The Beacon - Winter/Spring 2018

and

A Collection of Art

Writing from the Residents of Providence Mount St. Vincent

Contents

Art, Moussa Coulibaly Cover Art, Sylvia Dongieux ......................... 1 New York Mardi Gras Jazz Uptown New York Joan Nilon 2 Art, Sister Alberta Keebler 3

New York City… Additional Thoughts Robert Christian ............................ 4–5

Jean at the Met, NYC, Age 11, 1935 Jean Valens Bullard 6 Art, Jean Valens Bullard 6 Subway Soliloquy at the pole Joan Nilon 7

Miles Davis Art, Harriet Schulman ....................... 7 2 Park Avenue by Joan Weeks 8–9 Art, Peter Kok 9 Art, Pauline Lemaire, S.P. 10 Rita in NYC in the 1940’s Rita Schneider 11 New York Adventure Terri Erickson............................. 12–13 Art, Terri Erickson ............................ 13

Christmas Eve in New York City Patricia Szabo 14–15 Art, Mary Santi 15 Art, Harriet Schulman ..................... 16

Memories of Christmas Harriet Schulman 17

My New York Story

Deborah Boomer 18–19 Art, John Goss ................................ 19 Mr. Clown Lynne Wasson 20–21 Alaskan Serendipity 1992 Caroline Crabtree .................... 22–23 Art, Caroline Crabtree 23 Art, Sandra K. Mostoller 24 Biographies and photos of contributors .................... 25 The Circus has Left Town Art, Sylvia Dongieux Back cover

The Beacon is made possible by the generous donors of the Providence Mount St. Vincent Foundation.

Published by PMSV, 4831 35th Ave SW, Seattle WA 98126

Winter/Spring 2018 Contributors:

Joan Nilon, editor and writer

Deborah Boomer, writer Jean Bullard, writer and artist

Robert Christian, writer Caroline Crabtree, writer and artist Terri Erickson, writer Rita Schneider, writer Harriet Schulman, writer and artist

Patricia Szabo, guest writer Lynne Wasson, writer and artist Joan Weeks, writer

Winter/Spring 2018

Sylvia Dongieux

m We love New York ... and other places too! /

New York Mardi Gras

Joan Nilon

Fat frozen Tuesday dripping its clear icicles into gray half-frozen slush unable to stop its winter self from breaking through in icy drip drops A swollen pipe about to spill its guts in red force to the beat of the screeching horns along the ghost of 52nd Street

Jazz Uptown

Joan

Nilon

New York

Joan Nilon

The seed of ambition throbs In your steely loins It bursts Into abundant fruit Nourishing the growing passion Of your children

As you revel In their successes

Reflected In your red neon glow

New York

Your love is tough It nurtures and lets go

Dark, smoky club up in Harlem splendid Dakota Staton warbling jazzy songs of my youth On stage black and white trio under a pink spot backs the hot Dakota shimmering in white satin down to earth with Girl Talk and flying with Skylark making cool love to the lusty bass next to her A ghostly pale woman in dull black grimaces in ecstasy at the notes her fingers pull from the taut strings in superb rhythm to piano and drums Paradise peaks at the fusion of past and present.

Sister Alberta Keebler

New York City… Additional Thoughts

Robert Christian 2

New York City, with our home in the Bronx, was an interesting, stimulating, fun place for us to live, 1949-1966. Our four children, three girls and a boy were born there and experienced “New York City life.” Our fifth child, another girl, was born later, in Hong Kong. We enjoyed the Italian neighborhood where we lived. Our Italian neighbor’s home was right next to ours, separated only by a narrow sidewalk, walkway. The neighbors could look right into our kitchen, from their kitchen window into our kitchen, and vice versa. On Saturdays, they were always cooking up a big Italian meal for use on Sunday, when members of their family came from different parts of the city to visit them, and we could always enjoy the wonderful odors of their cooking.

The man of the house next door grew his own grapes in his back yard, making his own wine, and storing it in a “wine cellar of his house.” There also were children in that house, with a family name of Lamentino, good playmates for our children. One year there was also the “hoola hoop” craze, and our children had the hoops too. One evening after dark, I too took a hoop, and was determined to make it work, but I soon got the answer from a voice from the dark back yard next door, which said, “Mr. Christiaanson, You no ‘shakeda so good’.”

Our children also enjoyed the museums of New York City. In fact, our oldest daughter, Ann, age 10 or so, would take her older brother and two younger sisters on the bus and subway to visit some of the museums and other places of interest. Some of the things we enjoyed in the city was shopping in the big Department Stores downtown such as Alexanders and Macy’s. When downtown, we would often eat at an Automat, giving each of the kids a handful of quarters and letting them look into the many small food compartments, all with glass doors, to see what was inside, then inserting a quarter or two, and taking out the foods of their choice.

We had major snowfalls fairly frequently in the city, and when this took place over night, Ann, who usually made breakfasts for the family, would get up early, and listen to the radio to see if the public schools were closing. If so, she would tell me, and I

would go over to the school where I was principal, to answer the phone from parents who were checking if our school, Our Saviour Lutheran, was also closing. Ann would stay at the phone at home to answer the questions from parents who called there about possible school closing.

Strikes were quite common in the city, and it seemed that the workers of service organizations would take turns over the years about going out on strike. This might affect transportation services, garbage collections, and other groups.

New York City was a big sports city too, especially baseball, where there were three teams for a while, New York Yankees, Brooklyn Dodgers, and the New York Mets located in Shea Stadium in Queens. My mother and dad, who were living in Chicago, tried to visit us in New York City each year, and Arleen’s parents, living in rural Iowa managed to come out and help all the way from rural Iowa, traveling by bus or train, when each of our four children was born.

My dad was a staunch baseball fan, especially rooting for the Chicago Cubs, and one time when the Cubs were in town to play the Dodgers, I took him to the Dodgers Ebbets Field to see a game. In the 7th inning, the score was still zero to zero, when the first batter up for the Cubs hit a double. Well, New York City people were generally very friendly, but dad found out this was not true relative to baseball. When that Cubs runner got on base, my dad stood up and boldly cheered, only to find that the man seated in back of him took his rolled-up newspaper, hit my dad over the head and said, “You are in Brooklyn. That’s the only team you cheer for here.”

All in all, The Bronx and New York City were good places for us to live. Our children had many playmates and our family altogether had many helpful friends. New Yorkers also had their own language twists and phrases too, and we somewhat adapted to that. When we left New York City and someone asked us where we had come from, I said we lived 17 years in the Bronx, and they might say, “Yes, your speech betrays you.” … Additionally, the years in New York City, with the varied cultures and experiences there, served as a place from where the transition to later living in Hong Kong was noticeably assisted.

Jean at the Met, NYC, Age 11, 1935

Jean Valens Bullard

When I was eleven, my parents took me and my brother, Red, to the Metropolitan Opera in New York City. The opera was Aida. They told us the story so we could know what was happening on stage. It was in Italian but we knew the story and we could laugh in the right places so people thought we were Italian. My father had learned a little Italian but my mother and brother, Red did not know any.

Going to the Met was the big and only event or play that we went to each year. Now at age 93, I still remember those operas. I even learned some of the tunes and could hum along when watching them.

The opera house was huge, full of people all dressed up. Not many kids in the audience. My brother and I were extra polite on these wonderful opera days.

Carmen was another one I remembered because Carmen tripped and fell. Her partner, Don Jose helped her up but she was very upset. The music was lively so even people in the audience were tapping their feet to the music.

We sat in the second row so we could see everything right in front of us. That was one of the few times they let my brother and me sit next to each other so we could whisper to each other. No matter what language the opera was in — French, German, Spanish — since we knew the plot we could enjoy what was happening on the stage.

Going together as a family to the Metropolitan Opera was one of my favorite things we did together.

Jean Bullard

Subway Soliloquy at the pole

Joan Nilon Hey there Did ya recognize me Kiss kiss Sway sway It’s hot today Ya know This guy on the train The other day Pushed against me I ignored him He muttered filth I said Say anything you want But if ya touch me, I’ll bop ya With anything I have In this here bag This your stop Oh well Good to see ya Kiss kiss Sway sway

Harriet Schulman

Miles Davis

by Joan Weeks

It goes without saying, going to the city was a big deal. We were dressed up, Mary Jane’s and all. As young children, my sister, Julie, about eight years old and I, about ten, would go on the train from Ossining, New York, down to New York City with our mom, to dad’s office at 2 Park Avenue in mid-town Manhattan.

From the elevator we entered through a large glass door with printing on it, and then someone, probably dad, would lift both of us up onto a drafting table and all the secretaries and office types would oh and ah over the two of us. Everyone was talking and I felt a bit overwhelmed by all of the attention.

Either Julie or I would spot Shami, the Hindu man, mom and dad had befriended and who, occasionally, would accompany dad home on a Friday evening and stay in the “country” for the weekend.

When the weather in New York City was sunny and warm, my mom, Julie, myself and several of mom and dad’s friends from the drafting room would go out onto the roof and look out to the majestic Empire State building, the cathedral-like Chrysler building and all the many buildings and streets of the city. And of course, we would peer over the parapet and see all the eenie, weenie people walking on the sidewalk about forty stories below.

If the senior partner, Mr. Kahn, was out of the office, Bob Jacobs, another partner, would take us off to see all the treasures in Mr. Kahn’s office. Oh, how luxurious this place was: a thick Oriental carpet of dark reds and deep blues, with occasional touches of green, so thick one sank into it, and then there was the burnished mahogany wood of the bookshelves. The heavy, silk brocade drapes were drawn closed so the sun wouldn’t bleach the contents. In perfect position, was the very large and imposing desk of Mr. Kahn, the founder of this prestigious architectural firm. In here, the noise of the street traffic was muffled. Someone said, “Don’t touch the figurine on the table.” And so, that is how it was as a ten-year-old: special and exciting.

Several years later, in my junior year at college, working toward a Bachelor of Arts in Science degree, I had to take a lot of science and math courses. These were always difficult for me and I never enjoyed them. My junior year almost proved to be my undoing. It was mid-January and I was faced with exams in physics, chemistry and calculus. I took all of the exams but, woe was me, I earned a D in chemistry. That was not acceptable and I could not let it be my final grade.

The only way to change the grade was to go to summer school at New York University in Greenwich Village, away downtown in New York City. And so, each day I would go

on the train with my dad. I loved going to that incredible city each day. I’d get off the train, walk through the cavernous Grand Central Station and exit onto Vanderbilt Avenue at 42nd Street. At Fifth Avenue, I came face to face with the majestic golden lions guarding the New York City public library. I regret that I never made time to go inside but I’d get on the Fifth Avenue bus and travel downtown to Greenwich Village and a New York University classroom. I was able to change the D in chemistry on my transcript, to a B plus. This was so much more acceptable! And, in the process, I met Florence, a dark, ebony black woman from Ghana whose laugh I can almost hear these many years later.

There is an energy in New York City; one feels invigorated, one breathes a little deeper and exhales a bit longer and if you stop and think about it, you feel something that’s endemic to that city. It’s akin to an excitement that permeates your being. It’s hard to explain to someone who’s never been there but it’s almost as though the city itself pumps out something. I believe it’s hard to be depressed in New York City.

That summer I enjoyed spending time with my dad, as well. It was a time when his office consulted with a much larger and more wellknown architect, on the Seagram Building in New York City. I recall one summer day when we went down to the huge hole being excavated in the ground and watched, after donning yellow hard hats, as the workmen poured the concrete foundations. And another time, after the building was finished, going to lunch at the Four Seasons restaurant

in the lobby of this beautiful glass and bronze building. It was one of my most enjoyable and impressive restaurant experiences ever.

Another time I recall walking from Dad’s office at 2 Park Avenue over to Grand Central Station. The ground sloped downward a bit and we were walking with Irene, a woman who worked in Dad’s office. It was five o’clock in the afternoon and we were walking at a pretty good clip, something that happens in New York City. Anyway, I recall Irene wearing a sleeveless, eggplant purple blouse and a full skirt with a cinched waist. I felt turned off around this woman who seemed too flirty with my father and I so wanted to tell her to shave the thick tufts of dark hair under both her arms, as well as on her legs. How come she was with Dad and why wasn’t her husband, who also worked in Dad’s office, with her?

I found out later she and my father were having an affair. And how did I find this out? Well, my father told me.

Peter Kok

Pauline Lemaire, S.P.

Rita in NYC in the 1940’s Rita Schneider 2

In my mid-twenties, I inherited several hundred dollars. I decided to spend it on something special. After some time and thoughtful consideration, I decided on a trip to Europe, sponsored by a group of about 15 from St. Louis University, a Jesuit University. St. Louis is my home town and we would leave for Europe from New York City. This was my only time ever visiting New York. It was exciting, lots of fun and I liked it a lot. We spent about five days there, staying in a plain, drab, inexpensive hotel, but we had a great time seeing the sights. I remember well taking the ferry out to the Statue of Liberty and the elevator to the top of the Empire State Building. What a wonderful sight. There was so much traffic and so many people when we took the subway. Everyone was always in a hurry, especially in Grand Central Station. We had lunch in Child’s restaurant and took in a matinee, a musical, on Broadway.

We started in Holland at a university in Amsterdam. I especially like Holland. It was so clean and organized. What a wonderful trip during the late 1940’s!

New York Adventure Terri Erickson

It is a grey, drizzly day in Seattle and I had a flashback to a day like it when my fantasy started in Lakewood, Ohio. I was eight years old, and bored. I took an umbrella and danced up Madison Ave. two blocks to the local library. When I walked into the Children’s section, I spotted a magazine with a cover photo of a line of costumed synchronized dancers. The title was: “The Radio City Music Hall Rockettes.”

I found my favorite spot to read: a bay window with a fluffy cushion. As I paged through the magazine, there in front of me was laid out the adventures of the women dancers in New York and clips of them in various costumes and dance formations through seasons of the year. I had recently seen the movie “Easter Parade” with Fred Astaire and Judy Garland dancing down 5th Ave. in NYC. And I could visualize myself as a dancer on the streets of New York… so began my fantasy dream. I would ask my parents for dance lessons and become a “Rockette” living in New York. The family budget would not allow dance lessons. So, I continued to make up dances and dance around the backyard through the flowers and around the trees.

When I started High School, even though I wore uniforms, my mother began giving me a subscription to “Seventeen” Magazine. I was able to choose one outfit each month, and she would call around stores in Cleveland to see if they carried it. Usually she ended up calling the store in New York City that featured it, and before long it arrived in a box from Macy’s or Gimbels, Bloomingdales, or Saks, all strange names of stores I longed to wander through. And then my fantasy of dancing, living and shopping in New York was rekindled.

In my Junior year of college, I applied to Columbia University for a Graduate Fellowship and to Fordham University in the Bronx for a Graduate Teaching Assistantship. I was awarded the Fordham Assistantship, to my family’s delight, because it was a Jesuit School, and all my education had been in Catholic Schools. The award included $90 a month living expenses and all my educational costs including books and research materials. My commitment

was eight hours a week teaching in the School of Pharmacy laboratories and my availability to substitute lecture for two professors, for which I would be paid $5 extra for each lecture.

I was elated to go to New York City and, found room and board with an Irish family near Fordham University. At $45 a month, I discovered transportation on the subway or buses would average $10 a month, Laundromat $5 a month and I had $30 a month or more for flexible spending. Eating out in restaurants like Luchow’s, German food, or Mama Leone’s, Italian, my two favorites, averaged $6 a person for 3 courses. Meatball subs near the university cost $1.

Although my studies and research consumed most of my time, I would spend some time each week exploring the city, its museums, 5th Ave. and Madison Ave. shops, and the 42nd St. theatre district. The first show I attended was a movie at Radio City followed by a Rockettes’ performance. I no longer longed to be a member of that group. Instead I focused on developing teaching and more scientific research skills. I made friends with fellow students, most of whom were East Indian and I discovered an interest in different cultures and a desire to travel to other countries.

I received my graduate degree at the end of one year, married a US Army Lieutenant who was born in New York City and travelled to Germany within the next year. I began teaching Environmental Science for the University of Maryland in Europe, which needed a science professor so that military students could complete degree requirements. In New York I found adventure and the foundations of a career, along with lifelong interests in live theatre, art, and learning.

Christmas Eve in New York City

Patricia Szabo

Christmas Eve in New York City. What a wonderful place to be. Alex and I, along with Molly, Billy and Eva have come to the city for the holiday.

A walk to Bryant Park, just behind the Library on 42nd Street is on the agenda for this Christmas Eve afternoon. Leaving Alex in the hotel, so he can rest for this evening’s celebration with our friends, the rest of us walk the six blocks to the park. It’s warm and sunny and the park is full of people going in and out of the artisan pop-up shops. We wander over to the huge Christmas tree in the center of the park, and just as I’m walking up the steps, a young man drops to one knee and proposes to his girlfriend. It’s a magical moment and I unzip my bag to get my camera to snap a picture. Molly, Billy and Eva are at the tree and I snap a picture of them as well. What a perfect day. We walk into a shop and as I get ready to make a purchase, my hand in my bag can’t locate my wallet. I know the texture and shape of this wallet. Surely I don’t need to look inside my bag to locate it…but I do.

My eyes and my hand search for that slim distinctive leather case. My heart starts to pound, I can’t find it! It’s not there. I look up at the clerk, eyes pleading, “I can’t find my wallet,” I say. He encourages me to look again. When I’m completely sure that it’s not there, I tell Molly that I’m going back to the hotel. During that six block walk-run back to the hotel, I review: everything I need for the trip is in that wallet, credit cards, cash, and driver’s license. Do I know who to call to cancel the cards and what about the money…it can’t be replaced and then how am I going to fly home with no ID.

I try to calm myself, try to reassure myself that I can take care of this, but hell no, I am not calm, I am upset at myself for opening my bag, I am disappointed in humanity and the person who is probably making thousands of dollars of charges on my cards, and I am sad that 2017 has been such a bad year, and that it’s going to end like this.

By the time I get back to the hotel, the adrenalin has coursed through my body and I can feel it seep through my ears. I’m in the elevator. The trip to the sixteenth floor seems to take forever. I don’t have my room key — it was in my wallet, so I bang, with a fist, on our door and yell for Alex to open up.

The door comes open and I fly in — feet not even touching the floor. “What’s wrong,” he says. I don’t answer. I’m busy scanning the room for that lovely flowered wallet. My eyes could pick it up in a second, but it’s not in sight.

I rip my coat off and throw it on the bed. I look at Alex, “I’ve been pick-pocketed,” I whisper and catapult myself onto the bed. I am just going to allow myself a huge temper tantrum before I get down to business. I kick, I scream, I cry out to the universe. I kick a bag off the bed and there it is. I would know it anywhere…my lovely flowered wallet full of all my “stuff.”

I wouldn’t exactly call it a Christmas miracle, but for me it was close and it prompted me to know that my New Year’s resolution was to be: RESTRAINT.

Mary Santi

Harriet Schulman

Memories of Christmas

Harriet Schulman

2

My next door neighbor Trudy was my best friend. Her mother was Italian and her father was Jewish. They invited me to their apartment for Christmas. I was about five years old. I came in my pajamas and tiptoed in. There was a gigantic Christmas tree. Real. With huge globes shining.

Adopted by this Italian family, Uncle Joe, Uncle Charlie and Ben were pleasantly drunk. They had tinsel and decorations. All very large for a five-year old. Grandma Rota all in black came to cook for the party. Lasagna with real parmigiana and flowing red wine. They played Peter and the Wolf on their phonograph and I got a present from my Aunt Rita — “ballet shoes.” I was ecstatic.

It happened again the next year. This was all in a fourth floor tenement in the Bronx.

My New York Story

Deborah Boomer

My grandma Winnie used to tell me tales of the excitement that is New York City. The art, the people, the sites, the sounds. Flying there for the first time and seeing the infamous skyline, I was surprised just how many people were compressed within such a small area. It was my first visit, but also my new home.

After 13 long years of night school to receive my bachelor’s degree in sociology, and working 40–50 hours per week at my job with the phone company, I was ready for a change — a new way of seeing the world.

With my limited savings I made a reservation at the YMCA on 34th St. and decided I would live there while I got my bearings. It was cheap — $16/night — and I liked it that way. I spent the first few days walking everywhere. I quickly learned the subway system which was such a joy. Walking just half a block I could stumble upon a subway station, go down the stairs and find an amazing world below the streets of the bustling city. Talented street musicians frequented the waiting platforms and each busker made me feel blessed with music. Who needs to buy tickets for the orchestra?

Initially, I had wanted to play tourist for a few weeks, but after only several days I found myself looking at the “help wanted” jobs in the paper. I stumbled upon a listing for an entry level job in a local art museum and decided to give them a call. Right away I was

scheduling an interview; not for the museum job, but for a position as marketing clerk.

During this short time frame, I had found a women’s residency run by the Salvation Army; however they wouldn’t let me rent a room until I had a steady income. Once that was in place, I left the YMCA and jumped ship to the residency in Greenwich Village.

If you’re still following along, this 34-year-old young woman from Spokane, Washington, had uprooted to the opposite side of the country, found a good paying job, a roof over her head, and quickly began to feel at home. I surprised even myself how soon everything seemed to fall in place.

So the adventure began. Every other Friday, I would collect my paycheck and go directly to Times Square to purchase a discount ticket to see a Broadway show. I saw Cats, Penn & Teller, American in Paris, A Chorus Line, Sunset Boulevard, The Nerd, and Dream Girls (one of my favorites). I took walking tours of Harlem, The South Bronx, and the Lower East Side and attempted to see the inside of the Apollo Theater, until my group was stopped at the front doors and told they had “just vacuumed the floors.” Code for “buy a ticket.” I saw Shakespeare in the Park — Central Park that is — and was just in awe of the culture I was exposed to in such a short period of time.

New York changed me. The ability to experience so many things that I had seen

in movies or read in books, in person was no longer someone else’s experience. It was my own. You didn’t have to be anyone but yourself, which gave me an overwhelming sense of self confidence I had never felt before. I always heard folks say if you can succeed in New York you can make it anywhere, and I proved to myself I could. That it was possible.

As the year of wonderment came to a close, the sequence of events that made it so easy to stay in the city all of a sudden began falling out of place. The house I owned in

Seattle wasn’t selling, my grandfather was sick, a toxic person came into the job, and the relationship I had was falling apart. It made sense to make yet another change in returning back to Seattle.

On the airplane home, I was reminded of the blue, blue water, and the lush green vegetation, and it seemed to make leaving all the culture, diversity, new friendships, and the adventure a little easier. I left kicking and screaming. But if I hadn’t come back, I wouldn’t have had my wonderful daughter.

John Goss

Lynne Wasson

Alaskan Serendipity 1992

Caroline Crabtree

We decided on the Chena River boat trip and while wandering around when the boat docked, I suddenly realized I had left my purse on board. We had been off the boat a good half hour so panic set in. All my money was in it. I hurried back. It was right where I’d left it — untouched! Amazing!!

Back on-board, Bonnie suddenly discovered she had lost the dangle from her earring. Her favorite pair! She looked around on the floor and looked through her hat and coat, but it wasn’t there. She reported it to a crew member in case anyone turned it in and then went to the gift shop and bought another pair.

We had to be up early Monday morning and be in the lobby by seven thirty for a van to take us to the train depot. As Bonnie started to undress, she suddenly gasped and said, “I felt something fall — oh, oh!” She reached into her bra and came up with the missing medallion from her earring! How about that!!? First we recover my purse and then Bonnie’s earring. Bonnie said, “We are leading charmed lives. It must be because we went to church this morning.” Thank you God.

On the highway coming in we had noticed a gift shop with a big sign, “Everything half price.” We asked at the desk if there was a bus running so we could get back to it. We were told no, no busses, but if you call them, I’ll bet they’ll come and get you. So we called them and they sent a van. The van was

equipped with chains but one of the links was broken. That broken link clanked all the way to the shop. What a noise! The shop was upstairs above a rather rustic looking restaurant and it was a shopper’s paradise. We all bought quite a bit. We shopped an hour or so. Then Bonnie asked if they would take us back to the lodge. He looked at all our packages and said, “It looks like you’ve bought enough so we’ll take you back.”

We were all ready to take our bags and walk to the pick-up area when there was a knock on the door. It was a very nice looking young man who said, “We have a Cherokee and are making a sweep around to see if anyone needs a ride to the lodge.” Talk about God providing! He seems to be working overtime for us on this trip.

In Anchorage the people were telling us they had a sandstorm yesterday. The wind blew about 40 to 45 miles an hour and the lava dust was picked up and blown around. We had just missed another disaster. God is good. We are living charmed lives!

On our way to Portage in our rented car, as we were driving along Cook Inlet, Linda and I both spotted something white in the water quite close to our shore. “Bonnie, stop!” says I. “There is something in the water.” To our amazement, it was a tremendous pod of Beluga whales. I swear. There must have been at least fifty, spread out, slowing making their

way towards Anchorage. It was a thrilling sight. Later we saw a lone Trumpeter swan on a lake. The scenery was beautiful. The fall colors are much in evidence all along the way. Once in Homer we walked to the Salty Dog Saloon, the oldest building in existence there. A real relic with sawdust on dirt floors and a bar counter full of carved names of people probably long dead. Linda and Bonnie each had a drink and I asked for the car keys. About this time I discovered the pin that held my scarf to my jacket was missing and I had locked the keys in the car. We managed with help to get the door open and go on our way. We found a Russian community and saw their church. It was stunning with gold inlaid religious pictures on the outside. I took a picture. Then we drove to the highway and headed back towards Soldatna. We reached Ninilchik just at sunset. Linda parked exactly where Bonnie had earlier. When we opened the doors and got out, Bonnie said, “You aren’t going to believe this but here is your pin.” She reached down and picked it up. We had been gone seven hours. How many tourists had tramped those grounds; how many cars had parked there or driven over those grounds? And yet the pin was still there and undamaged in any way. I just can’t believe our luck on this trip.

Time to go home. At the ticket counter we were told a plane was scheduled to leave at

one twenty. We had to hurry to the gate to get our names on the waiting list. When they announced, “One minute until the doors close,” they told us they had seats for us. There would be no meals for us but they had snacks. However, when it came to mealtime we were told they had plenty of food and they fed us. How lucky can we get? We have lived charmed lives on this trip. Was it because we all went to

Caroline Crabtree

Sandra K. Mostoller

The Beacon Contributors

Deborah Boomer received a BA in Sociology from the University of Washington and a MA in Psychology from Antioch University in Seattle. After being central office technician at a Seattle phone company for 21 years, she spent 20 years as a private practice psychotherapist while also working as an emergency room clerk at Swedish. Deborah has one married daughter who she walked down the aisle in May 2017.

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.

Caroline Crabtree was the Valedictorian of Holy Rosary High School’s first graduating class. She has 5 daughters, 7 grandchildren, 9 great grandchildren and 2 great great grandchildren. She has lived at PMSV for 10 years.

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.”

Joan Nilon, The Beacon’s Editor and Contributing Writer, earned a B.A. in Communications from Fordham University and a M.A. in Writing from New York University. She has published in several genres: Journalism, Newsletters, Fiction and Poetry and has taught both creative and business writing. Joan has three children and three grandchildren. Her daughter, Cathy, is a Chaplain at PMSV. “I write to reflect what I see and experience.”

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.

Harriet Schulman, a Contributing Writer and Artist, earned a B.A. in Art from Brooklyn College and has shown her work at Art/Not Terminal in Seattle. At a writing class at PMSV she was taught how to write succinctly, like haiku.

Lynn Wasson, earned her law degree at the University of Michigan. After practicing law, she taught third grade for many years, which she loved. She started writing here at The Mount in her free time as ideas come to her and she illustrates her stories. Lynne has two daughters, one grandson and one granddaughter.

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.”

Thank you to our contributing guest artists:

Moussa Coulibaly

Sylvia Dongieux

John Goss

Sr. Alberta Keebler

Pauline Lemaire, S.P. Sandra K. Mostoller Mary Santi

The Circus has Left Town

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

Sylvia Dongieux