The Beacon - Fall 2019

TheBeacon

Contents

Art, Nancy Elliott Cover

Art, Annabelle Davis 1

Snow in Seattle

Joan Nilon 2 Bright Flame, Burn Joan Weeks ............................ 2

Art, Cathy Nilon 3

Going my Way Rita Schneider ..................... 4–5

The Little Bird Lynne Wasson 6

Art, Pauline Lemaire, S.P. 7

Fear of Elevators

Paul De Anguera, Volunteer 8–9 Art, Harriet Schulman 10

The Runaway Girl Jean Valens Bullard 11

An Inside Cat

Lindy A. Newell ............... 12–13

Tea Time with Gramma Joan Weeks 14–17

Art, Cathy Nilon .................... 17

Lost Dream John Glover 18–19

Art, Sylvia Dongieux 19

Working at The Mount Miel Tieng, Staff Assisted Living ...................... 20

A Poem for the Laundry

Robert Christian .................... 20

Art, Ellie Wilson .................... 20 Art, Mary Santi 21

More Down the House Joan Nilon....................... 22–23

One Day Dot Prentice, Staff Administrative Services.......... 24

Volunteering at The Mount Catherine Hunt, Volunteer 24 Art, Martha Crawford ........... 25 Complaining is Suffering Buddhist Zen Master Basil Singer 25

1974: Camping with 7 children BEHIND THE IRON CURTAIN IN THE BALKANS Terri Erickson................... 26–31

Art, Sylvia Dongieux 32

Working at The Mount Leah Franklin, Staff Recreational Therapist 33 Art, Mika Diaz 33

Connecting with MYSTERY on a Beach Terri Erickson 34–35 Haiku Dr. John Goss 35

Art, Emory Sizemore 35 Art, Sandra Mostoller 36 Biographies and photos of contributors .......... 37 Mystery Art, Pauline Lemaire, S.P. BC

The Beacon is made possible by the generous donors of the Providence Mount St. Vincent Foundation. Published by Providence Mount St. Vincent, 4831 35th Ave SW Seattle WA 98126

2019 Contributors:

Joan Nilon, editor and writer

Jean Bullard, writer Robert Christian, writer Terri Erickson, writer Lindy Newell, writer Rita Schneider, writer Harriet Schulman, artist Lynne Wasson, writer and artist Joan Weeks, writer

You will notice that Providence Mount St. Vincent staff and volunteers contributed to this issue in addition to the writing group, and a resident who dropped in on a brainstorming session. Artwork is provided by residents, children in the Intergenerational Learning Center, staff and volunteers.

This 2019 Beacon (Issue 4) is published in loving memory of our editor Joan Nilon, and writers Deborah Boomer, Caroline Crabtree, Lindy Newell and Lynne Wasson, who all transitioned to Eternity since our last edition.

Mount residents who are interested in joining this serious, hardworking writing group are always welcome. Meeting time is posted on the weekly activities schedule. And suggestions for this and future editions are welcome and can be left at the reception desk at The Mount for the PMSV Foundation and Writing Group.

Annabelle Davis

Joan Nilon 1938–2019

Snow in Seattle Joan Nilon

Snow toppled the tall evergreen in front of my window, in half, its needles covered in tufts of sparkling white. A majestic smattering of frost among the magnolia and azalea branches bowed them toward the frozen ground.

Inside I cuddled in a soft quilt in my recliner with Mikey, my hairy orange cat, and a great book — Manhattan Beach — set in Brooklyn, New York, during World War 2. Many scenes of snowy winters and Manhattan bring warm memories of my youth.

I’m almost finished reading and with the expected next snow storm, I will — the best way to spend a winter interlude.

Bright Flame, Burn Joan Weeks

The candle burns bright, Then flickers, And goes out.

Bright, bright, oh so bright Where are you? Why? Oh Light!

In her dark blue Sanctuary, With orange, striped, large cat Oh, Mikey, we miss her too!

Bright, bright, oh so bright Where are you? Why? Oh Light!

Her tough exterior: “If you want to be here…then write, If not…then get out!”

The candle burned bright, Then flickered, And went out.

Cathy Nilon, Chaplain M Div. BCC Spiritual Care, Daughter of Joan Nilon

Going my Way

Rita Schneider 2

Our Lady of Sorrows School was five blocks from our house and I attended, as did my brothers and sister, from kindergarten through eighth grade. I don’t remember learning to read or count and I’ve forgotten the names of most of my teachers, but I remember in minute detail the route I walked to school. In spite of the fact that we all attended the same school, I usually walked alone.

I went out the back gate into the alley, turning left towards Sigel Avenue. My first stop was Mrs. Reichmeuth’s fence where I popped a few mint leaves into my mouth for the trip. Along the way, I checked out all the ash pits. In St. Louis before World War II, most of the houses were heated with coal furnaces and each house had an ash pit next to the alley. Ash pits were concrete, above ground structures about six feet square and three or four feet high. Besides ashes, anything too big to fit in the garbage can went in the ash pit. Things like three legged chairs, cracked flower pots and bent bicycle wheels. However enticing these items were, Mom did not want me to bring them home. But I couldn’t help looking.

One favorite game was our family’s version of baseball. It was played in the yard because we didn’t know that our yard was too small for baseball. The playing field was slightly angled so that home base had a windowless brick wall for a backstop. Then even a wild pitch was not followed by the sound of broken glass. The angle helped prevent, as nearly as possible, hitting the ball into Dittmeier’s yard next door. Hitting the ball into the Dittmeier produced a delay of game since Mrs. Dittmeier did not want us to go into her yard. It also required a bit of planning to recover the ball. Not only was it necessary that Mrs. Dittmeier not see us, but we had to avoid stirring up Mr. Dittmeier’s pigeons and ducks which were kept in their garage and yard. They didn’t know that their yard was too small for raising birds.

Our baseball game was a game of skill rather than strength. Any ball hit out of the yard was an out. The games had to be scheduled while Dad was at work because the garage had to be vacant. This was vital because the garage projected into left field and contained a window. During the games, the window had to be propped open for obvious reasons. A ball hit into the open window was an automatic home run. The games were not restricted to family members, but it took a while for others to get used to the rules.

Like most families in South St. Louis during the 1930’s, we listened to the radio whenever we could. The radio programs for kids were in the time slot after school. Jack Armstrong and Little Orphan Annie were favorites. We ate Wheaties cereal and drank Ovaltine to collect the box tops and labels for our decoder rings and Ovaltine mugs. We walked home for lunch every day and listened to some of Mom’s favorite daytime programs while we ate our lunch. Our Gal Sunday, a continuing saga of a country girl who married a wealthy and titled Englishman, came on at noon and we didn’t start back to school until we heard the daily episode. Not only did Mom listen to the daytime programs, she entered some of the contests. Once for finishing the last line of a jingle, we had our laundry done for one week. Mom had a vacation from the washing machine and the ironing board. A truck picked up our dirty clothes and the dresses came back ironed and starched and hanging on hangers. The shirts were folded in wrapped packages with cardboard inside. We thought that was neat!

Early in the twentieth century, it was said that St. Louis, Missouri was famous for shoes and booze and last place in the American League. There were, and still are, lots of shoe factories. Because of the large number of Germans populating the city, there were many breweries. While most of the small breweries have disappeared, giant Anheuser-Busch is still very much a presence. My Dad, Walter Albert Thum, was born in St. Louis, one of four children of Frank and Emma Thum. His first job was in a shoe factory operating a machine that was powered by foot pedals. I remember him telling us how he woke in the middle of the night, after starting the job, pedaling in the air. Always good at drawing, he was able to leave the factory later to apprentice as a draftsman and later as a mechanical engineer.

Dad told us about meeting a friend from school during this training period. The friend told him about a job opportunity that he thought might interest Dad. A fellow Missouri native named Walt Disney was hiring cartoonists for a new business he was starting. Dad said that he probably would have been hired, but he didn’t apply because he didn’t think there was much of a future in a business like that.

Before the Great Depression, Dad had a small business designing machinery out of his office in downtown St. Louis. During this time, remembering his shoe factory days, Dad invented a machine that eliminated one step in the shoe making process. The Depression forced Dad to move out of his office, so with Pete, his draftsman, set up their drafting tables in our basement and tried to eke out a living. The model of his shoe machine sat in the corner of our basement like a shrine.

Lynne Wasson 1937–2019

The Little Bird Lynne Wasson 2

Pauline Lemaire, S.P.

Fear of Elevators

Paul De Anguera, Volunteer

Sometime in the early 1950’s, in Seattle’s swanky Fredrick & Nelson’s department store that has long since folded, a Chicago transplant waited for an elevator. She’s moved to Seattle with her vet husband to escape Chicago’s postwar housing shortage, and the competition for jobs with other returning soldiers whose employers were welcoming them back. On her shoulder she carried me, a little blond boy.

The elevator doors opened, Mom carried me into a strange, small room; and for some reason a lot of people crowded into it with us. From her heights I had a good view of the proceedings. The elevator operator sat on a little stool that folded out from the wall to the right of the door. She pushed up a hinged lever to close the solid outer doors. She unfolded an inner cage door in front of them. Then the doors slid down into the floor, and in my stomach, something creepy began to happen. I yelled. This was the start of my fear of elevators. For a year or so afterward, on subsequent visits to Fredrick and Nelson’s my patient mother brought me up flight after flight of escalators to the eighth floor.

The next step in my elevator education was in another swanky 1950’s Seattle institution, the Washington Athletic Club. My parents sent me there regularly for swimming lessons, and other boys were there for the same purpose. They would torment me by taking advantage

of a peculiar feature of the club’s elevators; if one pulled a depressed floor-button back out, the elevator would skip that floor. I had to ride the elevator until the boys got tired of the game, or else get off on a strange floor where children weren’t welcome and look for the stairs.

Maybe there were intermediate steps in the process of this phobia. But the next time that I remember was, as an adult, working in the United Pacific Building, a decrepit pile on Second Avenue and Madison Street that had once belonged to the United Pacific Fruit Company. The two elevators in this building were prone to getting stuck. Several times I spent a claustrophobic 20 minutes inside one, waiting for the custodian to rescue me. I began using the stairs religiously.

My employer liked the doddering old office buildings in the south end of downtown. So in due course we moved to the Arctic Building, once a province of Seattle’s Arctic Club. Its two elevators were the tiniest I’d ever seen. Later we moved to the Dexter Horton Building, Seattle First National Bank’s mouldering birthplace. Here an elevator boarded at street level would occasionally mutiny, taking its captives on a remorseless descent to the sub-basement.

This is when the elevator dreams began. I relived that descent at night, with exaggerated shudders and stomach-lurches

and a dismal world of junk at the end. By day, I never hesitated to board an elevator. I knew perfectly well that it was safe, and that it’s braking system wouldn’t let it fall. But whatever part of my unconscious decides that in the next dream I won’t be wearing pants returned to the elevator theme often, perhaps to torment the part of me that’s still a little blond boy.

I approach the lobby. Columns of fire are spouting from grates in the wall. Here is a row of normal elevators, and at its end one small, old untrustworthy elevator. That one, for some reason I must ride. Its call button is dirty and worn. It opens to reveal a car that’s narrow, shabby and dark. The panel of floor buttons is high up on the wall, almost out of reach, as they would be to a young boy. I push one. It climbs dizzily, pauses, lurches, shudders; or perhaps it drops down to sub-basement hell. At last it opens, sagging below the floor as I scramble out.

Lately I’ve been working as a barista in an old building. Each day when I open the coffee shop I need to fill a cooler with ice from the cafeteria kitchen upstairs. I used to take the cooler on a handcart up a public elevator. But one day a coworkers told me that the kitchen had its own elevator; so I tried it.

The kitchen elevator is a tiny little thing with cage doors front and back, a tight fit for a serving cart and a person. And it’s utterly reliable. Now I use it at every opportunity. It’s closer to the coffee shop than the public elevator, and I’m hoping it’s therapeutic.

Now and then, I’m blessed with a lucid dream. They’re a rare treat. I usually use the time flying. Or I push the bounds of the

dream-universe, grabbing control of the story from the cretinish dream-weaver who’s never bored with making me pantless. Lately I decided that, whenever I had a lucid dream, I would use it to face down my person dream-monsters.

Someone has a lot of kittens, all black. He hands one to me. While we’re talking, I pet it. Things go along smoothly at first. But then the kitten turns into a gargoyle, latching onto my hand with teeth and claws. I pull on it, swing my arm, smash it against a wall. But the little monster is impossible to get off my hand.

A lucid dream occurred: I demanded the kitten. I petted it. It remained a cute kitten and did not attack.

So far, so good. Sometime later, I had another lucid dream. I rushed into the lobby of an office building (these dreams don’t last very long) to a bank of elevators. I went to the end, confronted a narrow door and pushed its call button. The door opened; the dim, shabby elevator-car demon I had summoned awaited.

Even knowing that it was a dream, I couldn’t nerve myself to step inside. I turned my back on the elevator monster, and that was the end of the dream.

A few days ago I shared an elevator with a new mom who was carrying a little girl on her shoulder. The door closed; the car rose. The little girl went on smiling as if nothing were happening at all.

Harriet Schulman

The Runaway Girl

Jean Valens Bullard 2

We lived in South Orange New Jersey When I was 5 years old and my brother was age 9. He had bright red hair so we called him Red. At a supper time one night I spilled my milk all over the dining room table. My mother gave me a cloth saying “Jean, you spilled it! Now you have to clean it up.” My answer was “if you make me do that I will run away.”

It took me much effort and a long time but I finally had it all cleaned up. Now I had a problem, I told my mother I would run away but I did not know how to run away or where to go. Then I had a great idea. I ran across the street and hid in my neighbor’s dog house. Mr. Sith’s big collie dogs were all my good friends so I settled happily in the dog house. They wagged their tails many times to cheer me.

This happened only a few days after the Lindberg kidnapping which happened in our state of New Jersey. My parents were frantic. Afraid that I had been kidnapped. All the neighbors were hunting for me including even the police.

At supper time I became very hungry. So I decided that I had to go home. When I walked into the door my family was greatly relieved to find me unharmed but they gave me a clear warning. My daddy said, “Jean, you must never ever run away like that again.”

It felt wonderful that night when I got into my pajamas and snuggled into my warm cozy bed. Now, in the year 2017, I am old lady age 93 but I still remember the tragic Lindberg kidnapping and the day I ran away from home.

Lindy A. Newell

1953–2019

An Inside Cat

Lindy A. Newell

Samson and I awoke to six inches of snow and it was still falling quite heavily. I opened the drapes and blinds and tried to point out to the cat, who has lived with me almost six years, the exciting fact that it was snowing and there was a great deal already on the ground. As usual at this time of day, there was only one thing on his mind; breakfast. Predictably, I gave in to him and picked up his dirty bowl to wash it. He “Maa”ed at me communicating that this bowl washing was my compulsion, not his and, “Wouldn’t I please get on with it and put the ‘good’ food within reach?”

I looked into the refrigerator to see what kinds of food were available. I try to keep his few choices rotated in order to have him believe that he is getting more variety. Samson appears to know when I’m disguising another old option. Sometimes I believe that he is aware and I sometimes think he turns his nose up at all food indiscriminately, to confirm that he’s in charge.

I took the plastic lid off the lightest can and scooped a couple of teaspoons into his clean bowl. He had waited patiently through my enthusiastic announcement of snow and my typical short soaking and thorough scouring of his dish. I knew that to push him further would be asking for trouble. Because of my carrying on, he ate what I put out for him without further conversation.

Soon I heard my brother, Chris who is also the landlord, shoveling snow outside. Through the screen door, I asked if he would brush the snow off the thermometer so I could see the temperature. The glass on the screen door steamed up, so I opened it in order to more effectively communicate with Chris. He answered affirmatively to my query, smiling as he did more than twenty years ago when he was five, it snowed and he expressed his excitement as enthusiastically. He whisked the face of the mercury after he had put the last of my bird seed out for the bird, “who would need something to eat in all this snow.” Chris is sensitive to all creatures.

Carelessly, I had left my door open while I was talking with Chris. Before we had stopped conversing, Samson ran outside. Samson is an inside cat. We have protected him from the hazards that life outside can hold. Chris called to him as he followed, taking giant steps to keep up with Samson’s speed. With Chris pursuing him, it became a game for the cat. He ran down the ramp and slipped into the cedar hedge beyond. Chris continued after him, threatening and scolding the whole way. We both worry that Samson might get into the street and be hit by a car. The silence told me when Chris had finally reached and detained the animal.

Then I saw them together rounding the corner. Chris knew that Samson had enjoyed his game of leading him as far away from the door as he was ever likely to go — twenty feet or so. When they had reached the top of the ramp it was Chris’ turn to play a friendly game. He said to Samson, “So you want to see what snow is like?” For a slow second, he held him above a drift almost as tall as the cat, then let him fall into the snow. Samson’s ego was smashed.

When the heat of his body reached the powder dry flakes, the snow began to melt and Samson realized it. No longer playing at his game, the fact that the snow wasn’t just cold, it was wet as well began, quite literally, to sink in. His movement was controlled, but unexpected. He hopped with the might of a small kangaroo, out of the pile of snow, licking himself and shaking each limb. With his ears back and close to his head, he ran as fast as I had ever seen him run, back into the apartment. With the cat safely inside, Chris laughed and continued around the apartment, shoveling snow as he went.

Tea Time with Gramma Joan Weeks

My grandmother was an inveterate story teller with many family stories to tell. The times together with her were special and all of my pleasant childhood memories are the ones she created with me.

It was a special treat to be invited over to her cozy home in the wintertime for tea, cinnamon toast, and stories of her childhood. There was always a freshly lit fire in the large stone fireplace, the inside of which was lined with tan bricks; two or three logs were blazing, as they set on the wrought iron andirons. Above the fireplace was a large, flat mantel piece made of a solid block of oak, approximately 12 feet long, 15 inches wide and 6 inches thick. Above, on the wall, was a reproduction of Vermeer’s Girl with a Pearl Earring.

Soon I would hear the whistle of the tea kettle and the sound of the toast popping up in the toaster. Wafts of raisin bread toasting floated in the air. Then, Gramma would exit her small kitchen carrying a steaming hot tea pot covered with a lovely tea cozy and a plate of neatly arranged slices of amply buttered raisin bread toast, two of which had cinnamon and sugar on them. At the ready, on the large coffee table, were two small containers of homemade jam, one strawberry and one marmalade with real orange peelings. Gramma settled down and then poured the tea into the special, oversized, light gray, china cups and saucers, decorated with a kelly-green border and an ivy leaf design.

After a few sips of her tea, Gram would start to weave one of the many tales from her childhood. Her parents were James and Sarah Burk, who had traveled in a clipper ship from Ireland to San Francisco, where they had hoped to find their fortune and escape the potato famine in Ireland. There were twelve children in the Burk “tribe,” the term Gramma used to describe her large family. She was the eldest girl and the second child out of a total of twelve children. Some of the brothers were Will and Ike, Frank and James Jr. The girls were Genevieve, Kit and Eck, Bud and Lucia. I cannot recall the remaining names. One of my favorite tales was about the red and blue goats and their antics; of course, I had never heard of red or blue goats in the first place or, moreover, their antics. These goats were constantly into some sort of mischief, as in climbing atop objects and caving them in. Some of the best stories were of how her mother, my Great Grandmother Sarah, responded to the antics of the goats. Ultimately, she banished them. There were stories about the craziness created and participated in by her brothers, and how Great Grandmother Sarah responded to them: she couldn’t banish her sons, but she did move to Berkeley, taking her younger children with her; she didn’t tell the older boys where she was going. In those days, there weren’t any bridges connecting Berkeley and San Francisco. I suspect these boys were alcoholics and, in those days, people didn’t know how to deal

with that illness. Other tales were about Great Grandmother Sarah’s rooming house located where Fisherman’s wharf is today. If only she had remained there, the family would have had a fortune!

And then there were the stories of Sarah’s heroics during the great San Francisco fire of the early nineteen hundreds and, finally, there were stories of my maternal grandfather’s father, who was Italian, and named simply, “Pau.” He was the father of my grandmother’s deceased husband; he had a small farm in the San Jose valley, near Sacramento, in the summertime. In the cold, damp winter weather, Great Grandmother Sarah had pity on Pau, and she would have him come and live with the Burk family during those chilly winters. My mom adored Pau and he, in many ways, was a father to her; she spent a part of each summer with Pau, on his small farm in the Sacramento valley. Her father, Pau’s son, died of food poisoning at a very young age. It is my understanding my mother was so young when he died, she never remembered him.

As Gram spoke in her soft, storyteller voice, with just the right inflection here or there, my imagination painted pictures in my mind’s eye. At the same time, I felt the unique warmth that only a woodfire gives; I heard the symphony of the dried logs crackling and I saw the flames dancing around the logs. All of this while the sweet jam and the cinnamon toast filled my stomach and the aroma of Gram’s specially chosen tea stimulated my nostrils; not only was it warm and cozy, but I felt so safe and removed from all of the craziness and the constant feeling of a crisis, about to happen, at home. As the flames licked the dried wood, Gram’s voice lulled me into my imagination, and, for a few minutes, I was transported to some of the

faraway places within the stories. However, as the winter sun waned and the teacups emptied, it was time to get on my heavy winter coat and walk quickly home, in the biting winter cold, just before the sun finally set in the western sky. Then there was the memory of another cold winter evening: it was already very dark and outside, there was snow on the ground and ice on the roads. There was a tenseness in the house. Mom and dad were upstairs with my sister, Julie, who had come home from school with a high fever. Gramma stayed downstairs with me, her warmth huddling all about me. Then, suddenly, Dr. George burst in the front door carrying his large, dark leather doctors’ bag. He spoke very little, if at all, and raced up the stairs taking two at a time. It wasn’t long before someone pounded loudly on the front door. Gram opened it and I could see a large white station wagon sort of a car with large red lights flashing on the top of it. Some men rushed in, went upstairs and, before long, came downstairs, carrying my sister who, it seemed, was small and all wrapped up, so much so, that I couldn’t see her face. Suddenly, they were gone. Mom and Dad came down the stairs speaking in a low and serious voice to our Dr. George about mundane matters, such as what were the directions to the huge county hospital, Grasslands, and where they should go to meet him after they arrived there. My mom whispered a few words to Gram, as she grabbed her coat and gloves and then, they too were out the door. The atmosphere was grave and the house assumed an unfamiliar silence. Next thing I knew, Gram and I were walking over to her house, her porch light like a beacon, as we gingerly stepped into the permanent,

frozen footmarks made earlier on the icy pathway between our two homes. Gram carried her bright flashlight which helped us to pick up the exact footprints in the snow. It was January, and, by this time in the northeast, more than likely, it had thawed somewhat and then frozen again and perhaps it had snowed on top of that; consequently, one had to be careful to step exactly into the frozen footprint. If one did not place their foot exactly right, they might be in danger of tripping on the hard, iced outline and consequently losing their balance.

Gram unlocked her heavy front door; the house was cold. She turned the thermometer on the wall up; soon I heard the familiar sound of the furnace turning on and then felt the warm air coming up through the vents. In no time at all, I found myself in Gram’s bathtub with steaming hot water rushing out of the tap. Grammy, sitting on the edge of the tub, armed with a large bar of brown soap and a stiff bristled brush, commenced scrubbing on me unmercifully. My skin started to burn and I let her know I had had enough. There could not be any way germs would have survived the brown soap or the hot, hot water.

Soon enough, I was tucked into Gram’s large double bed, while her carved ivory, Chinese lamp emitted a soft light throughout the room. Then, I would hear her footfalls as she came up the short, narrow staircase. In she came, carrying two large cups of hot chocolate, one for me and one for her. I fell asleep that cold, winter night, tucked in under her cozy, marooncolored, silky and soft, down comforter, next to her large and warm body, feeling very safe and protected. It was as though Gram and I had been shut off from the outside world and all that had happened that evening, just across the

frozen field, at my house, a few footfalls away. There weren’t any stories that night; indeed, the happenings of that evening became one of our stories for many years to come. My sister had spinal meningitis and remained in the hospital for a long three months, after which, miraculously, she made a full recovery. There were summer memories with Gram, as well. We lived approximately thirty miles north of New York City out in the “country,” so to speak; nevertheless, at times, it could be very hot, as well as humid. Gram, although she had worked a full day in the city and endured the hour-long commute by train, would still have the energy to take a walk down to the dirt road we referred to as the back road, or McDonald’s road. The intense heat of the day had slackened a bit, and the sun had perhaps another couple of hours before it set.

To start, we walked past the large Fetz house on the right side of the paved road and the larger, more sprawling house belonging to Dr. and Mrs. Uhthoff on the left. Grammy and mom always made fun of Mr. Uhthoff calling himself Dr. Uhthoff, when he was a PhD doctor and not a medical doctor. These homes were both surrounded by large, fully grown trees and manicured lawns. We walked slowly, chatting casually about whatever had happened that day. Gram worked as, what was referred to, as a Social Secretary. She was employed by very wealthy women. For most of my childhood, she worked for a Mrs. Iselin. Of course, Gram had so many stories of the comings and goings of not only her employer, but also of all the servants in Mrs. Iselin’s employ. Gram was in charge of the butler, the cook and all the servants in the New York City, large apartment.

Gram had to do such things as keep track of the silverware and make sure of all the travel preparations when her employer traveled to one or the other of her several properties. She had the huge apartment in the posh area of the city, a house in one of the Hampton’s on Long Island, and a home in Asheville, North Carolina. Much of the early evening walk conversations centered around the comings and goings of the Iselin household.

Gram was a “birder” and she always brought her small, opera binoculars on our evening walks so she could look at the birds close up if, indeed, any appeared. I recall how, intermittingly, we would see swarms and swarms of tiny gnats circling above and slightly ahead of us. It would take us about fifteen minutes and then we would come to the end of the paved road. We had reached the dirt road, referred to as, McDonald’s road. It wasn’t paved; however, the dirt and gravel were very tightly packed. As we walked, the sun was steadily moving lower in the western sky, although we still had at least an hour or two of daylight. Most of the birds had gone to bed. A slight breeze would give a welcome relief from the day’s stifling heat. We walked on and, after about ten minutes, came to the crest of a small hill. The wooded area gave way to beautifully mowed, slightly rolling fields. At this point, it was time to turn around and walk home before it would become dark at the end of the day.

In the end, I married a career military officer and when my mom and dad divorced, they sold our childhood home and Gram, who lived next door, had to sell her sweet home, as well. She, at that point, had not much choice in the matter, and was forced to move in with my

sister, Julie and her husband, Harry, who wasn’t kind to Gram. At the time, I was living in the Philippines and I would receive long letters from Gram telling me how miserable she was. I felt so sad because I was unable to help her. Ultimately my mother, her daughter, placed her in a long-term living facility, where she died. Years later, I had somehow annoyed my mother and she yelled at me, “I hate you, you are just like your grandmother!” I thought to myself, “what a compliment!”

Nilon

Cathy

Lost Dream

John Glover

The most interesting project I worked at in an air force base was one thought up by the Chief of Operations to make a record-breaking flight east to west. The 94C had a potential ability to carry added fuel tanks which possibly fit it for the job. Although the A1C had mid-wing attach points and plumbing installed, no one had actually used the features because this was strictly an all-weather fighter and had no need for distance capability. All external tanks are mounted on bomb racks so they can be easily ejected in an emergency. It seemed practical to mount racks and trip tanks at mid-wing so our trusty crew went to work.

The first test was to insure that the tank mounting was secure and did not appreciably alter the flight characteristics of the basic airplane. I took it to altitude, pulled 7 1/2 Gs to make sure all was secure and then came back to test the fuel feed, with tanks partly full; all was well; we loaded her up.

This brought the gross weight up to a calculated 20,000 pounds. As far as we could determine, it had never flown at that weight, but with the tremendous power of the after burner, it seemed doable. (More on A.B. later.)

I estimated, by extrapolating the existing performance charts, what lift-off speed and distance should be with the usual Georgia summer weather.

As T/O approached those figures, I raised the nose wheel and let the airplane fly itself off. We were well above normal take off speed, but the aircraft felt solid and normally accelerated to climb speed. I made a very shallow 180 degree turn and hit 40,000 feet at completion of it, at which point the mid-tanks ran out. Holy Moly!! — I was at angel’s forty with a full normal fuel load.

The euphoria soon wore off. With the added drag of the extra tanks and full fueled, the aircraft felt sluggish, but it seemed to me if this take off was on the coast and extra tanks were dropped in the Atlantic at the west bound timed crossing of the coast, and if the standard tip tanks could be dropped over the Gulf, that a record could easily be set.

Problem — FAA would probably scream over a non-emergency tank drop even over the water.

It seemed to me that a small chute could be engineered to release from the tail of a tank when dropped. No one looked into this simple modification and the project was abandoned due to too much parasite drag from the retained tanks. Afterburning is the introduction of fuel aft of the turbine where there is a lot of flame to ignite it. It results in about a third more thrust at tremendous cost in fuel. This requires a system to increase the size of the exhaust path. In the 94C, it is a pair of clam-shell shaped doors at the end of the tail pipe that automatically open and can be opened manually without A/B afterburn resulting in greatly reduced thrust at non afterburn power setting, and this in conjunction with an installed drag chute, deployed just before touch down, reduced landing to a few hundred feet of fall out. It feels like running into a pile of hay.

Sylvia Dongieux

Working at The Mount

Miel Tieng, Staff Assisted Living

During my twenty years at Providence Mt. St. Vincent, I have loved sharing stories with the residents. Their wisdom and knowledge have been wonderful learning experiences for me.

While assisting them with their activities of daily living, they point to favorite objects in their apartments and tell me about their special meaning. And when I tell them about my love for horticulture, they really appreciate my enthusiasm, especially how I get my plants. The outings to a nursery and outings in general are so enjoyable, as are other activities such as exercise classes and entertainment. What I do miss are the birthday parties where everyone gets to celebrate together.

The addition of the salad bar several years ago offers so many healthy choices. Fresh fruit is really good and the flaky pie crust.

The nurses here really care and all of our resident aides work together to keep everything flowing.

A Poem for the Laundry

Robert Christian

Set to the Tune of “Take me out to the Ball Game”

It’s Monday, the day for laundry…

A clothes bag outside the door, Clothes on the way to be washed and dried…

The bag sitting firm on the hallway floor. So, it’s root, root, root for the laundry, Without it there’d be a great shame…

So it’s one, two, three steps ahead

Toward the laundry’s Hall of Fame

Ellie Wilson

Mary Santi

More Down the House

Joan Nilon

Part 1 of “Down the House” first appeared in the Summer 2017 issue of The Beacon. The author explains, “Down the House” was the command from Nana during the 1940’s and 50’s of my childhood for her family to gather at the old stone and brick house on Valentine Ave. in the Bronx where she raised her seven children. The story continues below.

On Sundays at Nana’s, the usual fare was broilers, cut up chicken parts done to golden perfection, along with roasted potato wedges, vegetables and salad.

Holidays were so much fun for all of us. On Thanksgiving and Christmas, a huge, nicely browned stuffed turkey sat on the kitchen table under Nana’s watchful eye ready for carving by one of her boys, usually my father, the oldest, or Uncle Artie, the youngest who was my godfather. The dining room was crammed with place settings and chairs. We all ate hungrily, happily and comfortably. After the meal, with lights turned off, we’d gather to watch the plum pudding in blue flames, fired by the whiskey Nana poured on it.

At Easter we’d start off with the usual salads and the beef egg drop and dandelion soups. A leg of lamb was always the star of the table, but for my mother there was a small roast beef. My mother had grown up on a farm and was adverse to eating lamb.

After dinner my cousins and I crawled from our seats and under the table around the adults who stayed talking. My cousin Dot and I ran down the hall of the parlor and adjoining living room where we entertained ourselves and the uncles and aunts who drifted in to sit on the couches and stuffed chairs to relax. On the ancient phonograph we played grainy sounding records, the Charleston and jazz tunes that we danced to with great enthusiasm and to the accolades of our adoring relatives.

When we had exhausted ourselves, Uncle Artie would put on a cherished record of Enrico Caruso singing Pagliacci.

As weary, but exhilarated kin walked down the hall to the closet and our hats and coats, we all continued talking excitedly. We were a gabby family, both in person and on the phone. It was in this closet room that Aunt Adda let us cousins, Dot, Helen and me try on her dresses, hats and jewelry and show ourselves off to all who were there. Even if no one else but us kids were there, we still reveled in the dress-up times. She even let us do ourselves up in garish outfits at Halloween and Thanksgiving to beg at the apartment house on the corner of 199th St.

She sewed her own clothes and Nana’s too, including coats and perky hats.

As Aunt Adda eventually led us down the outer hall, through the foyer and out on the porch, she’d hold court with tales of the old days.

The one story I always remember her telling is the time grandfather gathered his seven offspring on that very porch and lined them up. He asked them with seriousness, “Who are you?” Their expected answer was, “I am Italian.”

By the time we reached the age of seven or eight, we were allowed to go outside without grownups. We raced down Valentine Avenue, sometimes with cousin Charles who was our age, to the corner candy store at 198th St. and spend the few cents we had on jewel colored hard candies, which were a penny a piece.

Soon after we were sent along 198th St. to the Jewish bakery for luscious freshly baked rolls and around the corner to Briggs Ave. and the German bakery for wonderful smelling cakes and pies.

In a more mischievous vein, at about the same age, Dot and I would walk up and down Valentine Ave. She was pretty high energy (later called a firecracker) and looked for excitement. Follow along. That I did. When she told me to pull the handle on the fire alarm box at 199th St., I did so obediently and sure enough the fire truck from around the corner on Briggs Ave. came by. I honestly don’t remember if there were any consequences.

Another pastime to ward off boredom as we grew more adventuresome was getting into one of the family cars parked at the curb near the house. No one locked the car door then. Prompted by Dot we’d roll down the window, call out to passersby and stick out our tongues at them.

In the meantime, as an honor student in the fourth grade, I was chosen by the nuns at St. Francis school to be a leader in the procession of students in honor of the Blessed Mother. All of the girls were dressed in pretty white dresses and flowing lacey veils which reached down to the middle of our backs. The boys wore navy blue suits and crisp white shirts. All of this while flower petals were strewn before us down the aisle and incense filled the air.

I was also chosen to be an angel for the second-grade students making their first communion — dressed in a long white gown and a crown of flowers on my head. All this showing the dichotomy of the human condition as early as childhood.

One Day

Dot Prentice, Staff Administrative Services

Volunteering at The Mount

Catherine Hunt, Volunteer

It was meant to be temporary. I didn’t expect to stay. But months became years, and then one day I realized I’d been here ½ my life.

There were days I wanted to quit. And days that I faked it. But somehow, something would create an upswing and I would stay.

I have learned that I am stronger with a few goodbyes. And I’ve learned each is a piece to reflect on in the mosaic of my life.

It is a small town and it is a community. Welcoming, yet exclusive. It can take years or seconds to make a connection.

We all have idea of where we’ll be when we are grown up with a job. Glamorous jobs or honorable duties. Yet, I wouldn’t have thought, one day, I’d realize I’ve been here ½ my life.

I’m sitting in a resident’s room… Well that was last week. This week I have a cold so I’m stuck at home but I send my love by telepathy today. When I saw my friend last week, she asked for a mirror. “I need to see myself,” she said.

So Saturday afternoon I brought my hand mirror from home for her to use. “I look different,” she said, after studying her face in my mirror. “We all look different as we age,” I said. “Well, you’re doing great!” she said. “When are you moving in?” she asked. We’d been friends at The Mount for four years.

“Not for a while yet,” I smiled, touched by the idea. Then she handed back the mirror.

I studied my friend’s youthful, peaceful face. She was doing great too. I turned toward the beautiful, blooming plum twigs standing in a vase between her bed and the open window. Springtime air and yellow 5 o’clock light filled the quiet room.

I turned to my friend and said “Get some rest now.”

Back at home tonight, I hear the evening songbirds singing and think of my Mount connections.

Complaining is Suffering

Buddhist Zen Master Basil Singer

2

When we go with this attitude

We complain, complain and complain Not realizing we are pouring gasoline on The fire of our suffering When we finally say enough!

We can accept, meditate and be still Doing this

We can let the water of the spirit Douse that fire of our suffering

Then we see that complaining is suffering.

Martha Crawford

1974: Camping with 7 children BEHIND THE IRON CURTAIN IN THE BALKANS

Terri Erickson

The last BEACON began the adventure of Terri, Bill, and their 7 children, ages 12 years to-9 months leaving a military assignment in Turkey for their next assignment in Germany. The start of their travel through Greece on the day that Turkey and Greece began a war, challenged their border crossing, causing them to “crash through” the Turkish border. The story continues as they leave Greece.

As we drove toward Yugoslavia, I felt anxious! I dreamt of making this trip since I was a child reading off the names of the many Slavic Nations, surrounding the altar of our Slovak Parish Church. Now, my mind raced with mixed thoughts and fears.

Thinking only of what might lay ahead and remembering the comic-style books about the Soviet Union I had read as a child; would we be taken hostage if we acted suspiciously? What would be suspicious? Would they think we were spies? Were the people still fearful of their government? Were there still work camps? Gulags in Siberia? Bill must have noticed my look or felt my negative vibes because out of the blue he said,” the State Department secured us visas for the trip and did not ask us to do any fact finding, just to enjoy ourselves and meet your relatives if possible.” When I looked at him, he said “all will be well.” “I hope we find places the children find interesting,” I replied. “There are children in Eastern Europe,” he chuckled.

Yugoslavia was a Federation of 6 Balkan Countries, part of Eastern Europe which had been

given to Russia to administer after World War 2 and around which existed a strongly guarded border that prevented immigration or migration, an invisible Iron Curtain. This Soviet Union, encompassing Eastern Europe’s many Republics, formed a central Russian government. It was Atheistic Communistic and information coming to the west about it indicated it was governed with an “Iron Fist.”

Political dissidents were sent to labor camps. Westerners, especially Americans did not travel there. It was dissolved in 1991 when each of the countries became free republics. We left Greece without problem and reached the Yugoslav border around 1PM. The guards in their grey uniforms were stern. They reviewed our paperwork, counted us, and made a phone call. They inquired about our intention for the visit, and searched our car thoroughly, pulling out the door panels. “What are they looking for?” Chris, our oldest asked.

“Probably Bibles and Rosaries and Prayer books and any books,” I said. “They don’t want people to pray or read Western books.” Finding nothing, the car was put back together and our papers returned. Without smiles or a word of “Welcome,” the barrier raised and we were behind the Iron Curtain. There was silence in the car, I felt anxious as I told the children that people in these countries probably never had seen an American and to make sure they were mindful and respectful. We are going to have a fun adventure, Bill told

them. Ahead of us, stood a two story white building with a front porch. The sign, in many languages, read Tourist Store, only foreign money accepted. It had the universal symbol for toilets and restaurant. Just in time, I said, as Bill pulled the car into a parking slot.

I carried Kevin, the baby, in a front body pack, Bill placed 2 yr old Michelle in a backpack carrier and held the hand of the 3 yr old Geoff. The 2 oldest, Chris, 12, and Maria, 11, were assigned Anne, 9, and Greg’s,6, hands to hold and stay close. In the store were many local craft items, a restroom and a deli. After the restroom visits, we bought bread, sandwich items and bottled water for a picnic lunch and found disposable diapers. We paid with American Express travelers checques, accepted like dollars. We received local currency in exchange, at a rate that was posted. We did not look at other items as I felt we could get better deals shopping in the markets where prices were negotiated.

I looked forward to the day wondering what adventure Bill had in mind, we drove thru Sarajevo, home of the 1960 Winter Olympics, saw all the modern buildings still standing and sat down in one of the parks to have lunch. The children wanted to run on an Olympic track, but settled for a pathway in the park, a training area. We drove west toward the Adriatic Sea through what was Croatia and some of the most beautiful landscape we had ever seen, with rolling hills in hundreds of shades of green, small villages with small farms and small herds of farm animals on the roadway in front of us, being herded toward pastures by shepherds that probably did the same at least 100 years ago. There was the peaceful feel and smell of farmland, as we slowly followed herds of sheep, goats, or cows.

At last, Salt water air filled the car as we approached the Adriatic coast. The sunlight

was beaming down on the aqua waters forming thousands of sparkles, I felt relaxed, as suddenly the children were crying out, “Let’s go to the beach!” and “Can we climb the rocks?” Between us and the beach were remnants of a rock wall with half fallen guard posts at intervals. On a hill to the north were remnants of what may have been a castle. “Let’s go exploring” their Dad said. He drove closer and found a place to park. As there was no signage to be seen, we concluded rock climbing was OK. Out we all scampered, Bill opened the cartop carrier, pulled out a camping chair for me to relax and nurse the baby. The children began walking on the rocks heading uphill toward the castle. Bill slowed them down and somehow got them to stay closer to him, they got half way up the hill and waved back at me. I felt comfortable sitting there watching them, their laughter and conversation easily overheard. This was not as I imagined anything behind the Iron Curtain would be. As the baby nursed, I breathed in the salty air, meditated on the sparkling water and listened to Nature’s sea chant. I was relaxed, smiling, and happy, reveling in the sounds of my family’s laughter. It was a peaceful, joyful place. Then, I noticed we were the only people there. It was a sunny July day, where were the children, mothers, fathers, people? An empty beach felt unnatural.

Eventually, they all came down clutching small pieces of castle stone fragments, remembering that they wanted to beachcomb. Bill got them to sit down and rounded up all their shoes and socks into one of my string shopping bags, got a small stuff bag from the glove compartment and put it in his pocket.

As they were all climbing over the rock wall to the sand, he told them these walls protected villages from invaders that could come on boats

from other places and told them how guard posts worked. They listened to him, probably visualizing what he was saying, as someone said, “did they use bows and arrows?” “Of course,” he responded. They walked up and down the beach for a while, he let them put their feet in the surf, as they ran back from the waves. They gathered beach findings into the stuff bag. When they returned, he cleaned their feet and they all got their socks and shoes on as Bill pulled a small watermelon from out of the car and cut wedges for all of us to eat. As I finished burping the baby, Bill whispered in my ear. “There’s a black car parked down further. It has been following us since we came out of the Tourist Shop, 2 days ago.”

He fetched his camping shovel, dug a hole near the rocks, gathered all the watermelon fragments into it, and covered it up for the earth to recycle. As we got into the car, everyone wanted to know where we were going next. We’re going to find a campsite near Zagreb he told us. We’ll camp for 2 or 3 days and have some adventure drives every day. I wondered what he had planned. Bill loved to research and plan trips with scheduled surprises. I appreciated that about him, because my method of travel was: go there and just see what you find. As we got on the road, in between enjoying their beach rocks, wood, and shells, the children started looking for the universal road sign that said camping ahead and a green sign for a city that started with a capital Z and if read, said Zagreb. The two lane road, wide enough for farm machinery, was smooth black asphalt, graded for 50km/hr, unless you found yourself behind farm equipment.

Deciding to eat dinner in the city, we discovered a family style restaurant on its edge. Only one item was available, a lamb goulash and crusty bread,

with a mixed greens, feta cheese, and mixed olive salad, dressed with olive oil and lemon. Bottled spring water with lemon slices was cold and refreshing, no ice. Food was served Farm Style on a covered exterior deck of a family home. We all ate heartily. A bowl of red fresh figs was brought out for dessert.

We found a campsite on the West side of Zagreb at about dusk. It had very clean amenities and a laundromat. A bus load of guests from Poland, had pitched small 2-4 person tents in a colorful circle around a campfire. They were cooking and eating communally. We found a place to camp across the road from them, near the facilities. Bill opened the car top carrier, pulled down our tent, poles, etc. I took our laundry filled duffle and 3 year old Geoff (our happy wanderer child) to the laundromat. On the way, a black sedan passed me and pulled into a site next to the Polish bus. When I returned to our campsite, Bill and the children were pulling cots and sleeping bags into the tent in front of an audience of our Polish neighbors who were clapping loudly for the entertainment they provided.

The next morning we drove into Zagreb and found the market. Each of us carrying a string bag, we went shopping. Zagreb and the other Capitals we visited over the 3 weeks of our trip, (Belgrade, Bucharest, Budapest, Sofia, Prague, Bratislava) all had many things in common: Market stalls all had their items on a back shelf and their was no personal choice, we took the children along because if your family size was unknown, there were limits on amounts of items that could be purchased, even so, the vendor chose what you could have. If I wanted 6 tomatos, I could have 4 that he would choose. I would be given 3 large good ones and one medium smashed one. Each state capital had

a section of the city designated for housing in city block long, 5 story tall grey, rectangular buildings built in a quadrangle featured a central grassy park with playground equipment and furnished with tables where adults played checkers or chess, as well as park benches for visiting. These identical city blocks, covered a large section of every city. Everywhere we went, the man in the black sedan followed us. Local people would pretend they were talking to the children but spoke to Bill or me, in English, telling us that life was not peaceful as it appeared, there were still many jailings and gulags in Siberia, and did we know their relative in America living in (any state could be named).

Historical parts of cities were filled with tourists. Museums were open. All Churches and Mosques were locked. Every city had a Foreign Tourist, foreign money only store with high priced crafts typical of the country.

I will summarize the most memorable highlights of this trip:

Near the border entering Romania, we found ourselves on a street of double wood houses with large front porches, typical of my hometown of Lakewood, Ohio. On both sides of the street, every porch had tables filled with local crafts, homemade canned jams and jellies, pickled veggies, and a clothesline filled with colorful embroidery crafts of the women. We stopped. Each of the children chose a hand carved wood flute, Bill found a wooden men’s jewelry box with ethnic designs carved on it and I chose unusually embroidered pillowslips.

Each day after this, we enjoyed impromptu flute concerts until the flutes were “accidentally” packed in an unknown duffle bag.

Driving through the Hungarian countryside, without finding a place to stay or camp, at dusk,

we set up our table and chairs and camping stove and lanterns in an open field behind a shrub fence which hid us from the road. It was dark by the time we finished eating. We sat around making up stories about night in a field, and looking at our maps, next stop-Budapest. The baby and 2 yr old were bedded down in canvas travel cribs behind the front seat. The 2 backseats made a large flat platform on which we placed foam cot pads and the children’s sleeping bags and pillows. They each found a sleeping spot and Bill found a classical music radio station to lull us all to sleep. He then packed our folding table and chairs into the car top carrier (cage), locked it, and we decided how we were going to sleep in the front seat. We woke at sunrise. The black car was alongside and there was a man knocking on Bill’s window. “You have been robbed by Gypsies,” he said. Bill stepped out. The man pointed out our almost empty cartop carrier. The padlocks had been cut through and most of our camping gear was gone. The tent and cots were not taken. The man said, “Follow me to the police to make a report.” As Bill started driving behind him, the children needed bathrooms. Bill honked his horn and pulled over to the side of the road. The man pointed to the police station just ahead on the road. He said, “You will find all you need with the police.” My mind raced to all the negative things that could happen to us in a Soviet Police Station.

Inside the station, the man from the car spoke to the officer in Hungarian. Then, in English, guided me and the children to a large 4-stalled very clean restroom, where I found clean terry washcloths, liquid soap, clean towels and a hamper under the sink for used ones. We all cleaned up. When we came out, the English-speaking man herded us into a large room with a few large desks and chairs. On the desks were cups and a platter of sliced farm bread, butter jam, a stack of plates. The police had made coffee and tea. Bill had finished making

the report and we needed to wait for a decision. What kind of decision? I thought. By the time we finished eating, another Policeman came in with a leather bag. The English-speaking man said that he had witnessed the robbery perpetrated by Gypsies who camped nearby. He said that the Hungarian government reimbursed thefts by Gypsies, if proven. We were given paperwork that stated our losses and gave them a monetary value. This we were to take it to a bank in Budapest for cash reimbursement. We were also given a paperwork permit to shop in a certain store in Pest that carried items like those we lost for Hungarian cash only. We were told the Florins could not be taken out of the country. What a shock! We did not understand how we did not wake up with people cutting through our padlocks and stealing from the top of the car. That night we stayed in a hotel in Buda and ate in their dining room. That evening and the next day we wandered around historical sites and walked on the bridge over the GREY Danube between both parts of the city. The BLUE Danube of Vienna flowed from there to Hungary through the largest industrial complexes of this part of the Soviet Union and was VERY POLLUTED. WE chose not to take a boat ride on it. Were the men in the black cars our protectors and not spies or both? We never knew. As we drove across the border to Slovakia, another black car took over.

Slovakia near Hungary was crowned by the Tatry Mountains. This was the section of the country that my maternal grandparents’ ancestors had left before World War 1. We chose to camp in the foothills. Nearby was a part of the hiking trail that circled the entire country. We hiked on this trail occasionally while in the country. In this area, however, after leaving the foothills, the trail consisted of ladders attached to the

rocks demanding hiking on all fours to cross. We spent some time searching unsuccessfully for any possible ancestors but church records were locked inside locked churches. The second night we were camped, I woke up in the middle of the night to see my father at the foot of my bed. He had gone from Ohio into Eternity a few days before we started this trip. My bald father had the curly hair I saw on his wedding picture, and looked just as young. He seemed to speak by mental telepathy and said “Don’t be afraid, I have never seen 5 of your children and was given the gift of coming here so that I could. By the way, thanks for coming to this country so that I could see it.” He went from bed to bed gazing as if memorizing their faces. As he came back to see the baby, he stood near Bill and me and blessed all of us, then left through the closed zipper door of the tent. I did not sleep the rest of the night reminiscing about special times I spent with my father and expressed gratitude to God for the experience which completely erased any fear of death I may have had.

The center of Slovakia is filled with caves that produced gemstones. We were lowered in a steel cage elevator into a large circular cave room surrounded by shades of red stalactites and stalagmites surrounding it with red pillars. They had wooden hammers wired to them and were electrically wired to an organ that provided an hour long classical Slovak music concert, as we sat on chairs set into this giant hall. The sound was mesmerizing.

When we drove into Bratislava, the capital. The car was surrounded by people. As we parked in a space next to a tall, baroque fountain surrounded by a crowd in the city square. The square was lined with shops, each of which had long lines coming out the doors. Surprisingly, I began thinking in the Slovak I learned in my childhood, before

age 12, in my bilingual home. I understood everything that the women peering into the car at our children were saying about them, as they were shocked by finding 7. I said a Slovak “Dobre Rano” (Good morning). They asked me for relatives’ last names. When I told them, they said, “those are Rom names, Hitler killed them all.” About that time, a man speaking English came to me saying “I’ll take you to find breakfast for your family.” He took me across the square past a long line to the front of a bakery counter, explaining to everyone that I was Slovak American with 7 small children that needed breakfast. Every one cheered as I said “Good Morning” and “Thank you for understanding” in Slovak. The clerk, gave me a large loaf of Crusty bread, about a pound of butter, about a kg of Farm cheese, a jar of cherry jam and asked me if I saw anything in the counter. I asked for 2 dozen kolachky, small cheese pastries like my grandmother and mother made. I only had American Dollars, which she preferred, and asked me for $5. I could only find a $10 bill She gave me some Slovak bills in return. As I left, many of the women hugged me and thanked me for coming. Feeling at home, I went back to the car. Bill was drinking one of the two cups of coffee someone gave him and the children were drinking apple juice. When I went into the car, there was a jug of apple juice on the floor. The people were asking us to step out of the car. As we did, a local news photographer took a picture of us with our car. He interviewed us about ourselves and the names and ages of our children. We never saw the story. It was not in the morning paper and we had to leave after a farm style breakfast in the hotel. We were given a cloth bag with a loaf of bread, round of cheese, a jar of jam and some apples to take along. The Slovak people as hospitable as my childhood neighbors in Cleveland. The Czech Republic, was part of Czechoslovakia,

a country of many thermal, curative hot springs with spas. The ages of our children prevented us from enjoying them. The highlight of our trip was the capital — Prague, with beautiful architecture and the famous Charles Bridge. As we walked over the life size sculpture lined bridge at dusk, the lantern topped light posts came on. At the far end of the bridge, a 12 piece ensemble from the Prague Symphony was playing Smetana’s “der Moldau” as we gazed into the lights sparkling down on the Moldau River below us. This was the city in which my father’s parents were born, raised, and married. We reached the Czech-German border at about noon, the next day. It was a 2 hour wait, as the guards emptied our car, took out all side panels and seats and frisked through our 8 duffle bags (looking for people trying to escape, we thought). Finally we were in Germany! It was a 6 hour drive to Pirmasens, our next assignment on the French border. “Let’s find a place to get some Bratwurst!” suggested Bill. It was not long before we were in a Gasthaus savoring Wurst and Kraut and Pommes Frites! Our adventure was over, we surmised. How wrong we were!

Sylvia Dongieux

Working at The Mount

Leah Franklin, Staff Recreational Therapist

About 20 years ago, when I was working as a telemarketer, I realized I wasn’t telling people the truth in selling travel packages. I saw an ad in the local paper for a volunteer at Mount St. Vincent and became a volunteer in activities and later as an on-call resident aide (RA). I applied for a parttime RA position and a year later became a full-time RA.

People kept asking me to apply for the recreational therapist position in activities, especially because I knew how to drive a bus. Also, the residents became my friends. I will always remember them. I even see people who look like them after they passed. I don’t know why. I pray for them.

I feel the activities position is perfect for me since I was successful as a telemarketer and use these skills to encourage residents to join in the many activities we have here. That is my connection to the Mount.

Mika Diaz

Connecting with MYSTERY on a Beach

Terri Erickson

Upon driving through a lush green canyon, under a green bough canopied roadway, dappled with bright sunlight, the car filled with salt-water scented air, we found it! This little known golden sandy beach on the Pacific, south of Los Angeles, was a crescent cove about 5000 ft. wide and almost the same length deep. There were less than 50 quiet people there. PERFECT! A quiet place to meditate and de-stress. The aqua blue waves broke into sliders that crept onto the sand, creating a dark, wet packed sandy area; perfect for sculpture building. A light cooling breeze swept around the sunny cove. We chose a spot near the canyon rocky cliff and set out our beach towels and placed our picnic cooler between a boulder and the cliff.

My sister and I wore bathing suits with Hawaiian sarongs tied at the waist to make long skirts. After lathering ourselves with sunscreen, we relaxed on the towels letting it soak into our skin. The warmth of the sun and light breeze in this cove along with the soft hot sand molding to our bodies under us, lead to total relaxation. Breathing the salt air cleared my sinuses. Suddenly Psalm 46:10 “Be still and know that I am God” filled my thoughts. As I exhaled every breath I found myself letting go of my thoughts and emotions until my mind and emotions were still. I entered a place of mindful being. The place of silence in the natural world He created for our Joy. The music of the place created by ocean waves, breezes, and some birds on the cliff chatting created a “heavenly moment” and filled my ears. I was totally immersed in this surprise spiritual gift of Interior silence basking in His surrounding “Language of Love.”

Suddenly, Lucy ran out to the waves for a swim. The waves sliding onto the beach, deposited bubbly foam on the wavy, dark, sandy line along the length of the beach, before they crept back to the sea. I found myself meditatively walking with my inner stillness on this line between hot and cool sand. The bubbles cooled my feet and massaged my toes. Stepping deeply into the wet sand, my feet felt softened. I strolled along this wavy line, inhaling and exhaling the salty air slowly, when a sudden larger wave covered my feet up to my ankles. When it rolled out, I felt something cold and heavy on my right foot. Thoughts began creeping into my mind. “What’s on my foot?”

I looked down to see a red rock in the shape of a flat, red granite pentagon. Picking it up, I turned it over and gazed at it, spellbound. At the peak of the 3"x 3" pentagon I saw distinct eyes nose and mouth of a man. The two diagonal sides looked like

shoulders and the parallel sides had raised sections on either side that looked like sleeves on a robe, across them diagonally. The “shoulder to foot” sculpted area was a raised figure of a reclining woman. The bottom edge was thick and appeared to be the bottom of a flowing gown on top of a flat base. The base allowed the rock to stand upright in my hand. Gazing at it, I thought of God holding me in His arms. I had just been through a very difficult year and I thought it was an affirmation from God that it was He who had held me up during this time. With a tear in my eye, I went back to my towel and asked my sister what she saw in it. She said that God was possibly preparing me for times to come and sent me a personal Mandala. I wondered: What forces of Nature had been choreographed to create this sculpture? What caused its landing on my foot at this time of my life bringing me a clear personal message? What was the origin of one large wave of water in the midst of all those sliders? How many years was this sculpture in the making? Red is the color of Love. This gift comforted me and I felt loved. I felt blessed that God spoke to me through this rock.

Mandala= a geometric figure representing the universe in many spiritual traditions

Terri Erickson

John Goss dropped in on one of our Writer’s Group meetings and after listening to the above story, summed it up by this Haiku/saying. The group thought this very profound, and want to share his words with our readers.

Haiku Dr. John Goss

2

I see I need to just be In order to know

Emory Sizemore

Sandra Mostoller

Jean Bullard graduated from Mount Holyoke College with a major in Zoology and became a writer/editor for the National Parks Service. She has also written several books. She and her husband, Bill, a national park ranger naturalist, raised 4 children in National Park areas and the family traveled to 36 countries. Jean also has 7 grandchildren and 4 great grandchildren. At age 93, writing is still part of her life.

Robert Christian received a BA in Education from Concordia Teachers College in Illinois and an MS in Educational Administration from Columbia University in New York. Bob taught elementary and secondary education in Lutheran Schools in the Bronx, Hong Kong, and finally in Seattle. Bob and his wife, Arleen, have 5 children, 9 grandchildren and 3 great grandchildren.

Terri Erickson earned a BS in Biochemistry from Notre Dame College, Ohio and a MS in Biology from Fordham University. She was editor of her high school newsletter and wrote for the Cleveland News. Terri is mother of 7 children, 16 grandchildren and 1 great granddaughter. “I write because I take pleasure in writing.”

Rita Schneider, a Contributing Writer, graduated as a registered nurse from St. Louis University’s St. John’s Hospital School of Nursing. She has been writing since childhood and put her memories of the early days of living in St. Louis into a book for her family. She has three sons and two granddaughters.

Joan Weeks, a Contributing Writer, earned a Bachelor of Arts degree in Science from Oberlin College, Ohio, and did graduate work at Pennsylvania State University. Joan married an Air Force pilot who was killed in Southeast Asia. They had four children, nine grandchildren and five great grandchildren. “Writing has always been important in helping me to understand my life.”

Other contributors: Paul De Anguera Leah Franklin John Glover Dr. John Goss Catherine Hunt Dot Prentice Basil Singer Miel Tieng

Thank you to our contributing guest artists: Martha Crawford Annabelle Davis Mika Diaz Sylvia Dongieux Nancy Elliott Pauline Lemaire, S.P. Sandra Mostoller Cathy Nilon Mary Santi Emory Sizemore Harriet Schulman

Ellie Wilson

In Loving Memory

Deborah Boomer 1952–1919

Caroline Crabtree 1922–1919

Lindy Newell 1953–2019

Joan Nilon 1938–2019

Lynne Wasson 1937–2019

Mystery

S.P.

Contributions in support of the arts, resident programs, and those in need here at The Mount, are gratefully received and appreciated. www.providence.org/themountdonate

4831 35th Ave SW, Seattle, WA 98126 206-938-6194

4831 35th Ave SW Seattle, WA 98126

4831 35th Ave SW Seattle, WA 98126

Pauline Lemaire,