The Muse, A Leisure World Mesa Publication. May 2023

MUSE T H E

A LEISURE WORLD PUBLICATION

WHAT’S INSIDE:

Fine Art

Photography

Poetry

Short Stories

Musings

A collection of creativity from Leisure World residents

Owned

Communications/LW News Office: 480-832-0000 ext. 117, news@lwca.com

Communications Manager: Diana Bridgett, dbridgett@lwca.com

Communications Administrative Assistant: Shana Lara , news@lwca.com

Advertising Specialist: Stephen Annunziato, sannunziato@lwca.com

Graphic Designer: Erica Odello, eodella@lwca.com

Social Media:

Carley Carmean, ccarmean@lwca.com

Cover: Linda Weinstock

Photos:

Gudrun Helms, Denise Haala, Cyndy Huxford, DP, Ed Schofield and Linda Weinstock

Contributing Writers: Visual Art - Bob Bennett, Robert Froelich, Denise Haala, DP, Ed Schofield, and Roger Sweet

For Advertising Information: 480-758-5825 or sannunziato@lwca.com

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I

By m.e. Dovalle

Day starting again

Sun rising then sun setting

Moon showing its face

II

Elijah awaits

Tradition continues on

The door is opened

III

Never gone from me

Memories are living you

Forever with me

Viewing sun rises

Painting nature’s legacy

Rainbows light the night

Tolling bells ring out

Joyous news brought amongst us

Lord arise come forth

HAIKU (5,7,5)

A photograph by Cyndy Huxford

An Oldie but Goodie What happens when pride overwhelms one life… THE NECKLACE

The girl was one of those pretty and charming young creatures who sometimes are born, as if by a slip of fate, into a family of clerks. She had no dowry, no expectations, no way of being known, understood, loved, married by any rich and distinguished man; so she let herself be married to a little clerk of the Ministry of Public Instruction.

She dressed plainly because she could not dress well, but she was unhappy as if she had really fallen from a higher station; since with women there is neither caste nor rank, for beauty, grace and charm take the place of family and birth. Natural ingenuity, instinct for what is elegant, a supple mind are their sole hierarchy, and often make of women of the people the equals of the very greatest ladies.

Mathilde suffered ceaselessly, feeling herself born to enjoy all delicacies and all luxuries. She was distressed at the poverty of her dwelling, at the bareness of the walls, at the shabby chairs, the ugliness of the curtains. All those things, of which another woman of her rank would never even have been conscious, tortured her and made her angry. The sight of the little Breton peasant who did her humble housework aroused in her despairing regrets and bewildering dreams. She thought of silent antechambers hung with Oriental tapestry, illumined by tall bronze candelabra, and of two great footmen in knee breeches who sleep in the big armchairs, made drowsy by the oppressive heat of the stove. She thought of long reception halls hung with ancient silk, of the dainty cabinets containing priceless curiosities and of the little

coquettish perfumed reception rooms made for chatting at five o’clock with intimate friends, with men famous and sought after, whom all women envy and whose attention they all desire.

When she sat down to dinner, before the round table covered with a tablecloth in use three days, opposite her husband, who uncovered the soup tureen and declared with a delighted air, “Ah, the good soup! I don’t know anything better than that,” she thought of dainty dinners, of shining silverware, of tapestry that peopled the walls with ancient personages and with strange birds flying in the midst of a fairy forest; and she thought of delicious dishes served on marvellous plates and of the whispered gallantries to which you listen with a sphinxlike smile while you are eating the pink meat of a trout or the wings of a quail.

She had no gowns, no jewels, nothing. And she loved nothing but that. She felt made for that. She would have liked so much to please, to be envied, to be charming, to be sought after.

She had a friend, a former schoolmate at the convent, who was rich, and whom she did not like to go to see any more because she felt so sad when she came home.

But one evening her husband reached home with a triumphant air and holding a large envelope in his hand.

“There,” said he, “there is something for you.”

She tore the paper quickly and drew out a printed card which bore these words:

The Minister of Public Instruction and Madame Georges Ramponneau request the honor of M. and Madame Loisel’s company at the palace of the Ministry on Monday evening, January 18th.

Instead of being delighted, as her husband had hoped, she threw the invitation on the table crossly, muttering:

“What do you wish me to do with that?”

“Why, my dear, I thought you would be glad. You never go out, and this is such a fine opportunity. I had great trouble to get it. Every one wants to go; it is very select, and they are not giving many invitations to clerks. The whole official world will be there.”

She looked at him with an irritated glance and said impatiently:

“And what do you wish me to put on my back?”

He had not thought of that. He stammered:

“Why, the gown you go to the theatre in. It looks very well to me.”

He stopped, distracted, seeing that his wife was weeping. Two great tears ran slowly from the corners of her eyes toward the corners of her mouth.

“What’s the matter? What’s the matter?” he answered.

By a violent effort she conquered her grief and replied in a calm voice, while she wiped her wet cheeks:

“Nothing. Only I have no gown, and, therefore, I can’t go to this ball. Give your card to some colleague whose wife is better equipped than I am.”

He was in despair. He resumed:

“Come, let us see, Mathilde. How much would it cost, a suitable gown, which you could use on other occasions--something very simple?”

She reflected several seconds, making her calculations and wondering also what sum she could

ask without drawing on herself an immediate refusal and a frightened exclamation from the economical clerk.

Finally she replied hesitating:

“I don’t know exactly, but I think I could manage it with four hundred francs.”

He grew a little pale, because he was laying aside just that amount to buy a gun and treat himself to a little shooting next summer on the plain of Nanterre, with several friends who went to shoot larks there of a Sunday.

But he said:

“Very well. I will give you four hundred francs. And try to have a pretty gown.”

The day of the ball drew near and Madame Loisel seemed sad, uneasy, anxious. Her frock was ready, however. Her husband said to her one evening:

What is the matter? Come, you have seemed very queer these last three days.”

And she answered:

“It annoys me not to have a single piece of jewelry, not a single ornament, nothing to put on. I shall look poverty-stricken. I would almost rather not go at all.”

“You might wear natural flowers,” said her husband. “They’re very stylish at this time of year. For ten francs you can get two or three magnificent roses.”

She was not convinced.

“No; there’s nothing more humiliating than to look poor among other women who are rich.”

“How stupid you are!” her husband cried. “Go look up your friend, Madame Forestier, and ask her to lend you some jewels. You’re intimate enough with her to do that.”

She uttered a cry of joy:

“True! I never thought of it.”

The next day she went to her friend and told her of her distress.

took out a large jewel box, brought it back, opened it and said to Madame Loisel:

“Choose, my dear.”

She saw first some bracelets, then a pearl necklace, then a Venetian gold cross set with precious stones, of admirable workmanship. She tried on the ornaments before the mirror, hesitated and could not make up her mind to part with them, to give them back. She kept asking:

“Haven’t you any more?”

“Why, yes. Look further; I don’t know what you like.”

Suddenly she discovered, in a black satin box, a superb diamond necklace, and her heart throbbed with an immoderate desire. Her hands trembled as she took it. She fastened it round her throat, outside her high-necked waist, and was lost in ecstasy at her reflection in the mirror.

Then she asked, hesitating, filled with anxious doubt:

“Will you lend me this, only this?”

“Why, yes, certainly.”

She threw her arms round her friend’s neck, kissed her passionately, then fled with her treasure.

The night of the ball arrived. Madame Loisel was a great success. She was prettier than any other woman present, elegant, graceful, smiling and wild with joy. All the men looked at her, asked her name, sought to be introduced. All the attaches of the Cabinet wished to waltz with her. She was remarked by the minister himself.

Madame Forestier went to a wardrobe with a mirror,

She danced with rapture, with passion, intoxicated by pleasure, forgetting all in the triumph of her beauty, in the glory of her success, in a sort of cloud of happiness comprised of all this homage, admiration, these awakened desires and of that sense of triumph which is so sweet to woman’s heart.

She left the ball about four o’clock in the morning. Her husband had been sleeping since midnight in a little deserted anteroom with three other gentlemen whose wives were enjoying the ball.

He threw over her shoulders the wraps he had brought, the modest wraps of common life, the poverty of which contrasted with the elegance of the ball dress. She felt this and wished to escape so as not to be remarked by the other women, who were enveloping themselves in costly furs.

Loisel held her back, saying: “Wait a bit. You will catch cold outside. I will call a cab.”

But she did not listen to him and rapidly descended the stairs. When they reached the street they could not find a carriage and began to look for one, shouting after the cabmen passing at a distance.

They went toward the Seine in despair, shivering with cold. At last they found on the quay one of those ancient night cabs which, as though they were ashamed to show their shabbiness during the day, are never seen round Paris until after dark.

It took them to their dwelling in the Rue des Martyrs, and sadly they mounted the stairs to their flat. All was ended for her. As to him, he reflected that he must be at the ministry at ten o’clock that morning.

She removed her wraps before the glass so as to see herself once more in all her glory. But suddenly she uttered a cry. She no longer had the necklace around her neck!

“What is the matter with you?” demanded her husband, already half undressed.

She turned distractedly toward him.

“I have--I have--I’ve lost Madame Forestier’s necklace,” she cried.

He stood up, bewildered.

“What!--how? Impossible!”

They looked among the folds of her skirt, of her cloak, in her pockets, everywhere, but did not find it.

“You’re sure you had it on when you left the ball?” he asked.

“Yes, I felt it in the vestibule of the minister’s house.”

“But if you had lost it in the street we should have heard it fall. It must be in the cab.”

“Yes, probably. Did you take his number?”

“No. And you--didn’t you notice it?”

“No.”

They looked, thunderstruck, at each other. At last Loisel put on his clothes.

“I shall go back on foot,” said he, “over the whole route, to see whether I can find it.”

He went out. She sat waiting on a chair in her ball dress, without strength to go to bed, overwhelmed, without any fire, without a thought.

Her husband returned about seven o’clock. He had found nothing.

He went to police headquarters, to the newspaper offices to offer a reward; he went to the cab companies--everywhere, in fact, whither he was urged by the least spark of hope.

She waited all day, in the same condition of mad fear before this terrible calamity.

Loisel returned at night with a hollow, pale face. He had discovered nothing.

“You must write to your friend,” said he, “that you have broken the clasp of her necklace and that you are having it mended. That will give us time to turn round.”

She wrote at his dictation.

At the end of a week they had lost all hope. Loisel, who had aged five years, declared:

“We must consider how to replace that ornament.”

The next day they took the box that had contained it and went to the jeweler whose name was found within. He consulted his books.

“It was not I, madame, who sold that necklace; I must simply have furnished the case.”

Then they went from jeweler to jeweler, searching for a necklace like the other, trying to recall it, both sick with chagrin and grief.

They found, in a shop at the Palais Royal, a string of diamonds that seemed to them exactly like the one they had lost. It was worth forty thousand francs. They could have it for thirty-six.

So they begged the jeweler not to sell it for three days yet. And they made a bargain that he should buy it back for thirty-four thousand francs, in case

they should find the lost necklace before the end of February.

Loisel possessed eighteen thousand francs which his father had left him. He would borrow the rest.

He did borrow, asking a thousand francs of one, five hundred of another, five louis here, three louis there. He gave notes, took up ruinous obligations, dealt with usurers and all the race of lenders. He compromised all the rest of his life, risked signing a note without even knowing whether he could meet it; and, frightened by the trouble yet to come, by the black misery that was about to fall upon him, by the prospect of all the physical privations and moral tortures that he was to suffer, he went to get the new necklace, laying upon the jeweler’s counter thirty-six thousand francs.

When Madame Loisel took back the necklace Madame Forestier said to her with a chilly manner:

“You should have returned it sooner; I might have needed it.”

She did not open the case, as her friend had so much feared. If she had detected the substitution, what would she have thought, what would she have said? Would she not have taken Madame Loisel for a thief?

Thereafter Madame Loisel knew the horrible existence of the needy. She bore her part, however, with sudden heroism. That dreadful debt must be paid. She would pay it. They dismissed their servant; they changed their lodgings; they rented a garret under the roof.

She came to know what heavy housework meant and the odious cares of the kitchen. She washed the dishes, using her dainty fingers and rosy nails on greasy pots and pans. She washed the soiled linen, the shirts and the dishcloths, which she dried upon a line; she carried the slops down to the street every morning and carried up the water, stopping for breath at every landing. And dressed like a woman of the people, she went to the fruiterer, the grocer, the butcher, a basket on her arm, bargaining, meeting with impertinence, defending her miserable money, sou by sou.

Every month they had to meet some notes, renew others, obtain more time.

Her husband worked evenings, making up a tradesman’s accounts, and late at night he often copied manuscript for five sous a page.

This life lasted ten years.

At the end of ten years they had paid everything, everything, with the rates of usury and the accumulations of the compound interest.

Madame Loisel looked old now. She had become the woman of impoverished households--strong and hard and rough. With frowsy hair, skirts askew and red hands, she talked loud while washing the floor with great swishes of water. But sometimes, when her husband was at the office, she sat down near the window and she thought of that gay evening of long ago, of that ball where she had been so beautiful and so admired.

What would have happened if she had not lost that necklace? Who knows? who knows? How strange and changeful is life! How small a thing is needed to make or ruin us!

But one Sunday, having gone to take a walk in the Champs Elysees to refresh herself after the labors of

the week, she suddenly perceived a woman who was leading a child. It was Madame Forestier, still young, still beautiful, still charming.

Madame Loisel felt moved. Should she speak to her? Yes, certainly. And now that she had paid, she would tell her all about it. Why not?

She went up.

“Good-day, Jeanne.”

The other, astonished to be familiarly addressed by this plain good-wife, did not recognize her at all and stammered:

“But--madame!--I do not know---- You must have mistaken.”

“No. I am Mathilde Loisel.”

Her friend uttered a cry.

“Oh, my poor Mathilde! How you are changed!”

“Yes, I have had a pretty hard life, since I last saw you, and great poverty--and that because of you!”

“Of me! How so?”

“Do you remember that diamond necklace you lent me to wear at the ministerial ball?”

“Yes. Well?”

“Well, I lost it.”

“What do you mean? You brought it back.”

“I brought you back another exactly like it. And it has taken us ten years to pay for it. You can understand that it was not easy for us, for us who had nothing. At last it is ended, and I am very glad.”

Madame Forestier had stopped.

“You say that you bought a necklace of diamonds to replace mine?”

“Yes. You never noticed it, then! They were very similar.”

And she smiled with a joy that was at once proud and ingenuous.

Madame Forestier, deeply moved, took her hands.

“Oh, my poor Mathilde! Why, my necklace was paste! It was worth at most only five hundred francs!”

COWBOYS

By DP

The romantic vision of the lonely cowboy singing to a herd of cattle in years past is no longer applicable today. We still have cowboys, but most of them are nowhere near as hard-working as those in history. We find today’s cowboys in all walks of life and at all levels. The basic cowboy of today is the rodeo cowboy, and the rest of them display the same traits as many of the rodeo cowboys.

Today’s cowboys have little or no respect for authority, others, or almost anything else except their own perception of themselves. They do whatever they want, whenever they want, without regard for others or what the authority says. They display only perfunctory regard for the people they must work with – the people that take care of the stock they ride, those that care for the tack, those that prepare the stock for riding, even the clowns that save their lives after they don’t make that 8 second ride.

The only thing important to them is their own image. They must be in the spotlight, continually

impressing and conquering the opposite sex. Similar to the cowboys of old who could make up poetry and songs, the cowboys of today have a definite proclivity toward fabricating extensive and sometimes elaborate tales of their experiences and potentials, in fact, if you were to ask them, they would tell you what experts they are at anything and that they can accomplish anything (the more humble ones would preface those with “almost”). They also have a propensity to turn the blame for their failures to others, equipment, weather, anything other than their own inabilities or inadequacies. Many people have a hard time recognizing today’s cowboy as they don’t all wear ten-gallon hats, but they are easy to spot in hindsight. A wise one will leave before he is found out and his world comes crashing in on him. But the unwise will attempt to stay on for that allimportant 8 second ride and will be found out for the fraud he is.

I celebrated my 76th with neither sadness nor fear, Only wonder at the blessing of another growth year. Served brunch to the family and friends I treasure.

It was a culinary adventure and an absolute pleasure.

So, whenever we’re tempted to think of aging as a curse,

Maybe consider Maya’s wisdom; the alternative is worse.

How about we stand bravely in front of any mirror

And rejoice in the effects that are so beautifully clear?

Our faces are intricately etched with smile lines galore.

Hmm, the price paid for laughter? Yes, we opt for more

Our life experience is there to share in so many ways.

How about we ‘give it a go’ and see how it plays?

Let’s make our presence meaningful, however we choose.

Do it with eyes looking forward; there is nothing to lose.

By Langston Hughes

Hold fast to dreams

For if dreams die

Life is a broken-winged bird

That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams

For when dreams go

Life is a barren field

Frozen with snow.

By Linda Weinstock

Leaky Potty: Leaky toilets are one of the top water wasters. The flapper can stick or develop leaks as components age. While some leaks will produce a running water sound, others will be silent. The average leaky toilet wastes 700 gallons of wate a year!

Leak Check:

Remove the lid from the tank and remove cleaning agents. Flush to clear chemicals from the tank. Add a few drops of food coloring into the water in the tank (colored instat drink powder works too). Wait about 60 minutes. If there is color in the bowl or along the bottom of the toilet - you have a leak. Remember to flush away the colored water from your tank to avoid staining our fixtures

Tireless Annie Mae

A photograph by Linda Weinstock

PART 2

By Robert Froelich

Why have you never been taught the difference between currency and money?

One reason is that you would never have accepted the Federal Reserve notes called US dollars. They are now backed by nothing but Government trust. They only exist because someone borrowed them from the Federal Reserve, a private company. The US Government is the major borrower of them from the Federal Reserve at 6% interest a year. So, every dollar you have costs 6% every year that you have it.

“The Biggest Scam in the History of Mankind” is the fourth episode title by Mike Maloney in the video series “The Hidden Secrets of Money” on YouTube. This video describes the inner working of the Federal Reserve.

Money holds its value, and no-one is in debt for

it. Examples of real money are gold and silver coins, bars, and jewelry. In 1915 an ounce of gold bought a tailored business suit and accessories and today an ounce of gold will still buy a tailored business suit and accessories.

Since the time of Rome, even coins had bits chip from them, and every paper currency that man has devised, has ended being worthless, due to the excessive printing of additional paper copies. Usually within 39 years! China’s currencies have on average lasted 27.4 years from initiation to being worthless.

Once the gold backing of the US dollar ended, the Federal Reserve dollar bought less each year. In recent years the additional currency supply has increased by trillions. When the official inflation goes above 10%,

the rate increases more rapidly. As every currency approaches its death, it buys less in the evening than in that morning. The process is called hyper-inflation. In recent years Greece, Zimbabwe, Chile, and other countries’ money have died and been replaced with another fiat currency.

Since 2009, for the first time in history, the banking system of the world has had a real competitor. According to G. Edward Griffin, a primary purpose of the Federal Reserve was to avoid competition, especially form the banks in the Western part if the United States. The new competition comes from crypto currencies.

The crypto currencies met and surpassed all the criteria for money.

The criteria for good, useful money are:

1. It is a unit for accounting,

2. It is durable,

3. It is divisible (some to 8 decimal places),

4. It is fungible (each unit has the same value worldwide),

5. It is portable,

6. It can’t be forged,

7. A unit cannot be doubly spent,

8. Every unit, or collections of units, has both a public and private key

9. It can be used directly from one to another with no-one in between,

10. Trust is built into every transaction on a blockchain.

11. Smart contracts can function with no middlemen,

12. Control of the coin is distributed worldwide; no country can stop it.

13. A bank is not necessary; you are your banker holding the private keys.

El Salvador is prospering now that it is using Bitcoin as their primary money. Note: no 6% cost for use.  Uruguay and Chile use Bitcoin for cross boarder trading. Bitcoin is becoming legal money in Russia.

International coins have developed decentralized financial (DeFi) systems. The DeFi world of international business allows you to transact anything form of business that can be done locally and to some never thought of, — from insurance, betting, put your money to work as a loaner in a group, buy and sell real and virtual real-estate, games, play games for money, buy and sell stocks, on and on. A whole new financial world.

When the dollar dies, we will each have to decide what we use for money. Biden signed into law Executive Order 14067 that facilitates the new digital dollar. In the “Biden Dollar” every transaction will be traceable by the government, according to James Rickards, (a financial advisor to Presidents since Carter), who uses the name” Biden dollar”.

Several states are printing money on gold impregnated paper. Other options may develop.

Be alert! Research what will be available in place of the current Federal Reserve dollar and decide what you can live with. The change is rapidly approaching. As Bix Weir, an ex-banker & crypto advocate, says, “May the Road you choose be the Right Road...”

A photograph by Gudrun Helms

By Linda Weinstock

THERE WILL COME SOFT RAIN by Sara Teasdale

There will come soft rain and the smell of the ground,

And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night, And wild plum trees in tremulous white; Robins will wear their feathery fire, Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree, If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn

Would scarcely know that we were gone.

A photograph by Gudrun Helms

William Wordsworth, 1770 – 1850

I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o’er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the Milky Way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A Poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed—and gazed—but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.

A photograph by Cyndy Huxford

THE ROCK -A SHORT STORY

By Roger Sweet

This story is about a boy named Willis, who everyone except his parents and other adults, called “Wheel Eyes” because of his round, thick glasses. We’ll just call him Will for short. One late summer day, Will was walking through the Lagoon woods on his way to his favorite secret fishing hole, that only he and 30 other 10-, 11- and 12-year-olds knew about. Cold weather had come earlier than usual to Minnesota. Even though it was still mid to late August, a cool 5mph west northwest wind made it feel like the middle of September, when the woods release its crisp damp organic smell that one associates with the coming of Autumn.

Just as he was about to wade through a shallow creek, he almost tripped over something sticking out of the ground along the creek’s edge. He squatted down to look at what had almost tripped him up. Partially embedded in the mud was this most unusual rock. It was oval and shaped like an egg. But where an egg’s surface is smooth, the rock’s surface was very coarse and rough, like #800 grit sandpaper. But the thing that really drew his attention were the sparkling colors caught by the sun’s rays coming through the trees. He dug it out of the mud and rinsed it off in the creek. After wiping it dry, he held it up to the sunlight and was blown away watching this sparkling rock creating a constantly changing kaleidoscope of colors. Will also noticed the rock gradually became warmer the longer he held on to it.

Now Will had never been all that interested in rocks. Oh, on occasion he would find some big flat ones for water skipping. His record was 8 skips, which he

managed to do once when there was no wind, and the water was flat and sheer as glass. Sometimes on his way home from school, he would come across a round rock which he would try and kick all the way home without it veering into the grass. During the winter he would put stones inside snowballs to use against the junior high kids who would bug him and his friends on the way home from school. But this rock was different, special. Never had Will come across a rock that sparkled, changed colors, or given off such an intense heat. He couldn’t wait to show this rock to his friends.

He didn’t catch any fish. He didn’t even get a bite, but it really didn’t matter. He ran home and hid the rock in his room. He wanted to keep the rock on his dresser where he could look at and handle it whenever he wanted. But he knew his parents would never let him keep a dirty old useless rock in the house. Also, if they knew it gave off an intense heat, they would really have a cow, worrying it might start a fire. Fortunately, he had the perfect hiding place for his rock. In the back corner of his closet where he always stashed his baseball gear, was a piece of wood that covered a square hole. He had no idea why the hole was there and couldn’t have cared less. In his secret place were things his parents would surely get mad about if they ever found them. Inside an old wooden cigar box were two cigars he had stolen from Uncle Jack’s house last Thanksgiving. He and Nick had tried smoking one of the cigars, but ended up hurling after they each inhaled a couple of times. There was a rusty switch blade knife that only sprang out halfway that he found outside the rear entrance of the Majestic Movie Theater, where he

and his friends would sometimes sneak in for free. There was a pack of playing cards of almost naked women his friend Nick had traded him in exchange for 6 tiger eye boulders. There was also a letter from Joleen, a girl he knew at school, who liked him, though he saw no reason to like her back, but he had kept her letter anyways.

He couldn’t wait until tomorrow morning when he could show off his prize to his friends at East Moreland Park, where they gathered to play football. Most of the night he held the rock in his hands using a flashlight under the covers, watching the changing colors.

Early the next morning he took off on his bike without eating any of the pancakes his mother had made for him. He was the first to arrive at the park but didn’t mind showing up early. He was just happy to wander around the park staring at his rock. Another half hour went by before the other kids began rolling in on their bikes. Pat, who was usually the first to arrive, asked Will why he had arrived so early. You see, Will never got anywhere on time, much less early. At first, Will had decided to wait until everyone had arrived before showing his rock. But he couldn’t wait because Pat always was first to show up at anything or being first in line like at the school cafeteria and was real cocky about it. When Will showed Pat the rock, Pat got kind of a “what’s the big deal” look on his face. Things quickly changed when he watched the sparkling rock explode into many changing colors in the sunlight while becoming hotter the longer, he held it.

As the rest of the kids started showing up, they were wondering why everyone was hanging around the sideline bench instead of kicking or passing the football around. It wasn’t long before everyone who got the chance to see and hold the rock wanted to know where he found it and if he wanted to trade for it. Nick was willing to trade back the 6 tiger eyes plus an additional 3 steelies. Dale wanted it so bad that he was willing to give up his baseball, which had been personally autographed by Warren Spahn. Tony, whose parents were rich, offered to pay him 5 dollars. On it went. Will almost traded with Nick. Boy, he really wanted those steelies, but in the end, nothing

could compare with this strange, beautiful rock.

It’s funny how a rock could make such a difference, for on that day when the kids were chosen to pair off into teams, Will was chosen first instead of near last which was usually the case. He wound up making lots of tackles. On a kickoff return, he made it to the other team’s 15-yard line. He also caught a long pass in the end zone for the winning touchdown.

Things continued to go his way for the next couple of years. Other things also changed. Seventh grade was looming on the horizon. He also had to start preparing for his Bar Mitzvah. This meant attending Hebrew School every Tuesday and Thursday after school, which he hated doing. He became more interested in Joleen. He even took her to see the first 3D movie “Bwana Devil”, which required wearing special glasses. It was really cool. He got to put his arm around her when she gasped as the lion appeared to leap out from the screen. At night there were other distractions, like this radio station transmitting from Little Rock Arkansas, which played a kind of music he’d never heard before. He had to wait until after 10 p.m. for the signal to come through clear enough. He would listen almost every night until 2 in the morning. Of course, getting up for school became a major pain.

During the increasingly rare occasions when taking his rock out of the closet, he started to notice that while it still changed different colors, it did so less often. The colors also were less sparkling or bright. Also, it didn’t feel as warm as before. Will continued to wonder why his rock was changing. However, he didn’t wonder for long and at some point, during seventh grade, the rock had long since escaped into the world of forgotten things.

The story ends there. Well, sort of. Will finished high school generally in one piece and went on walking down conventional paths …. army, college, marriage, job, kids, mortgage, friends, etc., busy, busy, busy. When Will’s life wasn’t so busy, he was often overcome by feelings of restlessness and boredom… or even worse, nothing. It was always a bit disconcerting to feel nothing. Will made sure his life continued to be filled with many somethings.

However, there was one time of year when Will found not being busy to be a time of tranquility.

During early Fall when warm southern winds slowly begin their northern turnaround and the bright blue sky becomes filled with groups of huge cotton ball clouds. That time of year when mother nature begins to paint her own kaleidoscope of colors among the trees. A time of year when Will experienced feelings of melancholy and excitement as he enjoyed the slightly sweet, organic, acidic odor of damp, decaying vegetation. His golden retriever Fletcher also loved this time of year. So much to smell, so much to roll in. His favorites were dead anything and cow manure.

During one of these walks, Will became aware of a bloated sensation in his gut that transferred to his chest and head. At first, he thought he was having a heart attack. However, as the sensation quickly passed, he became misty eyed as he recalled a longforgotten memory of walking through his favorite woods in the town where he lived as a kid. The lagoon woods, the creek, his favorite fishing spot…. the rock.

He sat down on a tree stump and tearfully nodded

his head and smiled as he thought back to that late summer day so many years ago when he found the rock with all the sparkling colors that kept changing the more you held it up to the sunlight… and the heat. The longer you held the rock, the hotter it became. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had seen, much less held the rock. He reminisced about the day after his finding, when he showed this unusual rock to his friends before playing football and what a great game he played that day. “I wonder whatever happened to that damn rock”, he said to himself. He assumed his mother probably found the box and threw it out, sometime after he left home after being drafted.

About a year after Will’s emotional recollection of finding the rock, his folks sold their home and moved into grandma’s house when she was no longer able to independently take care of herself. Within a year, she died at the age of 92, having outlived three husbands. By then Will and his wife had been together for 13 years and had 2 children. Five years later, his mom died after a long bout with pancreatic cancer. His father died almost a year after, suffering his third heart attack. It was now left up to Will, who

was an only child, to sell his grandma’s old house. Before putting the house on the market, Will had to go through the house and figure out what to donate, what to sell and what to throw away.

His grandmother’s wood frame house was built in the 1920’s. It was three stories, including a partially finished attic. As a kid, he had been in this wonderful old house numerous times. His favorite place of course, was in the attic. Will had always enjoyed searching through old things in out of the way or isolated places, which were no longer part of the mainstream of life. Will hadn’t been in grandma’s attic since he was maybe 9 or 10. It was the first place he went to look for items to be donated, sold, or thrown away. As he opened the attic door, the first thing he smelled was the dank combination of old wood, dust, moth balls and mold. Once inside, he had to clear his way through the spider webs, while keeping an eye out for bats.

He was meandering his way around some clothes and cardboard boxes when he looked down at what appeared to be an old cigar box. As he bent down to pick it up, thinking this couldn’t possibly be the

cigar box he had long ago hidden in the wall panel behind his closet. Son of a bitch! That’s exactly what it was!

After finding an old wooden crate to sit on and blowing off the thick accumulation of dust, Will opened the box. Along with Nick’s dirty picture cards, was the switchblade that only opened part way, Uncle Jack’s 2 cigars (one of which was partially smoked- the one he and Nick got sick on), Joleen’s letter (they wound up dating on and off through high school) and there it was … his magical rock. He quietly said, “thanks mom” for not throwing away the cigar box and its contents.

Will picked up the rock and held it in the shaft of sunlight coming through the attic window. At first, it looked like any other colored rock, but in a matter of a few seconds, it began to sparkle as if it were a huge diamond. Then it began to continuously change colors like the Northern Lights, except with more colors and different shades of color. Finally, his rock became just short of being too hot to handle.

Will still couldn’t remember the last time he had

held his rock. He thought he was maybe 12 or 13, but really wasn’t sure. He vaguely remembered how the rock didn’t sparkle so brightly and how the colors no longer were as rich or as varied or how the rock no longer generated much heat. However, he clearly recalled that early Fall Day a few years ago while walking through woods with his dog, when he experienced this epiphany triggered by the organic smells associated with Autumn and remembered the circumstances surrounding how and where he found this strange rock along a creek bed.

As a curious 12-year-old, there was no way Will could have ever figured out why the rock seemed to change. However, 40 plus years later as Will sat cross legged on the dusty attic floor, he realized it wasn’t the rock that changed.

At that moment a growing feeling of contentment swept over him. After a moment or two, he slowly got up with the cigar box, its contents in one hand and the rock in the other and walked down from the attic. Decisions about what to keep, what to sell and what to toss would have to wait. He had more important business to take care of. He couldn’t wait

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to get home to share the story of the rock with his wife.

As he drove home, a short poem popped into his head. Much like the epiphany experienced a few years ago, the words led to a wry smile and misty eyes.

Don’t hide your rock in the box shut behind the closet door.

You’ll forget you ever had it; you’ll forget what it was for.

Full of heat and color as long as you are there. Turns gray and cold not on its own, but because you didn’t care.

So, keep it in the open, keep it in the light. Though far away you sometimes be, always keep it in your sight.

Don’t forget to hold it, colors need to be renewed. So easy to forget that a rock has feelings too.

A photograph by Cyndy Huxford

By Linda Weinstock

Buckeye

The dark thought, the shame, the malice, meet them at the door laughing, and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes, because each has been sent as a guide from beyond.

A photograph by Gudrun Helms

By Linda Weinstock

Spirit Tree

A photograph by Cyndy Huxford

Ed Schofield

So, you want to go to town?

By DP

To most people today this is no big deal, but when living in the bush, in the far north, during the winter, it takes on a completely different role. To begin with, there are the lists; the first list is the list of lists that need to be made.

What must be done before leaving?

What is to be taken into town?

What is to be done in town?

What is to be gotten in town?

What needs to be done enroute home?

What needs to be done when arriving home?

To go to town during the winter when living in the bush of the far north can be quite an ordeal and usually involves one to three days. This story is an example of what my bride and I went through during the winter of ’85-’86 while we were living in a cabin on the Lee Creek outside of Dawson City, Yukon, up the Dempster Highway. We would try to plan our trips to town to coincide with any special events that were happening, church attendance, and any shopping or other business we needed to take care of.

Once we decide it’s about time to go to town, we pick the days of the week to incorporate everything I’ve already mentioned. We usually would plan close to a week ahead, so we had plenty of time to get everything done – after all preplanning does make a difference.

Now as to the lists – a lot of what was on them was routine and only had to be changed for specific items. For instance, the second list (that was the one listing things that must be done before leaving) would usually include;

Minimize the water storage. (We stored our drinking water inside the cabin in a clean plastic garbage can –you know the large kind that people in cities put out on the curb.) This was needed to keep the can from splitting as the water froze during the time we were gone.

Wrap any perishables still on hand – i.e., fresh fruits or vegetables, eggs, = potatoes. We would try to wrap all these items in several layers of blankets and move them to the loft to minimize the freezing on them. Eggs do not fry very well once they’ve been frozen, nor do potatoes peel and fry well.

Cover and insulate the ice hole. During the winter we would cut a hole in the ice on the river with an axe and dip a bucket into the water flowing below for all our water needs. As long as one kept using the hole regularly it would stay open. But by going into town for several days it would freeze over unless we put a frame and lid over it and insulated it by covering it with a pile of snow.

Stock stove wood and kindling. This is natural, so it is easy to start the fire in the stove when returning, but you would be amazed what is forgotten in the rush to leave. And it is really a bear when you must get a pick to cut through the ice covering the wood pile and break out some pieces of frozen wood to start a fire after a long day, and it’s 40o below inside the cabin.

Load the sled with everything on the “what’s to be taken to town list” leaving enough room for the bride. This usually consisted of things like laundry, empty gas cans, clothes to change into (i.e., for church), the truck battery --- it’s taken out of the truck and kept in the cabin, so it doesn’t split when the temperature gets down to 50o below zero.

Stuff the stove and turn it down. Again, a natural

to keep the stove going for as long as possible after leaving to put off the inevitable freezing of the cabin, but this must be done with care as you don’t want it to fire up and burn the cabin down while you’re gone.

The “what’s to be done in town” list also impacts the “what’s to be taken to town” list. Things like going to the bank- require account information, grocery shopping – requires money and another list (of groceries), renewing the placer (gold) claim – requires money and assay work verification. Plus, you may need to take a watch as most businesses and events are only open during certain hours. At last, it’s time to load the bride and head off to town. Now sometimes this was a work of art. You see, the sled was homemade with the cargo area approximately 2 feet wide by 8 feet long. Enough room had to be saved for the bride to fit, with her in a sitting position and her legs straight forward. In other words, she would take up about ½ of the sled. We found it was better if she rode in the very back of it. The art comes in when what we must take into town will fill 2/3 of the ½ ton Chevy Apache pickup but must share the sled with the bride. Occasionally, I would have to take a load to the honeymoon cabin the day before we would leave for town; however, we usually found a way to get it all on, bundling the bride up in her coat and a few blankets.

I would then pull the cord and start my little élan snow machine. By pushing a little to get us started going downhill we were off and running. We would eventually get up to a full speed of 35 miles per hour. About a mile down the road there was a section about a ½ mile long which always made me think of a sled scene in Russia where the birch trees on both sides of the road had caught enough snow in their limbs to lean over making that section of the road seem like a tunnel. I really enjoyed this section, as every time I could, I would stand up on the élan and grab a limb that was hanging low enough to reach. Usually, the timing was just right so that when the snow came down it landed on the bride, this helped insulate her from the wind of the ride. The fun was

even enhanced as I couldn’t hear if she responded over the noise of the élan. I would usually stop about ½ way to the little cabin (4 ½ miles) to dig her out of the snow, check her for breathing, and even rub down her face and whatever else happened to become exposed and needed warming. By then she really appreciated my kindness, and I never heard any

complaining or growling. We would then head off for the next 4 ½ miles with the next stop being the little honeymoon trapper cabin. You know, the one with the wild rose garden all around it.

This is where we kept the “Dog” (the 1958 Chevy ½ ton pickup) parked. We called it the Dog because it looked like it should have been in a junkyard, and yet it ran so well and with so much power we said it was our junkyard dog. I would pull up next to the dog and shut down the élan. I’d then dig out the truck battery in the sled and carry it down to the cabin, setting it next to the stove, which I would proceed to light and turn up to a high setting. After lighting the coal oil lamp, I would then head back up to the élan and help the bride finish digging herself out of the sled. After helping her down to the cabin, she always seemed to be stiff after getting out of the sled, I would go back up and start heating the dog. I had an old metal trashcan lid that I kept woodchips in. I would add a little kerosene and light them. After the flames went out, I would push the whole thing under the dog’s oil pan. Then I would transfer everything from the sled to the truck.

With that completed, I would get back on the élan and run it and sled down the road to a trail which would bring me back behind the cabin to park them out of sight. I would then refill the fuel on the élan and put the empty gas can in the back of the dog and then join the bride in the cabin to warm up for a few minutes. After waiting about twenty minutes, it is time to put the battery into the dog and hook it up. By then the motor is usually warm enough to start, even at 50o below zero. After she fires up, I pull the trash can lid from under the motor, throw some snow on the chips to kill the fire, and put it into the truck bed (we’ll need it in town when we want to start the dog). Let the dog run for another 10 minutes with the heater fan running and the cab will be warm enough to ride into town without a coat.

While the dog is warming up, I’m restocking the firewood and kindling for the stove in this cabin and topping off the coal oil lamp. That way on the return trip when we are tired and must reverse the process it will be just a little bit easier. Finally, the bride is in the cab of the dog and cat (our dog) is in the back of the truck. I strip off my jacket, jump in and we’re off.

We left the cabin as soon as it was light enough to see, so we’ve still got about 3 hours of daylight left to travel the 35 miles into Dawson City. Doesn’t sound like much of a trip, does it? But you must remember this is in the winter with probably about a third of the distance adjacent to the North Klondike River so there is plenty of ice on the road and the dog doesn’t have

the best tires in world. It’s a beautiful drive though if you don’t get too stressed. There is also plenty of wildlife like moose and beaver to watch for. Also, we keep an eye on the trail to our claim as we go by (to make sure no one is going up there).

There’s one neat curve that has to be hit at just the right speed in the winter. It’s always covered in ice, and it has a steep bank so the centrifugal force will keep you up high on the curve. If you go too fast, you’ll usually spin into the side of the mountain and then slide down the bank into the river. If you go too slow, you just slide down the bank into the river. It was always interesting as the government would put up a guard rail which would either get taken out when you slid into the river or flip the vehicle over so it landed upside down in the river. It always seemed to me it would be better to leave the rail off, as the river wasn’t very deep right there, and it would be a lot easier to get out of the vehicle if it was right side up and you weren’t too drunk.

At any rate once you got safely past that point it was almost like driving downtown. Go by the international airport, the industrial area, and then the great tailing piles left over from the days of the big dredges. It was also normal to see people out staking claims on these tailing piles as the dredges would let anything smaller than ¾” go on through. In other words, there was a lot of gold left in the tailing piles. Once you got across the bridge crossing the Klondike River it wasn’t unusual to run into an ice fog covering the town of Dawson City.

Finally arrived in town. The first order of business is to figure out where we will be spending the next few nights (a hotel would be the absolute last resort as we had little or no money to use on such luxuries). We would usually check the parsonage as the pastor and his wife had a couple of spare bedrooms we could use. They even had a black bathtub, which I thought was great as it was usually a while since I’d had a bath and black wouldn’t show the dirt as bad as the

usual white tub. If they were filled up, we usually had two or three other folks to check with for a room. If my memory serves me correctly, we only had to pay for a hotel room once, although once we ended up spending the weekend at the bank manager’s house with his family (talk about feeling like a fish out of water).

Once the room situation was taken care of it was time to take care of some of the business we needed to do and get something to eat. If we weren’t staying at the parsonage, we would usually start with doing the laundry at the Laundromat. This way while the clothes were going round and round, we could get into the coin operated showers and be ready for the clean clothes too. Otherwise, we might hit the post office or bank, etc., except we wouldn’t buy any kind of food items yet. We didn’t want perishables to freeze and anything you put into the bed of the truck was subject to pilfering by the ravens. With this taken care of it was time to get a bite to eat.

We would usually try not to be a burden on the folks providing shelter so we would usually try to get to the “Ninety-eight” before it closed. This was the closest thing Dawson City had to a fast-food burger joint, and the food wasn’t bad. (Sorry to say it has gone the way of the gold rush – just the structural reminders left today.) If we didn’t make it to the Ninety-eight, we’d try the Midnight Sun. It was okay for a sit-down restaurant. The rest of the places that were still open in the winter were either too expensive, or way too high class for us.

By now it’s getting toward evening and we’re starting to get a little worn out. So, we will either go over to the Downtown Saloon and sit there with a couple cups of Bailey’s (Irish Cream) and coffee, or head to where we are going to spend the night. When we get there, I would usually feed Cat, as I would have already tied her to the bumper of the Dog. With that done it was time to visit our hosts and find out what’s been happening in town, while they were asking how it’s been going with us. Finally, this day is over and it’s time to hit the sack, which usually isn’t too bad as their beds were usually a whole lot more comfortable than ours.

The next day (usually Saturday) I would go to the men’s prayer breakfast at the church and help fix breakfast for the guys, while the bride was allowed to sleep in and wake up at a leisurely pace. We would then spend most of the day taking care of the different lists we had for in town and visiting with friends. Usually, we could have most of the business we had to take care of done by the end of the day except for the grocery shopping. All of this was done with Cat following and waiting for us all the way (everything was done on foot). I love the sound of walking on the frozen boardwalks. On Sunday we would start the day at church and usually spend the afternoon with one of the parishioners who had invited us to dinner.

Monday morning, I would start the fire under the Dog and start her up. After making sure we had everything of ours (laundry, sleeping bags, etc.) back into the truck. We would snuff out the Dog’s starter heater and stowing it, we would head over to Farmer’s Market or General Store depending on what we were getting. When this was done, we were off and running heading back out to Northfork and the honeymoon cabin.

We would make one last stop at the Dempster Highway turn off. This was to top off the Dog’s gas and fill all the empty gas cans we had for the élan and the chainsaw. Then it’s to the cabin. The first thing is to reverse the earlier process and take the bride down to the cabin and start the stove and coal oil lamp. Next bring the élan and sled up to the Dog and start packing things for the trip home. This time it wasn’t necessary to be so artistic, as nonperishables could be stashed in the little cabin and wait for a later trip to pick them up. After getting the non-perishables stashed, the perishables, the battery, the bride and whatever else to fill the sled we were ready. Just had to shut down the stove, lamp, and secure the cabin and Dog, then we were off and running to Lee Creek.

We usually went full speed (35 mph) without stopping on the way home, as we could never get the lights on the élan to work. And remember this is the winter when the daylight hours are short. Finally, we get home and start on that last list we made. Then unload the sled as the bride puts things away

“We left... as soon as it was light enough to see, so we’ve still got about 3 hours of daylight left...”

and unwraps the perishables we had put in the loft. As she starts fixing supper, I go down to the creek to uncover the ice hole and bring some fresh water back up the ¼ mile to the cabin. After propping up the plastic water can (when the remainder of the water in it had frozen it pushed the bottom out so that it was round) I was able to dump the fresh water into it.

Finally, with Cat fed it was supper time and time to finally relax and rest – dirty shame there was no TV to watch. The next day I would make a run back to the honeymoon cabin and bring everything else back, making sure there was wood and kindling for the stove for the next time. We will review all the lists and make appropriate changes or corrections to make the next trip to town just a little easier as each trip to town in the far North in the bush is definitely different than going around the corner to the nearest grocery or convenience store. There are two keys to such trips. The first is

one’s attitude as each trip can be an adventure or an ordeal. The second is detailed planning to make it an adventure instead of an ordeal.

Yes, Grandpa has a whole lot more wisdom to pass on, but not now, they are stories for other times.

The End

By Linda Weinstock

Rhodesian Ridgeback Rufus

By Linda Weinstock

LOVELIEST OF TREES

A. E. Housman, 1859 – 1936

Loveliests of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough, And stands about the woodland ride

Wearing white for Eastertide. Now, of my threescore years and ten,

Twenty will not come again,

And take from seventy springs a score,

It only leaves me fifty more. And since to look at things in bloom

Fifty springs are little room, About the woodlands I will go

To see the cherry hung with snow.

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