a couple of trips one on TWA to visit me in San Francisco and later a flight on Delta Airlines when I moved her to Millbrae where she lived the last four years of her 95 year old life.

So I carefully slid into the beautiful, new leather seat opposite the smiling co pilot. Randy told me to go ahead and try the stick, as the steering mechanism is called. He gave me some rudimentary instructions and urged me to pull or push the stick to cause the airplane to ascend or descend. I gingerly did so and will never forget the excitement of those few fifteen or so magic moments of powerful control flying that marvelous aircraft. The plane could have been set on automatic pilot which, if so, I must have gently overridden; but that didn’t occur to me until later, allowing me to embrace the soaring feelings I was enjoying in the moment.

MAGIC DECEMBER MOMENTSDeloresWoods Huajardo

A special young man I knew in Detroit had arrived in Boston with a visiting German fellow friend of his who was as eager as I for an adventure in New York City. The three of us traveled together arriving in NYC late in the afternoon. It had snowed the day before our arrival, and it was an abundant dry snow which had remained clean and white on the sides of the streets and sidewalks where it had been shoveled.

Ledges of buildings, park benches, bushes and trees were still adorned in the beautiful snow that made the entire scene look like the proverbial winter wonderland.

We toured the City on foot around Rockefeller Center, St. Patrick’s Cathedral and ended up in a shopping district busy with bustling customers visiting the shops and stores which were decorated with sparkling, brightly colored lights and merchandise temptingly displayed. Christmas music was playing, a portly Santa Claus was ringing his hand bell soliciting funds for those less fortunate and we were having a delightful time in conversation as we continued our tour in the darkness that had gradually closed in on us and made the City seem even more inviting and intimate. Then as if on cue from a perfect commanding film director, the most glorious snow began to fall around and on us. The fluffy kind of snowflakes that rested on our eyelashes, warm coats, knit hats and cozy gloves. To accompany this perfect movie scene, we turned a corner and came upon a street vendor in his black costume with a black chef’s hat, his cheeks pink from the cold, and wearing a cheery smile while roasting chestnuts on a live fire. Of course our host had no trouble enticing us to taste some and I had never experienced chestnuts before. Well, let me hasten to tell you, I have prepared them many times since that night, but none ever tasted as good as those. This was the perfect closing scene as in an expertly directed romantic 1950 movie. We three shared these beautiful, Magic December moments that are as vivid to me today as when they were lived so many years ago. I am extremely grateful for these and many other magic moments in my blessed life. Thank you for this opportunity to share my memories with you.

In the spring of 1959 I had transferred from our TWA Airline flight attendant base in Detroit to our domicile in Boston. It was December, just a few days before Christmas, and I was scheduled to fly on that holiday as was my custom since I was far away from my family home in Cincinnati.

58 GRATITUDE Delores WoodsAugustHuajardo11,2022

shows which have ceased during the epidemic years are missed and will hopefully return soon. The opportunity to sing solos of specially selected, carefu lly chosen lyrics is healing for me, and several people are my special fans. Dear Bill Goff was one of them; I will miss his quiet manner cheering me on and I will think of him when I next perform here.

Karaoke class with Manny (Our Elvis) as the leader met weekly until it too was shut down. These sessions kept our voices fit for work at other venues and were fun to experiment singing new material or various interpretations of a song.

In exactly two weeks I will be 90 years old, and I was processing the things I love about being in these famously called Golden Years.

The courage to try new and different things at the San Bruno Senior Center, such as this class of creative writers, is at the top of my list. Following closely is the weekly Line Dancing Class with fabulous teacher Kathy Schmidt and Joe our wonderful disc jockey accompanying her. Next is being in the Bocce (Ball) league of four team players and improving my skills. The live musical groups that play for us are excellent and lots of dancing ensues with a partner or alone on the dance floor with other Ourfriends.variety

Having subsidized lunches at $3.00 with friends at the Center always hits the spot and I constantly wonder how so many meals can be served at one time with well prepared, moist food and special varied menus. The volunteer cooks, including Raoul Epling are very talented, and generous to share their talents and time along with the volunteer servers who even accommodate our special requests such as “no cheese, please.”

There are so many things and people to show gratitude for. My excellent health, my special nurse practitioner Therese Grenchik who helps me with advice and always refers me to experts when needed for special check ups. My expert eye physician/surgeon, Dr. Susan Longar, who removed cataracts and installed excellent new lenses which do not require that I wear any glasses, though she recommends sunglasses to protect especially one eye. A film called a pterygium which could cause blindness should it grow over the cornea was surgically removed and a preventive

59 implant material was placed in the inside corner of my left eye. Dr. Susan is a remarkable doctor and healer. I am grateful for the people in this writing group who are critiquing my work and sharing your life experiences and observations through your unique creative writings, poems and amazing life experiences. Thank you, Bill, for suggesting that you thought I might enjoy this writing experiencegrouphow right you are

60 Show and Tell Billy Kaktis

Not elaborate, frontal view at a table, writing in a notebook. ImagineBiography:Iama grain of sand at Ocean Beach. I’m just an element in the scope of the universe. I like to use my God given talents and communicate with my heart and soul with fellow humans. In my older age being social and active is Perhapscritical. writing is the best way of expressing myself. And letting others know I think we all fit together. No more, no less. The tide goes in and out, the market up and down. With others’ help, I can thrive now and where I, with God’s help, will be navigating soon. I have faith I don’t need to carry anything on my back, it’s all between my ears and in my heart.

Some said it was an “old boy’s network” that kept us flowing in difficult times. I didn’t agree with this concept until I realized I was one of the “old boys.” It was the inside track for survival, and Bill steered the boat.

By Billy Kaktis

If you got sent to the bowels of the City, it was for good reason. Bill knew he could count on you for gathering the facts.

It will be quite a Celebration of Life later in August. You will never, ever be forgotten, Bill. The Bay Area needs more heat beats like you.

“This is your project budget”, Billy, he would say. Remember, you get 5 percent to arrive at a solution, the rest is for building the works. Don’t make it any more difficult than you have to. We’ve got a library full of books, communication tools and equipment. Which one of the boys and girls do you want for your team?”

“We’ve got the Giants, the 49ers, the Marathon and the Pride Parade coming up soon. Some are all at once. Are you ready for the challenge Billy? We’ve got the Mayor, Security, Traffic Control and Operations for help. The protestors will block Market St. all day today”. And with Bill’s guidance, I always believed we could make it all work. Maybe we could go home this weekend.

Perhaps the refinement he loved made the effort click. There’s always time for the symphony, drama and esoteric travel to smooth the brainwaves out. Then it’s back to the boards and conference rooms.

A Heartbeat in the Bay Area

The minute I was introduced to Bill, I knew this was the man to mentor me. Bill passed away, probably quietly, in July. When I was hired at San Francisco Muni, I was with Bill for over ten years.

Bill, always a UCal guy, would vault into San Francisco from the East Bay early in the morning, always on public transit. San Francisco is a “transit first” city, that’s our philosophy.TheConstruction Department at Muni had at its’ core an assemblage of managers, engineers, architects, technical experts and clerical. Under Bill’s lead, Tuesday mornings are reserved, gathering the minds of those people who promote their efforts to keep transit flowing. For example, Bill would say “Tell us about reversing electrical current flow, Billy. How will that allow the trains to run more efficiently?”It’shardly concrete. steel and mechanical power. Bill always instilled the human element as a primary factor for problem solving. How do we get a man across town at seven a.m. on time, and safely, so he can earn his living?

62 MARGARITA AGUIRREInAugust1949

I was born into the arms of two of the best parents, my father Gabriel Antonio who left his country of El Salvador to the US in 1941 and enlisted in the Army. While he served his time he never stopped writing beautiful poems and letters to my mother Yolanda Maria Schlesinger who joined him here in 1948. In fact, my father had hoped that one of his children would become a writer. With his GI loan and newly acquired citizenship he was interested in a new subdivision named Shoreview in San Mateo. They bought our newly built home in 1950 when I was a year old and my mother was expecting my sister Linda, followed by my brother Alfredo, sister Sylvia and brother Marco. All five of us Aguirre children couldn’t ask for a better childhood. My parents took us camping every year for not just a few days but two weeks at a time in beautiful parks. When I was about to turn 15 my parents took us to El Salvador, which is over a 6000 mile round trip, in our 1958 Oldsmobile Sedan. Two years later my parents drove us through the Pacific Northwest. My father took us on long vacations because it seemed Bethlehem Steel Co. was always on strike. We all went to San Mateo High School and College of San Mateo. I am grateful for my 2 years at CSM because I was involved in a new multi cultural program or commonly known as the CRP where I finally became so proud of my culture after all the bullying and other children’s comments of Latinos through my early school days made me ashamed of who I was. I then became an activist as did many college students in the late 60s and early 70s. In 1969 I started dating Carlo Costa (now known as Carlos). It’s funny; we both went to San Mateo High but didn’t know each other. He will always be an important and loved person in my life although we never married. I thought we were too young and immature when the best gift we could bring to the world was born in 1971. Our daughter Regina Justine, who later gave us two beautiful granddaughters, is part of my life of which I am most proud. I always loved secretarial work and held various positions, but in 1979 I was an office manager for a real estate appraisal company. My boss noticed I was catching on to appraising real fast, so he told me I could start doing appraisals if I pass the course at CSM. I did and became a full time appraiser in 1980. Because of harassment as well as other office politics I decided to work on my

63 own, which was known as a fee appraiser. Forty two years later I regret not working for a company or perhaps the County of San Mateo which would have guaranteed paid retirement. I fell in love with David Warren and lost him 8 years after our first conversation. I still miss him. I am fortunate to have a daughter and son law that care about me. I moved out of my rental of 25 years in Daly City when they bought their home in Colma 4 years ago. At least I’m not alone. Oh, we Aguirre “grown up” children still own the Shoreview home. My father’s last words to me were “please don’t ever sell our home because it could be a refu I remember writing in my journals at night because it always helped me sleep and now hope to continue writing.

Helga Hansen

Helga was only supposed to stay in the US for one year, but that didn’t happen, no matter how much her parents wanted her to come home. She loved it here and in 2008 became a proud US citizen after 48 years.

Coming to America, the journey of a 21 year old Helga was born in Germany but immigrated to the United States in 1960 after a friend found her a sponsor. She received her “Green Card” and left her family and her nice office job in Bonn, Germany, to become a domestic in Concord, Ma. She arrived at Boston Logan Airport on January 12. 1960 at 3:AM in the midst of a Blizzard where her sponsors were waiting for her. She had no idea what a domestic was since her mother always did the cooking, laundry, and cleaning. However, this changed in a hurry. She was shown to her room with her own bathroom, a luxury she never had before. She liked it a lot except that her room was next to the back door, which she had to use since the front door was off limits to her. After she was outfitted with a smart looking grey uniform, little lace apron, and all, she was good to go. Mrs. French, the sponsor, was very patient, especially since there was also a bit of a language barrier; it took some time. Helga wondered, all my English studies in school and all the private lessons, what good are they? She should have remembered that her private tutor was from Ireland. Anyway, after 18 months, she decided to leave Concord to go to San Francisco on a Greyhound bus. It took four days, but it was very interesting. She met a lot of nice people. However, her luggage was lost in Chicago. In Wyoming, she thought they were making a movie. After all, she had never seen real cowboys before.

Linda Chow

In 1989, the bank merged with the Bank of California (Bank Cal), San Francisco which was a big Bank in San Francisco. I became an advising/issuing clerk in the letter of Credit dept. I went to Skyline College, studied computer skills because of my position. I advised or issued L/C as per customer requirements, that was an exciting job for me. Unfortunately, the economy was bad, so, I lost my job at the end of 1999. In 2000, I was trained for many fields, I was a custodian in 2001.Iam a senior citizen, I am trying to get into the writing group in Crystal Springs Road Senior Center is my goal.

My name is Linda Chow. I came from Hong Kong, a British colony before 1997, Hong Kong was returned to People Republic of China (Mainland) from IBritain.n2019, I retired from San Francisco Unified School district in Lowell High School as a custodian for 15 years. The job was maintaining the school building, which included waxing, stripping the floor and vacuuming carpets. Also, I had to clean the restrooms as it was needed. The custodial job was not my first job. I worked at Mitsubishi Bank of California in San Francisco. The main office had several branches or liaisons in Los Angeles, and New York. I was a remittance clerk when I worked there. Then I was promoted to the Letter of Credit department (L/C), my job was retyping short messages into a standard format. I informed customers about terms. They prepared documents, and presented them to us. When terms and conditions were in order, the bank would transfer funds as per their instructions. They traded many financial products.

Dolores wanted to share her healing experience from writing; she started facilitating memoir writing classes at Lincoln Community Center and Doelger Senior Center in Daly City. Her classmate in French invited her to start a memoir writing class at the Cayuga Community Connectors in San Francisco. A year later, Dolores joined the San Francisco Lit quake Project. It was a twelve week program in poetry, epistolary, grieving, and memoir writing.

When she retired in May 2015, Dolores decided to write her memoir. She joined the Creative Writing Class at Crystal Springs Senior Center. Writing from the heart and using the right side of her brain became a new challenge for her.

For over forty years, Dolores wrote Standard Operating Procedures, current Good Manufacturing Practices, Validations, Nutrition Facts, Drug Facts, and Ingredient Statements for food, cosmetic, and OTC drug companies. She also wrote Certificates of Compliances to various global cosmetic regulations. They involved precise scientific, and regulatory languages that could not be subject to misinterpretation. Dolores got accustomed using the left side of her brain in her line of work in science and math.

Dolores also joined the San Mateo 50+ Memoir Writing class where the writers received weekly prompts to help trigger their memory.

DOLORES E. FIERRO WRITING BIOGRAPHY

After her breast cancer lumpectomy and radiation in 2016, Dolores joined Writing Through Cancer at the Bay Area Cancer Connections in Palo Alto. She found on the spot quick writing very powerful and cathartic. It activated her subconscious mind.

Dolores feels writing her memoir is an excellent way to look back into her past; mostly in gratitude for a fruitful life. She believes she followed a straight path which she thought might become a boring story, but Dolores finds snippets in her life that are intriguing. She writes about her experiences with people. Some, who lived exemplary lives, inspired her and some taught her not to follow their erring ways.

Unfortunately, in person classes at CCC, San Mateo, and Doelger Senior Center ended when COVID 19 pandemic broke out. The Palo Alto and San Bruno classes, however, continued online using the Zoom app.

Dolores writes when she wakes up in the middle of the night using her laptop. At four o'clock in the morning, after reading Give Us This Day, a book of daily prayers, she writes a reflection on any word, phrase or sentence that inspires her or triggers a memory; this she writes in a notebook.

Nanay Zolita had us change into shorts and tank tops she had made for my siblings and me. She also bought us some flip flops that matched our summer attire. My aunt shepherded us to the basement of her house and opened the heavy steel door that led us to her granduncle Hector's coconut orchard. With baskets of plastic containers in hand, we walked under the shade of coconut trees and some lanzones (Lansium domesticum), and banana trees. After walking for a few minutes, we came through a small clearing where a lady named Cely and her family were allowed to build a house and live on the property. Her husband and her son were sitting across from each other at the opposite ends of a long bamboo pole roasting a whole pig (Lechon) over live charcoal. The roast pig's glistening skin was reddish brown indicating that it was almost done. Nearby, was a large steel wok on top of a makeshift stove made with three big rocks. Steam was coming out of the cone shaped cover. Tia Cely was cooking annatto rice cake according to my aunt. “They sell Lechon and steamed rice cake for a living,” she told us. When she saw Tia Cely, she yelled, “These are my sister Meding's children.” Then she turned to Tia Cely's son who got up to baste the lechon with lemongrass water, “Can you cut us a couple of banana leaves from the tree? We're having a picnic.” He took a machete from their house, approached a nearby banana tree, and made a graceful swing with his machete to cut two young banana leaves and handed them to my aunt. Salamat , (thank you) my aunt said to Tia Cely's son. We proceeded to walk. My aunt held the banana leaves at the center ribs, one on each hand, taking care not to touch the ground. She looked like an angel with green wings. We started hearing the

After grilling the fish on the cast iron stove, making roasted eggplant salad, and cooking shrimp paste for the sliced green mangoes, my aunt packed them in Tupperware plastic containers. She also packed the sliced pineapples that my brother carefully peeled and seeded with a diagonal pattern.

By Dolores E. Fierro

It was 1959. My mother’s older sister Zolita who lived in Pagsanjan, forty miles from Carmona, the town where my parents raised all their children, sent for my siblings and me to spend the summer with her. A summer vacation with her meant going to the Protestant Church on Sundays and attending the Daily Vacation Bible School. But at the end of May, she let us participate in the Santacruzan, a Catholic procession.Thesummer would not be complete without a picnic by the river. Pagsanjan has a beautiful river with the famous waterfalls. My aunt said we would have a picnic, but everyone had to help her. She sent her husband, John, to catch tilapias from his mother’s fish pond, my brother, Romeo, to pick green mangoes and ripe pineapple from my great grand uncle’s orchard, and I had to cook rice in a clay pot.

PICNIC

69 sound of the water and feeling the warm breeze. The coconut orchard opened up to the majestic Pagsanjan River. The glistening sandy beach almost blinded our eyes. The sun was at peak heat. We couldn't have walked on the hot sand if we were not wearing flip flops. In the shallow part of the river were Nipa huts made with bamboo and Nipa palm leaves. Each hut had a table in the center surrounded by bamboo benches. We waded towards one of the unoccupied huts. My aunt lined the table with banana leaves which she wiped with a wet kitchen towel. We spread the Tupperware containers on top of the banana leaves and sat on the bamboo benches with our legs submerged in the water. Soon we were screaming because the fish started swimming between our legs. My aunt scooped the rice on the banana leaves which we used as plates. We helped ourselves to some fish and eggplant salad. In between, we took bites of the sour green mango dipped in alamang.We ate with gusto with our bare hands which we washed in the river. We enjoyed a simple meal, something my aunt would not serve in her fancy dining room, but it was her idea of a good picnic in the river. We ended our meal with the sweetest pineapple from our great granduncle’s backyard. After lunch, we dipped our faces in the water while holding on to the bamboo posts. None of us could swim, and the river had a fast current. I was nine, Sonia was seven, and Aida was five. We watched the fish and came face to face with them when our faces were underwater. On our way home, we stopped at Tia Cely's house to buy some pasingaw (steamed rice cake) for our merienda (afternoon snack) and two pounds of Lechon for our dinner.Myfamily picnics here in California, which usually include a watermelon prawn salad with feta cheese, BBQ pork ribs, and potato salad, do not come close to what we had in our 1959 river picnic.

70 Creative Writers Please join our group if you are interested in learning to write or improving your writing skills. Our group meets at the Crystal Springs Senior Center every Thursday from 10:00 12:00 for folks 50 years of age or older. Whether you wish to write family memoirs, a humorous piece, share insight or try your hand at poetry, you are welcome to attend. Each week, attendees share their work with others in the group who offer constructive criticism, encouragement, and above all, their experience in the craft of Thewriting.Crystal Springs Senior Center is located at 1555 Crystal Springs Road, San Bruno, CA. (650) 616 7150 Top Row: Mary Heneghan, Robert Johansen, Delores Huajardo, Hilda Ayala, Jerry Jayne, James, Billy Kaktis, Andy Ynostroza, Bottom Row: Dolores Fierro. Margarita Aguirre, Anne Jayne, Maria Elena Barre, Helga Hansen, Linda Chow

Crystal Springs Writers Summer and Fall 2022

Articles inside

CREATIVE WRITERS

Picnic 68

Literary Biography 66

LINDA CHOW

HELGA HANSEN

A Heartbeat in the Bay Area

MARGARITA AGUIRRE 62

Show and Tell

Gratitude 58

Magic Moments in Flight 55

Magic December Moments

Literary Biography

Literary Biography 49

The Power of the Pen 51, 52

Literary Biography

Horsing Around Idaho

The Crystal Springs Dance Academy 38 , 39

Autumn

Literary Biography

My Grandparents 34, 35

Literary Biography

A Little Girl Called May 25

Literary Biography

Summer Breeze

A garden of Stones

All I Knew of Love Then

May La Tejanita Cotton Princess Joins the Army 20, 21

A Personal Profile

Literary Biography

Take me Out to the Ball Game?

A Formative Summer 16, 17

Summing Up

Literary Biography 14

Heard A Whisper