Jean Valens Bullard

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

2

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.

Joan Weeks

2

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.