Crystal Springs Writers

Crystal Springs Writers Spring 2020

Crystal Springs Senior Center 1555 Crystal Springs Road San Bruno, CA, 94066 COVID-19 Pandemic Issue

TABLE OF CONTENTS The Crystal Springs Creative Writers Introduction A Short History

1 2 3

ALLA V. LA GRAVE Literary Biography

4

ANDY YNOSTROSA Literary Biography

5

ANN LONGKNIFE Literary Biography

6

SUE COBIAN Literary Biography

7

JEAN EDGE Literary Biography

8

DEBI BELLUOMINI Pandemic 2020

9, 10, 11

ANNE JAYNE Literary Biography Best Mother’s Day Ever!

12 13

DOLORES FIERRO Literary Biography Bugs CLOSE ENCOUNTER WITH COVID-19 Pandemic from A-Z Lockdown Food Then and Now

14, 15 16, 17 18, 19 20, 21, 22 23, 24 25, 26

DOLORES GOMEZ Literary Biography The Walk

27 28, 29

HILDA AYALA Literary Biography A Letter to Doris

30 31, 32, 33, 34

LORENZA S. CALPOTURA The Lord’s Answer

35

JO CARPIGNANO Literary Biography COVID Lamentation Surviving Epidemics LUCRETIA LEONG Literary Biography The Secret Caves

36 37 38, 39, 40, 41, 42

43 44, 45, 46

MARIA ELENA BERNAL DE BARRE A Personal Profile How My Faith Has Been Tested Pandemic of 2020 M. HENEGHAN Literary Biography SOCIALLY DISTANT WHAT IS HIDDEN SHALL BE REVEALED

ROBERT JOHANSEN Literary Biography

Calling Earth

47 48 49, 50, 51 52 53, 54, 55, 56 57 58 59, 60, 61,

CRYSTAL SPRINGS CREATIVE WRITERS SAN BRUNO SENIOR CENTER 63

62

Top Row: Robert Johansen, Hilda Ayala, Debi Belluomini, Jo Carpignano, Mary Heneghan, Lucretia Leong, Andy Ynostroza Bottom Row: Jean Edge, Dolores Fierro, Maria E. Barre, Alla La Grave, Dolores Gomez, Anne Jayne, Ann Longknife

Crystal Springs Writers

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Introduction The Crystal Springs Writers is a talented and diverse gathering of people who come together each week to celebrate the craft of writing. They are more than just a group who meets to share their skills, however. 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. With the goal of improving the writers’ craft, 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 get a chance, to enjoy treats, chat and catch up on their personal lives.

Each writer’s unique contribution, is an enhancement to this talented, and gifted group of writers.

On March 5th, 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 has been a difficult adjustment for those of us who enjoy the multitude of learning, social and lifeenhancing activities offered by the Senior Center. The Crystal Springs Writers Group, nevertheless, has decided to take advantage of new technology and continue to meet weekly via Zoom. Every Thursday morning, the group meets to share and critique their writing and offer each other encouragement during this challenging time.

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

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

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The Crystal Springs Creative Writers – A Short History 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 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.

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.

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.

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ALLA V. LA GRAVE

Alla’s nostalgic musings of her parents, and her childhood home have a wistful and longing tone that inspires the reader to reflect on their own memories of past events and places. Alla’s descriptions of her childhood although melancholic and meditative, are by no means sad. Her writings are thoughtful and loving and the reader can easily identify with her recollections. The group enjoys Alla’s profound reflections and observations of daily life so eloquently expressed in her writings. Alla often gives input to fellow writers through constructive criticism. Her comments are not only helpful and supportive but always encouraging. Alla is thoughtful, kind, measured in her critiques while at the same time insightful and perceptive.

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Andy Ynostroza Andy was born in 1934. Now at 85 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 born!

Andy 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.

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ANN LONGKNIFE, PhD, University of Houston

Taught English and Critical Thinking at College of San Mateo. Coauthor, with K.D. Sullivan, of two textbooks, The Art of Styling Sentences 4th Edition and 5th Edition (Barron’s, 2002 and 2012), and Easy Writing Skills Step-by-Step (McGrawHill, 2012). Spends her retirement reading, writing and playing bridge.

Ms. Longknife joined the group less than a year ago, yet she has quickly become an integral member whose expertise is very much welcomed. An experienced literary critic Ms. Longknife’s comments and suggestions on her fellow writers contributions are welcomed and helpful.

Her writings are witty, moving and nostalgic. Her memoirs while depicting a life filled with challenges also portray a woman’s resiliency who managed to rise to the occasion while remaining kind and caring.

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SUE COBIAN

Sue challenges her readers with serious issues of universal interest, such as religion and health. She also writes fascinating children stories. Her vivid imagination takes us to faraway places filled with interesting characters. She generously shares nostalgic musings and memories of her life in Mexico.

S e kno ledgeable and o he oin commen and c i i e of her fellow ie o k, demonstrate her expertise and command of the craft. Her many and welcomed contributions to the group are always appreciated and welcomed by her fellow writers.

Sue Cobian

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JEAN EDGE I’m an accidental writer.

About twenty years ago, on a rainy day, I entered the back door of the senior center and interrupted a writers class. The instructor invited me to take a seat and join in the group.

Frank Duffy was a paid teacher and a former newspaper man.

He gave us writing exercises and critiqued our work. I was very surprised that I could write. One of my classmates, who was a very talented writer, told me that my forte was humor. I followed his advice and not only did I find it easier, but I also received positive feedback. I enjoy hearing people laugh at my work.

There is no specific time that I write. I have to force myself to calm down and sit at the desk.

“Just start” is my motto. The group has always been interesting and helpful to me.

Each person reveals their perspective on life. At times it is very deep and sometimes light. Much to my surprise The New Vision Church in Milbrae likes to print my more inspirational thoughts in their monthly newsletter. I am honored.

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DEBI BELLUOMINI Debi Belluomini ~ April 3, 2020 This is to sincerely salute all of you!

Regarding the effects of the seclusion and separation, almost like solitary confinement, to a person’s mental health. If there is a place to fit in our booklet, the following I submit to you.

To my fellow writers, this is a thank you note đ&#x;’Œ to each of youâ?Ł During this Pandemic that separates us in hopes to protect us, I became a person whose mental health felt the weight of sinking into the quicksand of deep depression.

May I remind you that I have always been a Pollyanna type of person who instantly finds the positive in everything! I did not zoom with you for I could not handle anything beyond just trying to do the normal within the walls of my house. But today, I felt an absolute thirst to participate with you; to jump in and join on the ride of this special booklet. Not in regards to me.

I am amazed at the determination, fortitude, and pioneering efforts, via email, I have witnessed to not fall short of producing our Spring Booklet this year!

Therefore, I could not fall short either! So, in place, I saluted each of you by placing my oar in the water (pen in the well) and started paddling, for I could do no less than to wave The Flag of Respect to you, my fellow writersâ?Ł Thank you for not giving up the shipđ&#x;‘?!

My Spirit is lifted! Peace fills my Soul!

My heart is Smiling!

We are standing!

We are sailing through this!

Can’t wait to gather with you, on opened land, our pens in hand!

From my thankful heart, Debiâ?Ł

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Pandemic 2020 (Stage One) Maybe, just maybe, the destroyers have been sent inside so the earth is able to heal.

Pandemic 2020 (Stage Two) Wisdom’s Drumming They walked the land before it was cleared, witnessed what was Created beautiful and vital raped without reverence!

They slipped into the shadows to survive.

Now the beautiful have come out of the unseen to stroll through villages, and walk as families crossing quieted streets in cities.

Dolphins play close to the shores while otters play on lawned marinas, on every continent and every island, all over the world!

The Beautiful, that are beautiful, are a beautiful sight to see!

The Earth is Healingâ?Ł Let all humanity reverence this BLESSED opportunity 10

for our hearts, our Souls, our families, all creatures, for all waters, earth, air, and sky, FOR ALL LIFE TO HEALâ?Ł

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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 has only recently become a member of the Crystal Springs Writing Group, but she has 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!

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Best Mother’s Day Ever!

by Anne Jayne Mother’s Day began with a wonderful gift from Jerry! He turned off the alarm, to which I was not responding, and let me sleep two more hours!

Later that sunny day our family gathered in our back yard, standing apart, some wearing masks, and some not. The family was all together! Daughter Beth and son-in-law Rob with granddaughters Tori, 18 and Ella 15, came from Pacifica.

Son Bill, and daughter-in law Susie came from San Mateo. We even were together by phone with their son Christopher who is in Bethesda, Maryland, attending the Army Medical School.

We munched on the muffins and fruit Jerry and I had put on the picnic table.

We hung on every word as Christopher told us of internships he will be sent to next year, the first being in Takoma, Washington. Tori, 18 is graduating from high school. She plans to attend Reed College in Oregon next year. Ella, the Second Child, will have her chance to be The Only One! All three grandchildren are going to new lives. How glorious for them! How scary for us!

Of course, everything depends on THE VIRUS. Will schools open? Will anyone actually travel anywhere? None of us knows what will happen in the future.

But on this wonderful afternoon we were all present together! When will this happen again! We elders savor the memory! It was the most precious gift of all!

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DOLORES E. FIERRO

About the author: Writing a legacy Memoir for the two generations of her family, who were born in the United States, became Dolores' goal after retiring. She retired as the Global Regulatory Compliance Manager for Columbia Cosmetics. Writing Standard Operating Procedures, Validations, Certifications, and other scientific papers did not prepare her in writing a personal story. She joined the San Bruno Creative Writing Group, where her literary pieces continue to improve through constructive criticisms from seasoned writers. She also enrolled at the San Mateo Memoir Plus and Litquake, where she receives various writing prompts.

Six months after retiring, she was touched with cancer. Her geneticist introduced her to Writing Through Cancer, where she experienced emotional healing. To share the catharsis that she underwent, she began to offer free memoir writing classes at Cayuga Community Connectors in San Francisco and at Doelger Senior Center in Daly City. She trained as a Senior Peer Counselor for the Peninsula Family Service. She visits people who are suffering from depression and anxiety.

While her intention is to help her clients, she found joy from them too. Her cancer client from Mercy Center inspired her to crochet again. She began crocheting beanie hats for new-born babies and women who lost their hair from chemotherapy. Dolores keeps her stamina by dancing Zumba, walking, and practicing Taichi. For brain exercise, she studies French and German at Lincoln Community Center. Dolores starts her morning by reading bible passages and reflections from Give Us This Day. She writes her memoir in the morning inspired by stories she reads in the bible.

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Even before she retired, Dolores pursued other interests outside her field of work.

In her thirties, Dolores studied French, painting, and ballroom dancing. She studied playing the piano for eight years in her forties. In her fifties, Dolores studied Stem Cell Technology. She entertained and cooked for her family and friends.

In June 2019, she started taking care of her ninety-three-year-old mom. She stays with her for nineteen hours a day, two days a week. Her five-hour-breaks on Mondays and Tuesdays, allow her to serve at Our Lady of Perpetual Help as a Lector, attend a German class, facilitate two Memoir writing classes, and teach Tagalog. Her five sisters take care of her mom during the rest of the week, which allows her to do her other volunteer works and pursue her other interests.

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BUGS

By Dolores E. Fierro I made four full sheet trays of Biko (sweet rice with coconut caramel) for the Simbang Gabi (Mass at Dawn) fellowship on December 23, 2019. It was raining when Richard and I dropped off the food at the church Social Hall before the mass started. That day, I served at two more masses after the fellowship and didn't get home until after 10:00 AM. I started coughing, my body temperature went up, and was too ill to join my family Christmas dinner two days later. Two months passed, and I was still coughing.

My primary care physician ordered a chest X-ray, although she didn't hear anything abnormal when she listened to my breathing using her stethoscope. The X-ray showed a small unidentifiable white spot on my left lung. The radiologist wanted to verify what it was, so he called me for another X-ray. They couldn't identify the spot. My doctor sent me for the CT scan. The result showed I have a pulmonary nodule on the lining of my lung. “ It is nothing to be worried about,” my doctor said. “It is not the cause of your cough.” She prescribed Albuterol Sulfate inhaler, Advair Diskus (Fluticasone Propionate powder) to inhale every twelve hours, and Fluticasone Propionate nasal spray to squirt into my nose.

As I was battling with my cough, the news about coronavirus flooded the satellite. It originated from Wuhan, Hubei, in China, and it was not reported to the World Health Organization right away. They reprimanded doctors who tried to inform the authorities. One of them died. The virus affected many people before China let WHO know about COVID-19. Grand Princess cruise ship, which I sailed with at least three times in the last few years, remained in lockdown because some passengers and crew members showed positive for coronavirus. Several cruise ships were stranded at sea because their destination ports did not let their passengers enter their territories. Countries canceled flights to and from China. The Philippine government detained the Filipinos working in Hong Kong.

After serving at the 7:00 and 8:30 AM masses at Our Lady of Perpetual Help on March 15, my pastor announced that the 10:00 AM mass would be the last mass for the day, and all weekday masses are canceled. The sacristan and I helped Father Augusto sanitize the pews.

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Coronavirus, known as COVID-19, which has been re-named as SARSCoV-2, has become a pandemic. People started panic-buying. The Health Department of San Mateo prohibited gatherings, the first County that ever did.

Dominic’s at Oyster Point withdrew my birthday party scheduled on March 21.

Except for the Nutrition Program, Lincoln Community Center, where I volunteer, ceased all activities. Food was offered for pick up, not for consumption at the center.

The objective of senior centers is to bring people together, especially the isolated ones. But the pandemic is forcing people to stay home. Cayuga Community Connectors, where I facilitate a Memoir Writing class, suggested using an app called Zoom, a video conferencing tool. My Writing Through Cancer class was concerned about Zoom’s security problems, so it decided to do the courses through conference calls. Eventually, however, it embraced the use of Zoom. Everything was done remotely. Even some priests started streaming their masses online, so we began attending Sunday masses on television.

On March 16, my brother, who retired in the Philippines, sent me four pictures from the pages of The Eyes of Darkness by Dean Koontz published in 1981. It described how, in 2020, a pneumonia-like illness would spread throughout the globe. It was called Wuhan-400. It was the 400th viable strain of human-made microorganisms developed in an RDNA lab outside Wuhan. A Chinese scientist named Li Chen defected to the United States, carrying a diskette record of China's most essential and dangerous biological weapon.

Is this life imitating art? Or, did Koontz’ staff find something in their research back in the ‘80s?

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CLOSE ENCOUNTER WITH COVID-19

By Dolores E. Fierro On March 5, 2020, I decided to go to the DMV after my Creative Writing Class at San Bruno Senior Center. I anticipated a long line at the DMV, so I decided to eat at the center before I left. The lady-in-charge told me to pay three dollars for the lunch ticket - Chili and Hot dog ( Yuck, I thought). I exchanged it for a salad. Amy, my fellow Peninsula Family Service Counselor, gave me three pieces of her home-made biscotti. Lucretia, and Lori, my fellow writers, sat at my table, Lori at the end and Lucretia, across from me. I enjoyed conversing with Lucretia. I got to know about her son in Germany. Before I left, I gave her a piece of biscotti and said, “Wish me luck. It’s been forty-three years since I took my last written driver’s test.”

I was so nervous; I failed on the first test. Thank God, I passed the second one. I got my temporary license before two PM. By that time, the salad I ate had worn off and I felt hungry. I drove through McDonald’s and picked up two grilled chicken sandwiches just in case Richard hadn’t had lunch, although Elk’s Club feeds the volunteers party leftovers. Richard was happy to see my brown bag. He said he hadn’t eaten all day. We ate the sandwiches in front of the TV. I realized I wasn’t really hungry; I was just tired. I didn’t enjoy the dry chicken in the sandwich. Richard reminded me that I needed to buy insurance for our Oberammergau tour. I called our travel agent and asked if the insurance will cover cancellation due to coronavirus. She advised me to get upgraded coverage to be sure.

I got through after dialing the insurance company’s number but this recorded message greeted me, “Due to what’s happening in the world, we are experiencing a heavy load of phone calls. Please expect to wait about forty-five minutes. If you are stranded anywhere in the world, please wait. But if your vacation is a couple of months from now, please contact us via email.” I wanted to check this task off my to-do list, so I decided to wait. I picked up the shawl that I was crocheting for my sister and started working on my thread art while waiting. After an hour, I was connected, they charged me almost nine hundred dollars to cover our nine thousand-dollar tickets.

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I finally fell asleep and woke up at four o’clock in the morning. The first thing that I saw on my cellphone was news saying, “ San Bruno Senior Center was closed. A person, who just got off from a cruise ship with a few COVID-19positive passengers, volunteered at the kitchen. The volunteer was not symptomatic. This happened before the health authorities learned that it took fourteen days for COVID-19 symptoms to show after being exposed, so the passengers were not advised to self-quarantine themselves.

The first thing that I thought of after reading the news was, I hope he/she didn’t prepare my salad.

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PANDEMIC FROM A to Z

By Dolores E. Fierro

AA difficult time we’ve been going through since mid-March 2020.

BBe at home, avoid gathering, the Health Department advised.

CCreating online socializing through Zoom was the antidote we found for the lockdown.

DDeath tolls rose in many countries that did not observe social distancing.

EEmergency health workers in the frontline are getting infected.

FFrom China to Italy, to Spain, to the United States, the pandemic spread.

GGas prices went down, but it’s not a consolation because people have no reason to drive.

HHope is on the horizon; the curve is flat-lining.

II fear if the government let the businesses open, COVID-19 cases might go back up.

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JJudge your decision carefully before you go out.

KKarma is coming to the people responsible for the coronavirus if it is found to be human-made in Wuhan Institute of Virology in China.

LLatino district of San Francisco shows higher statistics of coronavirus.

MMany are afraid to be deported, so they don’t see the doctors.

NNo doctors would ask for their immigration status.

OObedience to what the health officials advise should be taken seriously.

PPhilippines is stricter in enforcing social distancing; people need passes to go out.

QQualified individuals in the United States will receive stimulus checks for losing their jobs.

RRe-allotment of PPEs (personal protection equipment) supply is encouraged to be saved for the frontline workers.

SSewing DIY face masks for healthcare workers is the least I can do to help.

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TTamed viruses can trigger a strong immune response, but cannot multiply in the host’s cells.

UUniversity labs all over the country are joining in the urgent effort to find a cure for COVID-19.

VVaccines are usually made from inactivated viruses but sometimes can make people sick.

WWill the plasma from the people who have recovered from COVID-19 help heal the people who are still suffering from it?

XXenophobia is one of the reasons why the undocumented population is not reporting their health status.

YYesteryear proved that the people recovered from pandemics.

Z– Zero number of States was exempted from the coronavirus.

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LOCKDOWN FOOD

By Dolores E. Fierro When lockdown or shelter-in-place or social distancing due to COVID-19 was declared on March 16, 2020, I took an inventory of my freezer. I didn’t expect to see much, because I don’t stock a lot of food. I saw a bag of lumpia for frying, frozen “fresh” lumpia, a jar of home-made spaghetti sauce, a package of oxtail, bags of corn, peas, mixed vegetables, and small bags of kale, celery, and pineapple.

The last three were ingredients for a smoothie when I was into the smoothies. In the back of the freezer was a big jar of Red Star yeast. It was manufactured in 1994. Delia, a Filipina chemist, who I’d hired for a temporary position while one of my technicians was on maternity leave, gave me one pound of yeast. I transferred it into two jars and put one in the freezer.

I used to bake a lot, but my recipe for bread only called for one tablespoon of yeast per batch.

When the low-carb-diet became a fad, I stopped baking. I didn’t even finish one jar of yeast and forgot about the other one in the freezer.

Most people crave for comfort food during uncertain times. I am not an exception. On the third day of the lockdown, I craved bread. I decided to bake Focaccia and Pita bread. Don’t ask me why Focaccia because I’m not Italian or Pita when I’m not Greek. When 911 happened I craved taro leaves cooked in coconut milk. My mother never cooked that dish. I only had it at the Tahanan Foundation when I was twenty-five years old. The cook at our staff house prepared it for herself and I asked her for a taste. I didn’t like anything with coconut milk but her dish felt like a warm hug when I ate it. That’s probably why I craved it.

I took the jar of yeast out of the freezer. The yeast “bloomed” when I tested it in warm water and a little sugar. That means the yeast was alive, but this yeast didn’t show an explosion of carbon dioxide. I like watching yeast as it comes alive.

The Pita bread, which did not require yeast, turned out okay, but the Focaccia could have risen more. For at least three days we ate those bread with split pea soup, kale dip, and hummus. The bag of split pea came from our earthquake emergency stock. The kale came from the freezer and the garbanzo beans and the tahini came from the cupboard. The lemon came from Alvaro, my husband’s Bocci Ball teammate.

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My desire to bake continues. Baking relaxes me. Two weeks into the lockdown, wearing a mask, I ventured to Lucky’s to buy new yeast. There was none. I know people are panic-buying, but I didn’t think they would stockpile on yeast. I guess I am not the only one stress-baking during the pandemic.

I also longed for the bread I used to eat when I was growing up in the Philippines. I googled for the recipe of Monay. It is a slightly sweet bread shaped like a baby’s bottom. I used the same old yeast. To help with the leavening, I added one tablespoon of baking powder. The Monay came out as plump as I wanted it.

Richard and I enjoyed it with Eden cheese that my sister, Sonia, brought back from her recent trip to the Philippines. I was so proud of the way my Monay turned out that I took half of the bread to my mother’s house for her to enjoy. My sisters enjoyed it too when they came on their duty days.

I gave a small jar of yeast to my sister Imelda who slept at my mom’s house one Tuesday night while I was there. She surprised me with Pan de Sal breakfast rolls the following morning. Thank goodness for that old yeast! We got to enjoy the bread we used to eat when we were little… when the world we knew was simpler and safer. And for a few minutes, while eating our comfort bread, we forget about the pandemic.

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THEN AND NOW

By Dolores E. Fierro I kissed my co-writer, Delfina, on the cheeks when I saw her at Pacific Supermarket. That was a year ago. If I see her today, I will wave to her six feet away.

One Monday night in November 2019, like many Monday nights in the past five years, fifteen friends of my sister, Aida, and her husband, came to my mother’s house to pray the novena rosary for Our Lady of Fatima. Then they partook in the feast that my sister lovingly prepared all day. I was there because it was my turn to look after my mom. The novena was held on the first floor where my mother has been staying since she could no longer climb the stairs. People sat on the sofa bed where my mom’s caregivers usually slept and on folding chairs brought to the family room for the occasion.

After the November prayer, the caregivers, including me, started itching. I called Orkin Pest Control to have the house inspected. They didn’t find any bedbugs. We thought it might have been mites. I had all the sofa covers washed and machine-dried. I read that mites could not pass through the 246-thread-count fabric, so I ordered 300-thread-count bedsheets and covered the recliner cover, sofa beds, cushions, and pillows. With the use of a hair drier. I tried to kill the invisible biters that might be lurking in the walls. I hired a carpenter to remove the carpet and install wood laminate. I had the house fogged for fleas. I speculated that his problem could have easily been brought into the house by one of the guests.

I told my sister she should stop inviting people into my mom’s house, where she lives. The coronavirus has demonstrated how easily a person could infect someone, and bring disease into one’s home. It may not be a virus, but maybe something else, like mites.

During the outbreak of COVID-19, we all practice social-distancing. After the pandemic, I will not even invite non-family members into my house.

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Before the pandemic, I volunteered at many senior centers, and as a Peninsula Family Service Counselor, I visited clients in their homes. I was exposed to less than ideal home environments. I’ve witnessed different types of hoarding and smelled apartments that have not been aired for months. After the pandemic is over, I will need to think of other ways to give back to the community. Sending money to people in need, (as I do to a widow with ten children in the Philippines), will probably how I will continue to contribute to society. I’ll be spending my time at home, making DIY face masks for healthcare workers and crocheting beanie hats for newborn babies and women who lost their hair from cancer. I will continue to cook and deliver food to my siblings and maybe extend it to other people in need as well.

Instead of meeting people in writing groups, I will try meeting them on video conferences instead.

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DOLORES GOMEZ Dolores' writings are descriptive, historical, a bit nostalgic, and always informative. Dolores seems to have carved out a niche for herself in the Crystal Springs Writers group as the local Bay Area historian. Her talent as a writer, her choice of topics, and anecdotes about our lives in the Northern California region are welcomed and elicit plenty of personal comments.

Dolores' family moved from San Francisco to Brisbane in 1942. She loved the freedom of the small town, open space, and exploring San Bruno Mountain. Writing, genealogy, and preserving Brisbane's history became exciting and essential to her as she grew older. Dolores worked at the Brisbane Library for 27 years, collecting old pictures from elders and information on Brisbane history, which became the Brisbane History Collection. Arcadia publishing asked her to do a book on the small town. She and an interested coworker worked on "BRISBANE," Images of America series, a book done as a labor of love. Dolores did the captions for the book from the knowledge of living in Brisbane since 1942. Writing recollections from childhood and events are cathartic, and shared with family. Joining the Crystal Springs Writers Group has provided inspiration to keep writing just for the fun of it, enjoying and sharing with pleasant members of the Writing Group.

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THE WALK Dolores Gomez Sadie, my rescue dog demands a walk in the morning, running to her collar and leash hanging on the door knob. December is cold, so we both wear warm coats. As we walked around the block, the spicy aroma of carnitas greets us from Melissa’s Mexican Restaurant. Peering through the tall windows, I can see Raphael, the owner, busily serving breakfasts to tables of hungry customers. A huge delivery truck was double parked, with restaurant supplies. Next door at Lucky House I could hear a loud chopping sound, the cook getting ready vegetables for the day’s delicious Chinese lunches. The sun was out. A slight breeze was changing my hair style, but it felt good.

Sadie stopped to sniff a tree, I impatiently waited. It was time to cross the busy street, but paused for cars to pass. Customers were streaming into Julie’s Liquor and Delicatessen to grab a cup of coffee while driving to work or a sandwich for their lunch. We got to the park, it was becoming colder, and I headed home. Many cars headed to the freeway; I was thankful that I was retired. We walked back up to the house where I enjoyed a hot cup of tea and peanut butter on toast.

Suddenly February brought worry and unrest to the world and this town. A virus, supposedly from a bat in China, changed everyone’s life. Will it be for long or just disappear? My family was adamant that I needed to stay in the house and not go shopping or to get groceries. I resented it. Businesses began to close; the number of dead in the world became alarming. We were in deep trouble!

April became a totally transformed town to walk in. Melissa’s had large signs in their huge windows; “TAKE OUT ONLY” plus a smaller sign cautioning customers that a mask was mandatory and to please practice social distance. Tables were piled so no one could sit and eat. I didn’t smell the carnitas! No huge doubleparked truck now. Lucky House was quiet and open for takeout. No moving traffic to wait for made it easy to cross the street where Julie’s Liquor and delicatessen,

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two men wearing masks were in line. They waited outside for their lunch orders. Bag lunches would be brought out to them.

Sadie and I walked alone on the silent street. I felt strange and eerie, a new experience for me. I wanted the sadness to go away. I found comfort at the Brisbane Hardware store. Billy, the friendly owner, wore a mask, I was embarrassed, I didn’t have my mask; so easy to forget when not used to wear on.

Mixed messages from the government made me more insecure. Did they begin soon enough to try to control this virus and save lives? I long for our town and world to get back to normal. To wear a mask and gloves to go to the store is not normal. I am fortunate; my family is there for me. I miss seeing my family, grand and great grandchildren. Thinking of the word “resilient� is how I will deal with this unwelcome visiting virus! Things can always be worse, so I will take Sadie for a walk in the sun so she can sniff, bring the neighbor food, call others to chat, stay in the house, and create projects to keep busy and enjoy the rest of my life.

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HILDA AYALA Hilda is relatively new to creative writing and has embraced it enthusiastically. Her favorite writing topics are memories of her childhood, her family, in particular, her mother, her past teaching career and some reflections on being a bilingual immigrant. She has also written about her hobbies such as knitting, running, walking, and current events. Her goal is to eventually write her memoirs in the form of letters to her granddaughter with the intention of sharing with her written accounts of her family history.

Hilda feels that topics chose her and often while on a long hike, she will encounter an idea for a poem, a piece of fiction and she’ll let it germinate. However, memoir writing is her favorite format because it allows her to rescue memories of her childhood in Chile, hoping to eventually share these memoirs with her granddaughter, Francisca. She attended a Creative Writing class at Skyline College where she found the encouragement to try additional writing genres, such as poetry, fiction, and drama. She also attended an intensive Memoir Workshop at the Writing Salon where she benefited from an abundance of skilled instruction as well as writing inspiration and reinforcement.

She has been attending the weekly Crystal Springs Writers Group workshops for about two years. She enjoys everyone’s writing and feels she’s learning from everyone’s diversity of themes and writing styles. She finds everyone in the group, not only extremely talented when it comes to writing, very helpful in making suggestions for revision, but also quite supportive and encouraging.

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A Letter to Doris March 2020 Hilda Ayala Querida amiga, I have been thinking about you and Chano for the last few days. So much has happened since the last time we talked. Now, in the middle of a world pandemic, I'm trying to find some inner space to gather my thoughts and reach out to you to share our experiences during our quarantine. I hope you'll let me know how you and yours are coping with this event.

Because I am retired, I'm not sure how much my daily routine has changed since being asked to stay home to help flatten the curve and keep the virus from spreading. However, having my yoga class canceled, my writers' workshop, not meeting, and the Tecolote 50th anniversary planning committee meetings postponed made me realize how much these activities enrich my life.

We find ourselves sheltered in place, socially distant, hunkered down, and when going out, we have to keep a distance from one another of at least six feet. When leaving home for an emergency, or a brief trip to the grocery store, we must wear a face mask. However, we are permitted to go out to get some exercise. So, I'm able to keep up with my daily walks and Jim with his biking. We are also keeping up with our reading, movie watching, and of course, keeping up with the news, although at times, it feels like it's all bad news.

We walk around masked but still exposed to this new threat. We are sheltered at home yet can't claim safety. We soothe ourselves with food while craving morsels of assurance. We attempt to bring normalcy to our daily comings and goings but have to define normality. Now, it seems normality was little more than scheduling our daily routine.

I look around me while doing my long walk, and hidden behind my mask, observe those who are also out eager to reclaim control of their bodies as vehicles for health, immunity, and well-being.

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Amid uncertainty, insecurity, and fear of contracting the virus, I feel safe walking out in the hills. Reports that crime is down, making me feel less vulnerable. Most people seem to be on their best behavior while allowing each other the required six feet of physical distance.

I watch young couples out hiking with their little ones, engaged in full time "parenting." With school closures, I think these parents have regained a new appreciation for their children's teachers. I'm sure they long for days past when they could drop off their children at school in the morning and enjoy the emotional freedom derived from not having to care for them all day.

Most people are enduring these social and physical distancing rules by making the best of an unsustainable situation with no end in sight. Some have discovered the joys of cooking for one, Zooming their culinary achievements to friends and relatives, who reciprocate by Zooming theirs in return.

We did stock up on kale and toilet paper, so we should be ready for any unexpected contingencies. (that was my feeble little joke) Many claim the need to socialize as the most challenging part of the quarantine.

However, we seem to overlook that before the COVID-19 pandemic, with the arrival of social media, socializing, had already experienced drastic changes. A few sound bites or the appropriate Emoji sufficed to express our reactions to what surrounds, delights, or upset us, on a device that fits in the palm of our hand.

Others, like me, have re-discovered the pleasure of letter writing, lavishing on friends handwritten letters generous in length and hopefully on substance as well.

Others are doing handcrafts, or painting, while others still have returned to that musical instrument, which, when young, they renounced, but now promises renewed joy, and most importantly, helps pass the time, of which we have plenty these days.

Isn't it ironic that COVID-19 has forced the entire world to retire and join those who by already having done so, are well-versed at managing their free time, or creating a new normal after a loss?

Now, with the economy in freefall, and our lives on hold, we find ourselves trying to make sense of the pronouncements from the White House. The selfcongratulatory "happy talk" reeks of dishonesty and exposes the President's incompetence and lack of qualifications for an office that requires someone with a much higher, (dare I say it?) IQ.

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Republicans in the Senate, who abide in tandem with the President's uninformed, brash and divisive language and "hunches," ignore scientific facts and recommendations, while disregarding the needs of the American people. Although I can no longer do so, in the beginning, I forced myself to watch Trump's daily COVID-19 announcements which are at best inarticulate and incoherent, and at worst, not true. Our President, in his usual belligerent style, has named the pandemic, the Chinese virus. What a guy!

While rambling on, unfailingly exposing his minimal knowledge of any subject, his limited vocabulary, and his inability to express himself makes pronouncements that he is doing a "tremendous job, the likes of which have never been seen before." Today he went on about the billions of dollars he lost by running for President, but how happy he is he did because he's helping the American people win this war on the Coronavirus.

For those who have lost loved ones to the virus; it is a harrowing time. As it is a challenging time for the sick, the homeless, or those who are now unemployed. For the rest of us, the lucky ones, this pause from our hectic lifestyle, allows us time for reflection. I believe this is a time to consider the frailty of life and to respond to that frailty by allowing our better selves to surface.

News reports show us heroic acts of kindness, not only by medical workers around the world but by thousands of people, labeled as essential workers. Although a more appropriate term might be "sacrificial workers," for they have no option but to show up at their place of employment, thus exposing themselves to being infected, or face losing their jobs. These dedicated people, such as farmworkers, grocery clerks, janitors, and teachers whose unselfishness keeps the world turning, have always been the backbone of society.

So now I ask myself, how do we want to emerge from this quarantine? Do we want to go back to the same unrestrained consumption, instant gratification, and selfabsorption of pre-COVID 19? Do we want to remain apathetic when it comes to electing those in whose hands our lives depend? Do we continue ignoring that our actions are destroying our fragile Mother Earth? Are we, as a species, capable of positive change as a legacy to our descendants?

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One bit of good news, is that because people throughout the world are flying and driving less, clean air and water have been the winners. The images of a medusa (jellyfish) freely journeying in the now clean and clear water of a Venice canal, without the threat of boat propellers, is heart-warming.

The sights of India's cities whose government-suspended transport rules, have resulted in blue skies and a transformed Ganges River, allows one to contemplate what is possible.

As I struggle to remain optimistic in the heart of uncertainty; I cling to the many images of a more beautiful and gentler planet. We continue to trudge on, despite uncertainty and fear. We are, after all, a resilient species. We live, love, and make plans, as though we are immortal.

Looking forward to one of your long and detailed letters, un abrazo de tu amiga Hilda Medusa in Venice Canal

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Lorenza Calpotura

The Lord's Answer

By Lorenza S. Calpotura My eight year old son, playing with marbles, Suddenly stood up to say, “Mama, When I grow up, I'll be a Missionary.”

Storms of over-whelming protests rose “Lord, why would you take my only son?”

Three daughters I had: Jean, Bess, Loll, He was my dearly beloved only one.

“Take from my neighbor- she has five.”

And He gave me bright, quiet Dante Paulo Followed by cunning Antonio Lorenzo.

Then Horacio Gordon and Francis Xavier In quick succession, all in a row.

Powerful, like a thunder bolt The Lord's answer, “Four for one.”

Crystal Springs Writers

Holiday Issue 2019

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JOSEPHINE “JO” CARPIGNANO Literary Biography Jo started writing poetry and fiction in 2001 after retirement from a forty year career in education. She joined the Crystal Springs Writing Group in 2003 and has been writing poems, stories, memoirs and essays ever since.

Encouraged to submit her writing to various contests by Bardi Koodrin, fellow member of her writing group, she has won awards at the San Mateo County Fair and was published in various issues of Fault Zone, a publication of California Writers Club.

In 2005 Jo published a biography of her immigrant Italian mother entitled Madeline’s Story, and in 2015 a book of poetry entitled Paper Wings and Other Things. With wide experience in the field of education and child development, Jo’s new novel, Nadine, describes the experience of a disadvantaged child in public schools with a fierce determination to succeed. Currently completing another immigrant story involving her Italian grandmothers, Jo continues to enjoy writing about subjects that interest her.

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COVID 19 Lamentation

by Jo Carpignano A relentless virus has struck! what a nasty change of luck.

Here was I just racing along writing memories, singing a song then orders came from those in charge directions, restrictions written large Oh my, Oh me, Oh writers, dears What shall we do to allay our fears?

We’ll hunker down and use this time to write a story, create a rhyme No interruptions now you see no more excuses of “too busy” Yearning for company we may be but time’s unrestricted for you and me So go find a pen and grab a nice chair ‘cause you can write ‘most anywhere Just finding a way to let you know in spite of it all, our juices still flow (“Off the cuff,” so No critique required)

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Surviving Epidemics

by Jo Carpignano During the seemingly endless restriction of being in “lockdown” during COVID-19, I’ve had abundant time to ruminate. Attempting to bolster my depressed mood, at first I focused on what I should be thankful for; being in good health, having abundant provisions, and living in a safe place. Continuing to ruminate, I remembered the numerous trials endured by my parents and grandparents when they immigrated to this country at the beginning of the twentieth century. In addition to two world wars they suffered through the 1906 San Francisco earthquake, the 1918-19 H1N11 avian flu, the 1929 Depression, the 1942 Scarlet Fever epidemic, and the 1952 polio epidemic. Since hey survived all that and lived long enough to enjoy the remainder of their lives, perhaps I can too.

Then details of my own illnesses and epidemics also came to mind. The earliest memory of being seriously ill, was with some sort of bronchial infection around age three. I remember spending considerable stretches of time in bed, coughing and wheezing. Later, I was told that those were a series of severe bronchial infections.

We lived in El Cerrito at that time, and one warm afternoon, when I was allowed to play in our backyard, my father unexpectedly brought home a white goat. Delighted with the appearance of a live animal, I thanked my father profusely for bringing me such a wonderful pet.

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“No, not a pet,” he said laughing. “This goat is for milking, not for petting.”

My questions regarding the goat exploded, and Daddy patiently answered: “No,” I couldn’t play with it; and “No,” I couldn’t pet it because goats kick and head butt people; and “Yes,” it would kick me, even though I’m a child.

“So why did you bring it home then?” I asked, bitterly disappointed.

“Because goats give milk and goat’s milk will make you strong, just like it made me strong when I was little,” he explained.

Many years later I learned that my father had indeed been raised on goat milk when my grandmother was unable to provide him with her own milk.

“What is the goat’s name,” I insisted, hoping for something to make it a pet even though I couldn’t touch it.

“She doesn’t have a name, but we can ive her a name if you like.”

Daddy and I named the goat “Trixie,” and I watched my father milk the goat, and I did drink Trixie’s milk. But, even though I approached her several times, I never petted Trixie because I didn’t want to get kicked or butted.

Unfortunately, the milk didn’t make me strong enough to prevent my bronchial infections which still reoccur from time to time.

During another bout of bronchitis, we lived in San Francisco, and now at age five, I remember lying in bed with my parents hovering over me with worried expressions. They reassured me that I’d feel better as soon as mustard plasters were prepared. I was unconvinced and asked lots of questions, but did allow the treatment.

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“It’s too cold!” I shouted, recoiling from the cold wet cloth they placed on my chest.

“Just leave it there a minute or two,” Mom reassured me, “It will get nice and warm if you wait.”

Sure enough, Dad’s mustard plaster got warm and began to feel soothing.

Antiviral and antibiotic medications were treatments for the future in the thirties, so mustard plasters paired with Vick’s Vapor Rub usually did the trick.

Unfortunately, during one treatment, Dad became overly ambitious with the mustard. I guess he thought that if a little heat was helpful, then more heat would be more helpful. When I whimpered that it was burning me, Mamma removed the poultice and tested the temperature.

“Angelo! What’s the matter with you! You’re going to blister her skin!” she scolded.

Dad apologized, and subsequent treatments were much less aggressive.

However, a pale brown scar remains as souvenir from the one mustard plaster that got too hot.

After starting school in San Francisco, I contracted every infection was going around, and I remember staying home with measles and whooping cough.

Vaccines for these childhood diseases were yet to be developed, but I recovered from the measles with little discomfort. However, my two year old brother, Robert, was hospitalized and almost died when he caught the measles from me.

It was the whooping cough that made me feel that I was about to die. The attacks were so severe that I literally “climbed the walls” in an effort to reach more air. Often it was a firm grip on the kitchen sink to leverage that my effort to escape drowning.

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When we moved to the farm, and I attended third grade in Soquel, I caught the remaining contagions. In 1935 vaccinations for chicken pox and measles were still to be developed and, of course, I got both. Although my brother and I recovered easily from those epidemics, my father did not. He caught mumps in the worst way during our contagion. Dad was feverish and in agonizing pain for weeks before forcing himself out of bed to resume farm chores. Fortunately, my grandfather was still capable of carrying out essential feeding and milking during the most debilitating stretch of Dad’s illness.

A succession of bronchial infections continued to attack me from time to time, and I often had trouble breathing during those infections. Mom would send me to bed with warmed blankets and bring hot soup and chicken broth to break the fever and ease my congestion. During the worst of these attacks, Dad would sometimes come to sit quietly by my bedside after he completed the evening chores. Even though I was too sick to talk, his caring enough to sit with me was comforting. One evening I felt guilty for falling asleep while Dad was sitting beside me, and I told him he didn’t need to be there while I slept. He said he didn’t mind and maintained his vigil.

Then, as if epidemics and bronchitis were not enough, there was the time I hiked up our hill through a patch of bushes with beautiful autumn colored leaves.

“This is the worst case of poison oak, I’ve ever seen,” Doctor Karleen pronounced grimly.

Eyes swollen shut, and torso slathered with lotion was a sight intolerable at the dinner table, so Mom confined me to bed and brought dinner on a tray.

“Sorry dear, the rest of us have trouble eating dinner when you sit at the table looking so bad,” she said apologetically.

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Those weeks of recovering from the poison oak infection were the most miserable of my life, wearing gloves to prevent inadvertent scratching and not knowing if I’d ever shrink to normal again.

Although experiences from the past have taught me that periodic epidemics, earthquakes, wars and depressions are inevitable, I’m well aware that this new virus is especially deadly.

But now that I’m too old to climb hills, have been immunized to almost everything (including polio and shingles), and remain isolated from others, I feel tenuously secure. I am convinced that this latest iteration of the corona virus, though unforgiving, can be mitigated by behavior. While waiting for a vaccine to develop, restricting my person to person contacts, and possibly having inherited a few survival genes, it is possible that I may be able to survive this particular epidemic as well.

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LUCRETIA LEONG Literary Bio Lucretia Leong moved to Burlingame California in 2015 from Honolulu, Hawaii. She has two sons, one in California, and one in Germany. She has two grandchildren, a boy and a girl, who live in Germany. Although she misses the ocean dearly, she loves the cool weather here in the Bay Area. Every day she walks her miniature dachshund amidst the beautiful tree-lined street of Burlingame.

She is a bookworm who has never been as happy when her head is burrowed in a book. She tried reading on a Kindle, but it’s not the same. Now after decades of immersing herself in the wonderful world of books, she is trying her hand as a writer.

Besides reading, and writing, Lucretia exercises by playing ping pong, swimming and dancing the hula. And she never forgets the importance of relaxing by watching highly acclaimed films on her dvd with her faithful dog by her side. She also remembers to get her 8 hours of sleep each night.

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The Secret Caves Lucretia Leong Since this pandemic I’ve been traveling, not to other lands, but to caves residing in the recesses of my mind. Some caves were dark while others are filled with light and grace. I’ve explored five caves and learned something from each of them.

In mid-March, when the shelter in place began, I became aware that at my age, the virus could be a life or death matter for me. Being homebound and facing the four walls of my apartment, I noticed a change in my state of mind. I became morose and was inevitably lured into the Cave of Death making a conscious attempt to obliterate thoughts of immortality and looking death squarely in the face. I began to worry about my loved ones. Will my younger son return back to Hawaii, the place he loves so well? How will my dog survive? I worried about my other son as I remembered the Halloween scene I once saw in a neighboring yard where a skeleton was perched on a bench with a leash attached to a skeletal dog. I began to worry my older son would be left alone without his mother and dog because he had not settled down with a nice girl.

On the phone I discussed my concerns to a friend of mine who replied, “Dear friend, just live for yourself. My own mom was so happy when I married a rich man, but years later, I got divorced. And your younger son could end up being miserable with his new job in Hawaii.” It was then that I realized that life is transitory; we are vessels passing through this earth and there is no one standing on the street corner passing out warranties for lifetime happiness.

Leaving the Cave of Death with some semblance of equanimity, I found myself at the entrance of a nearby cave that emanated a warm glow. This cave was simple, sparse, and small. It felt comfortable. Two pairs of footwear were placed near the entrance, pair of Birkenstocks and Mizuno running shoes. I wondered where the rest of my shoes were. Although I couldn’t compete with Imelda Marcos, I had a lot of footwear. The same with clothes. Every time I saw something fetching, I had to buy it. In this Cave of Less, I realized that I had enough shoes and clothes to last me till I was a hundred. I also decided that with this pandemic hoarding of toilet paper and Kleenex, I will not be spinning toilet paper like Vanna White and neither will I be using an overabundance of Kleenex. I will save our trees and will not be acquiring carpal tunnel syndrome from my daily habit of endlessly pulling Kleenex from the box.

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As I travelled upwards into the rarified air I discovered a cave with refractive lights filled with carnival like mirrors. In this Cave of Mirrors, I saw myself in different dimensions. I was fat, became slim, got taller, and then shrunk.

These mirrors were warped like the imperfect images we have of ourselves. I was forced to ask myself “Who Am I?” I knew I was no longer the young girl for I had already traded my night heels for sensible flats and my dangling, bling earrings for mousy, brown colored hearing aids. But these were gradual changes that were relatively easy to make. The hard change came when all the hair salons were shuttered. They say a woman's hair is her crowning glory and as the weeks passed, my looking glass showed my roots growing out. I gasped with horror! I had been coloring my hair for 40 years and knew that if I wanted to keep up with a youthful appearance, I’d have to do it myself. Coloring one’s own hair is a messy process and, in my case, even messier with henna hair dye. Henna is a plant-based coloring and it is akin to putting a massive glob of mud on your head, letting it dry and cake and then scrubbing it all out. With henna treated hair, you probably shouldn’t attempt to use the usual permanent hair dyes on the markets. The Internet says that your hair will either turn green or fall out.

Deciding to go natural with my hair was a great leap for me. It would change not only my appearance as others see me, but how I see myself. Can I accept myself as an old person? Yes, I decided I could. I have already gone green for the environment, so I can now go silver.

Like the Cave of Mirrors, the Cave of Time also creates illusions. Warped Salvador Dali watches lingered and stretched over ledges, trees, rose bushes, and animals. In my pre-pandemic life, I was a busy lady with places to go - restaurants with good food and drinks, doctor appointments, piano lessons, hula classes, writing and art sessions, swimming and ping pong. Now, I have nowhere to go.

The hustle and bustle have dissipated with time taking on a different dimension. I no longer need to rush through all my household chores to be somewhere else. I am now where I need to be. The nature of my chores has changed. They are no longer something to be summarily dispensed. I read books with more thought and care, I play the piano with heightened feeling, I wash the dishes mindfully, and mopping the floor has become a repetitive, relaxing routine. Chores are events of their own making, something to be done with joy.

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The Cave of Constancy was situated at the top of the hill almost touching the sun. This cave transcends time with its enduring permanence. Mother Nature is always there for us and as humans, we all have to be in touch with her. With home isolation, I am not happy being indoors all day. An invigorating walk in the crisp Bay Area breathing in air from our life-giving trees and passing roses and camellias in backyards is the best antidote.

Maintaining relationships with people you love is the other constancy in life.

And I mustn’t forget my sixteen-and-a-half-year-old dog who has been a great comfort to me. She has been by my side day and night with unconditional love.

There is the son who does all the grocery shopping to keep me safe and cooks delicious meals for his mother who loves her good food. My younger son and his family keep in touch with Zoom and FaceTime every day. I call, email, and Zoom my brothers, relatives, and friends. There’s the Cuban woman who waves and throws me kisses through her kitchen window making my morning walks feel blessed. Being close to loved ones and friends is what makes life all about. It is the warmth of these relationships and Mother Nature that gives meaning and beauty to our lives. It will continue to do so when this pandemic is over and done with.

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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.

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How My Faith Has Been Tested Maria Elena Bernal de Barre “God is faithful, and he will not let you be tested beyond your strength…” 1 Cor 10:13

This Bible passage has been on my mind lately, as I have had my faith tested like never before.

As in my nightmare, a swarm of locusts has taken over my life, making it dark and gloomy. On February 3, my daughter Desiree was rushed to the hospital because of a deadly blood infection.

Then on February 18, she suffered a heart attack, a large tear in a heart artery. She was starting to feel better; then, on March 4, she was woken up at 3 a.m. with a kidney stone. All this was happening when we heard of a deadly virus killing many people. Afraid of the Corona Virus, the doctors would not give my daughter a follow up appointment. Today she is doing well, even though she cannot see a doctor until May 29. Together we are staying healthy as Corona Virus rages, but I do believe that this darkness will pass away and that soon God will lead us to a new shiny day.

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Pandemic of 2020 Maria Elena Bernal de Barre We writers often struggle with ideas, churning around in our minds, deciding on something, interesting to write about. Many of us ask ourselves, what would I choose for my subject, the time, the place, what are the right words etc. Selfmocked to death by time we often turn away in resignation. Then one day, in early January 2020, fate handed us a cataclysmic event of epic biblical proportions: Coronavirus, Covid-19, attacked our planet and changed the world.

Now, that we have the subject, Coronavirus, the Pandemic of 2020, we can begin to write about how we are at war with an invisible enemy. However, to our dismay we find that there are no words with which to begin our story. What noun, verb, adjective or adverb can we use to describe our new invisible enemy Coronavirus.

How can we put into words the horror of a disease that will not let us take a breath, and makes us suffer a continuous choking pain before death, finally the unimaginable thought that our coffins will lie amongst the thousands piled up in makeshift-refrigerated morgues? How can we begin to describe a chaos, like that which no one has ever experienced?

We are at war, and to our horror, we learn that we have no, weapon, or soldier or medicine in the world that can fight against this invisible enemy. With Coronavirus we are in a fight not only to save ourselves, but our planet itself.

Coronavirus! What other name could be more heart-thumping, horrifying, and deadly? How did this new virus start? But most importantly, how did it get here?

Why has it hit us like a thunderbolt? The lie we heard from our President, “this is only a hoax, “had many trusting Americans unprepared for the danger marching invisibly to sicken, weaken and kill those in its path.

Coronavirus is invisible, yet a deadly enemy, frightening humans to selfquarantine and avoid stepping outside, to keep from coming in close contact with others. We are self-quarantined, as if we are sailing in our own little boats, trying to feel safe, yet fear never leaves our minds. Gloom descends upon us like a large dark cloud foreshadowing the approaching storm, a storm so huge that we cannot sail away from it.

When I first heard about the virus, I was relieved to hear from our President, that it was a hoax, and that it was far away, sickening many in China. Back then I thought it was an enemy with no name. I soon learned that the enemy had a name: Coronavirus, and by then it had killed many in China, Italy, and Spain and would soon arrive here. The invisible virus quickly crossed the President’s brand-new border that was supposed to keep the enemy away so Americans would be safe.

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However, even the new wall could stop this enemy. Coronavirus does not respect borders, and is now killing thousands in America, the richest country in the world, obsessed with safety, cleanliness, and a happy, healthy way of life.

Our worst hit places were cruise ships, nursing homes, and assisted living facilities, attacking many of the elderly, our most vulnerable. Many of the vulnerable did die, sadly they were part of “the Greatest Generation, along with the Baby boomers” our national treasures. Like old books that we cherished, they had lived long lives and often told their stories. A living, oral history of how they, or their parents had suffered during the Holocaust, or what it was like to serve and to fight in WWII, the Korean War, or Vietnam. Being a relentless killer, Coronavirus has not stopped with the elderly or those with underlying health issues, as the experts had told us, but still marches on wielding its invisible scythe, attacking men, women and children of every race, class or religion, its ultimate goal: decimate the world.

The question now is how do we survive? How do we win this war? The experts tell us to “stay home, to practice social distancing; the only proven weapon that we have to protect us against this invisible killer.” Throughout history, Americans have always risen to the challenge and my prayer is that this time America and the world can come together to take on this challenge, and soon find a miracle vaccine, a powerful new weapon to fight against a virus that threatens the world.

While I and the world wait for a miracle vaccine, churches, places where we worship are locked up. Millions of people are out of work, many of our grocery store shelves are empty. There are long lines of the unemployed waiting in their cars to receive free food. Meanwhile, in a futile attempt to undo his mishaps of the loss of time to prepare, by calling the Covid19 a ‘hoax’, our President is now stoking the flames of discord, encouraging the states to “open up.” “I have the matrix right here,” he says pointing to his head. “It’s time for essential workers to go back to work, to get our economy going.”

I am afraid that if people take his suggestion and get back to work too soon, in spite of the expert’s advice that more testing is necessary, he is taking a big risk and that more people will die. I suspect he wants to open up the wealthy corporations first, disregarding the small businesses that make up about 85% of the American economy, the hospitals, the firemen, the policemen, not to mention the

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field workers many of them undocumented who have now because of Covid19, and to everyone’s surprise have become essential workers.

The Pandemic of 2020 has made all humans equal, the rich, the poor, the powerful, and the meek, we are all in the same war. We now depend on the people working in the fields picking the fruits and vegetables that feed America.

My hope, and this is a very slim hope, is that when the President sits down to dinner with his family; he will acknowledge that the lowly farm workers are essential to America’s wellbeing; this Mr. President is not fake news, but an indisputable truth Finally, even with a once in a lifetime subject, our story cannot end well.

How do we bring back the thousands of lives that were lost? A large swath of the “Greatest Generation’s” and “Baby boomers’ voices are now silent never again to tell their stories of love, dignity, courage and hope. Some day with God’s help if we survive this Coronavirus when we are asked what we remember most in our lives we can tell them of the Pandemic of 2020. We can extol a new heroic generation: front line workers like doctors, nurses, governors, ordinary men, women and children who put their lives on the line to fight what the leader of the greatest country in the world, called a “Hoax.”

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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 Group.

Not a particularly 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.

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”.

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SOCIALLY DISTANT HENEGHAN 5/20 You emigrate, you isolate. I didn’t know.

One leaves the home country full of tension and exhilaration. I left for Canada when I reached twenty-one, the ‘age of majority’. I left before all manner of communication was possible. Then, you got mail, in seven to ten days. You got the telephone so: find a call box, count your coins, call the Operator, book a call; the wait depended on the level of activity along the cables beneath the Atlantic Ocean. It usually took around thirty minutes before the Operator called back, chirping ,“I can put you through now”, and the first wobbly “Hello”.

I loved Canada. Inside, it was warm everywhere – in my room at the Toronto YWCA, in the subway, at work, in stores, even in bathrooms. And the food: such piles of fruit, pyramids of canned goods, panniers of vegetables; each aisle pulsating with pleas: “Buy Me”, “Buy Me”. I gagged over creamed corn on my dinner plate, and became a glutton for Belgian waffles at The Waffle House.

With a friend, using my thumb, we travelled to Montreal, crossed Ontario, took ship the length of Lake Superior, then west over the prairies, the cities beaded across the great wide open, to stampeding Calgary and, finally, north to Edmonton.

There I was introduced to a man, who, I realized with horror as he spoke, was German: from that land of devastation and terror, the Blitz that caused the loss of my home and father. We are a strange species. I fell in love. He designed and built a kayak and, map-less, we paddled the Athabasca River from Jasper National Park, north through Alberta, to Fort Smith in the North West Territories.

One day, high in the sky, an airplane, going east, glinted in the brilliant sun.

My nose went soggy, my eyes stung. It was time for a visit home.

After a summer relaxing with family, I fulfilled a promise and travelled to Germany, where they spoke German! Yes, I know, they were German, but the people in Canada were Canadian and they spoke English, (Quebec, at that time, was considered to be sort of another country). It’s kind of shocking, not to be able to read the newspaper, find a book, watch t.v., even talk to people… Fortunately, Bremerhaven is located on the north coast, with an ocean-going harbor; the U.S. Military has a sizeable presence there, and I got a job still speaking my native tongue. With necessary amendments.

On base, I worked for “the only US Army major who flew planes”. He must have been in the air on a pretty much permanent basis, as he checked into the office briefly every two weeks. I had a lot of time on my hands, not uncommon in the armed forces I understand. If hierarchy precluded other office personnel

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sharing their workload, an enterprising enlisted airman, who had no such sensitivities, found me.

Adjacent to the major’s office, my desk was in shared space in the Department of Embarkation, responsible for shipping all US personnel and families ‘back home’. Such opportunities for graft!

“Get me on ship X”, “Billet my fiancé/family with me”, “I must get back in time for…” “I want...I want…I want” The petitions were as endless as the armies. I learned the lingo quickly and still remember Sergeant Scabado’s name, who, if the deal wasn’t sweet enough, would raise his voice on the phone: “I can’t hear you” he’d repeat until the guy got the message. Failing that, Scabado would bang the phone down.

Getting around outside the Base was complicated. Damn buses didn’t speak English either, so I walked a lot. One time I was lost and sidled up to a group of workmen digging up the road. In my best fractured Deutsch, I asked for directions, apologizing that I couldn’t speak German very well. The man with the spade smiled: “Ah,” he said, in German, “I don’t speak German very well myself.” Bless him.

Bremerhaven was cold and windy. The bread delicious, other food less so.

Like England, World War II’s devastation had long term effects. A year and a half later, I took ship to Southampton for a home visit, then to New York as an emigrant to the United States, where almost-English was spoken.

There followed one of life’s unforeseen curve balls – I had sent my luggage by rail freight to San Mateo, California, where my airman fiancé was now living, and as planned, I flew to Kalamazoo, Michigan for his sister’s wedding. Meeting my plane there, he said: “I quit my job. We’re going to live here.”

South-west Michigan in the early sixties was unexpected. There were no bars, to drink you had to belong to a club.

There were no people of color; restaurants had printed signs inside the entrance: “We reserve the right to seat our customers”. For a long time, I didn’t know that meant: No seat if you ain’t white. In winter you put up storm windows which were hidden in basements, both foreign concepts, and ‘petrol’ and ‘flats’, along with other words, no longer functioned as communication.

Italians are gregarious, they love to celebrate. Catholic, in either practice or name, most grew up accustomed to periods of fast, then exuberant celebration, patterned on the season of Lent prior to Easter, and Advent before Christmas. His sister, Maria’s wedding was staggering. And lengthy. As I was ship- and jetlagged, most of the evening blurred into loud music, multiple toasts, dancing feet, and a promenade round the dance floor headed by the now married couple.

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When my fiancé was sixteen, his mother had died suddenly, so Mr. X – and he, as the oldest son – were accomplished decision-makers: our wedding script was a snap. The September date, the church, the great-uncle, to “give me away”, the first cousin bridesmaid – all the decisions were made. In England, my parents were at the critical beginning of the new school year as heads of their respective schools, my three brothers at university, college or trade school, (you can see the family money diminishing here), and the two at the tail end of the family, too small to travel by themselves. No-one could come.

At my wedding reception, the hall rocked: kids chased each other, people, shoulders hunched with effort, carried drinks through the crowd, couples danced, circles formed, Italian, vibrant, boisterous, filled the hall. I looked around at strangers. Even my newly minted husband. Nobody here called him by the name he’d given to me and to my family. Now out of uniform, Uncle Sam no longer the provider, at home after two years absence, he was again integrated in his community. There was bound to be a difference. It was a bleak thought. I hoped it was fleeting.

Ten years, four moves, three children and no-fault divorce found us in a farm house, circa 1883, on thirty-four acres, one quarter mile inside the county line, and twelve miles from town. Situated at the edge of a moraine, a thirty minute drive to Lake Michigan, the land was sand and scrub, a compelling illustration of Saul Bellow’s comment: “The land was so poor even the bushes were on welfare”.

I’d no plans to farm, and the school system was excellent; I stayed for forty years. There, I dug and planted, sanded floors and painted, hung wallpaper and pictures, paid for three extensive renovations: the place slowly molded itself to my identity.

However, such isolation meant my children had no neighborhood. To illustrate: a commercial phone caller had a request, “Would I ask my neighbor if the incentives I declined would interest them?” I asked how much time he’d got: the nearest neighbor was half a mile away. By adulthood they’d had enough of Michigan. Laura spent part of her college years at university in Erlangen Germany, took part in a research project at The Rockefeller Institute in New York, then chose Stanford for her doctorate work. Simon, ever the competitor, immediately after graduation from Michigan State, zoomed off for law school in San Francisco.

In due time, there came one of those predictable adult crises Gail Sheehy made famous in “Passages”. I got old. Things inside me either stopped working or broke; my children determined I should move to California and be pleased about it.

I temporized for a couple of years, and split the seasons, Michigan summers, Californian winters. In my third Californian season, the Michigan house was

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burgled, vandalized, pipes burst leaving three feet of water in the basement… all undiscovered until a local friend had stopped by to check.

The coup de grace, as we all silently acknowledged.

I became a permanent resident in California. where, the publicity tells me: San Francisco is undeniably one of the world’s greatest cities…The state’s distinctive bend in the coast has an alluring magic and diverse cities with night life and trend-setting cuisine. Some of the world’s finest wine country, plus waterfront towns, dramatic beaches and the tech-savvy Silicon Valley where ideas at Google, Facebook, and Apple, turn into the next brilliant innovation. How lucky could one get?

Extraneous information – such as how difficult it is to sell one’s (vandalized) home in a decaying Michigan economy; how a single person can respond well to major change, how pushing eighty may not require night life and trend setting cuisine, and indeed may prove a handicap when finding medical, dental, and other health services - not covered in the brochures.

Month by month, over a period of three years, it all got sorted. With the exception of the effing I.R.S., that is. Slowly, I was learning to integrate into this new community. Then the pandemic, Covid-19, slammed down the lid on the world and, like millions, I’ve been “Home Alone” for two months.

This evening, May 5th, I walked my dogs. As usual, I wait until the streets are free of other folk, otherwise my 13lb dog with-the-pit-bull-psychosis becomes a public nuisance. Going down San Filipe street, a small, blurred, furry thing suddenly arrested a few feet ahead. The dogs, furious that it existed, an affront to their canine being, outdid themselves in protest. Gripping leases and stationery, I had definition: it was a small grey squirrel, the blur in front an even smaller furry thing she carried in her mouth. Within seconds, she assessed, planned and executed, running burdened to the nearby pollarded city plane tree, climbing, teeth gripping that burden half her size, and reaching the place where the trunk forked for momentary safety.

We hustled past, overcome at the skill and audacity of small things: dedication to the defenseless offspring, resilience in the face of overwhelming odds, the refusal to accept defeat.

At the street’s end, we crossed and turned back, the dogs sniffing suspiciously at every tree trunk. And that’s where I saw it. At the trunk’s base in the grass where they pee, a stone, painted, heart shaped, and written on it, the word “Hope”.

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WHAT IS HIDDEN SHALL BE REVEALED – 2 HENEGHAN 5/20 Under our plastic shell We’re smelly secretive creatures.

That TV show researching ancestry features unwed fathers, righteous slavers, mystery aliens, palpable shocks to the current generations.

Other secrets are more sanguine the longed-for yellow-bibbed Lory, a nose job, a deep desire to kick that raucous neighbor’s shin.

Some secrets are benign: the grandfather who pays tuition for the slower child, the artist whose work accretes within then, like an egg within the hen, comes to fruition.

And now our neighborhood’s resplendent, we have The Secret Stoner whose work has a permanence built by time and sun, stones, heart shaped, triangular or round as a hot-cross bun shine with painted exuberance cunningly stashed, not quite within sight, a finder’s delight.

Here’s the keystone, dated and signed The thing that speaks an invocation: Hope For all of us.

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Robert Johansen 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.

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 as if it 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.

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Calling Earth

By Robert “Bob” Johansen Hello, Hello. This is Rosewood 2-5-1-1 calling. Is anyone there?

Dear Family and friends, I put up the antenna to clear the magnetic bubble. Otherwise, radio signals can’t penetrate. I’ve been broadcasting on the recommended frequencies, but no one answers. Maybe they’ve tuned to a different set of frequencies. Turning on my scanner produced nothing but noise. I’m having difficulty contacting anyone, and the antenna is almost useless. When I make a connection, the communication is horrible. The picture breaks up, and communication is slow. I think there’s too much traffic. It seems the best way to correspond is to write.

I’m hurtling through space circling the earth in the space ship Rosewood 2511, awaiting to return to earth. We get mail delivered once a week, which is adequate because junk mail is not allowed, but somehow, we still get political mail. They, the politicians, find us no matter where we are. I’m isolated in space, along with many others, until there’s a cure for the COVID19 virus. Other members of my writers’ group are in their space ships going through the same ordeal. Technology has advanced to the point that my house was wrapped in a magnetic wave and launched into space in minutes. The process is simple. I called the quarantine number, Quack, and they sent the wave over by drone.

The only problem is I had to give them a ten million dollar down payment. I’m surprised they took my check. As Rosewood launched into space, plumbers were attaching a septic tank to the sewer pipes, and a water storage tank on the roof.

Electricians are connecting a receiver to the power lines. We get electricity via a gigantic Tesla transmitter. The incessant noise that contraption makes is disconcerting. I don’t know how oxygen is replenished.

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I’m learning about all kinds of new technologies or, more appropriately, applications. I guess Facebook is old enough that it can no longer be called new.

But, where did Zoom come from? Speaking of new technologies, the darndest thing happened to me before this trip. What are those things called that you talk to, and they answer, like what time is it? Doesn’t anyone have a watch? Anyway, like I was saying before this space trip, I decided I’d drive to the Post Office to mail some letters. I could get out of the house, and feel liberated. I barely sat down in the driver’s seat. “Where have you been?” My car was talking to me. I tried to get out, but couldn’t unlock the door. “I haven’t been anywhere for ten days. Take me for a drive,” said the car. Sheepishly I said, “I’m going to the Post Office, will that do?”

“Well, it’s a start. Take me up on 280 for five minutes. That will suffice.” Actually, that was an excellent suggestion, and now there’s someone, sorry, something I can talk to. Enough of that.

The other day I took a trip to the supply ship to restock my larder. Shopping is different in space. Most meat and fish products come as a paste dispensed from a tube. I tried the rib eye and the T-Bone, but I can’t tell the difference. There’s also a selection of chicken, salmon, turkey, broccoli in tubes, to name a few. I hope I don’t get the tubes’ mixed up with my toothpaste. Toothpaste has no nutritional value.

Now I know why sailors crave fresh milk. All I can say is that powdered stuff when mixed is wet. What else can I say? I always get Spam. Spam is a staple, and it came in a can. They can’t call it Spam if it’s not in a can. When I was shopping, I almost ran my cart into an alluring lady. I smiled; she smiled back, or did she? It’s hard to tell when wearing a mask. For sure, she was wearing an attractive dress. Parking was a minor problem. I parked a mile from the supply ship, but they had a shuttle to pick us up.

It’s difficult to park a 1200 square foot house. Thankfully, the house came with self-parking. The shuttle came to the front of the house, bumped against my magnetic bubble, and became one with it. I stepped off the porch into the shuttle, a modified bus. The shuttle looks almost empty, with two of three seats removed to maintain social distancing. The first time I took the conveyance, they denied me entry because I neglected to wear my mask. It’s taking time to get used to recycled liquids. Garbage is not as much of a problem as I thought it would be. When we launched into space, we got 100 expandable magnetic garbage bags that fit into a water glass. The bag goes into a launcher that shoots the refuse into the Sunshine garbage ship that comes by weekly. When the garbage ship is full, it heads off to the sun where it is incinerated. Excuse me for writing this way, but it helps maintain my sanity.

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Although our president is inept and not qualified, he has had ample help. His party either supports his thoughtless actions, or they sit silently as he shreds the constitution and the rule of law. I don’t have enough paper, ink, or time to tell you what I think of the way this administration has handled the pandemic.

The daily news reports of 2000, 3000 thousand deaths, without names or faces, as tragic as they are, they’re numbers and difficult to visualize. I try not to involve myself with the daily depressing news, but invariably, there will be a story about a heroic medical staff or a person who’s face I can see, dying in agony, stricken by COVID-19. I cry. The tears slowly run down my cheeks. I am not ashamed to cry.

It would be a shame if I did not cry.

There is more than one thing that became evident with this pandemic.

People we know are better off than most of the population, but with all the material things we have, we’re reminded that the most important thing is people.

We need to touch each other, hug each other, care for each other, and love one another.

Love, There’s empathy in the sea of tears, tears that bind.

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Creative Writers

Where: When: Who:

Crystal Springs Senior Center Every Thursday from 10:00-12:00 Individuals 50 years of age or older

If you have and interest learning to write or improving your writing skills please feel free to join our group.

Crystal Springs Senior Center Every Thursday from 10:00-12:00 Individuals 50 years of age or older Whether you wish to write family memoirs, a humorous piece, share an 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 writing.

Crystal Springs Senior Center 1555 Crystal Springs Road San Bruno, CA (650) 616-7150

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Crystal Springs Writers 2020 Special Issue COVID-19 Pandemic

Crystal Springs Senior Center 1555 Crystal Springs Road San Bruno, California

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