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EXPRESSIONS Selections

From

The Varenna Writers Club

Vol. 1 No. 1

2011

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Expressions Selections

From The Varenna Writers Club

Volume 1

2011

Edited by Susan Bono

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Copyright © 2011

Susan Bono: editor

Jennifer March: book layout

Laurie MacMillan: cover design

Elisabeth Levy: back cover photo

ISBN: 978-1467998222

The Varenna Writers Club is sponsored by Varenna at Fountaingrove.

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Dedicated to all the stories a heart can hold

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CONTENTS

Dorothy Herbert . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .1

Varenna

A Poem to Celebrate

The Old Rocking Chair

Karin R. Fitzgerald . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7

Fade to Orange and Black

Sally Tilbury . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13

A Good Scout

Helpless

Nancy Humphriss . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .17

A Horse is a Horse, of Course, of Course

The Turkey and the Chicken

Jack Russ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .25

The Pink Letter

Elisabeth Levy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .31

Is There a Wolf in the House?

Maybugs

John H. C. Riley . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .41

An Embarrassing Success

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Renee McKnight . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .45

The Party

The Decision

The Trees

Bernice Schachter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51

Homage to Pietra Santa

Loisjean Raymond . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .57

The Tree in the Middle of the Garden

The Inner Me

Shirley Johnson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61

A Class on Demand

Susan Bono . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .65

Go Fish

Words from the Wise . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .71

Dolores Giustina Fruiht . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .77

More Contemplating

A Nostalgic Drive

Joyce Cass . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .85

Up in Smoke

Here and Now

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Dorothy Herbert

Dorothy Herbert was born in Cleveland, Ohio in 1924. Her

childhood was split between Ohio and Southern California.

She graduated from the University of California, Berkeley.

This was followed by a year of training in laboratory

technology at Western Reserve in Cleveland. Her career as a

lab tech allowed her to spend two years in Dhahran, Saudi

Arabia and later, a year in Oxford, England during her boss’

sabbatical. After her retirement from UCSF, she happily

settled in Sonoma and then Santa Rosa, California.

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Varenna Dorothy Herbert

hile young, yet viewing advancing age,

I sensed that I was all at sea,

Riding the waves as fortune might decree,

Driven at will by currents of fate,

Lacking means or desire to navigate.

Now I’ve evolved and become more sage,

Tired of floating as in the past,

I searched for a port . . . until at last,

I am cast ashore, as if by chance,

On a beautiful island of elegance,

VARENNA!

W

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A Poem to Celebrate Fellow 1924-ers on the Occasion of Our 80th Birthday

Dorothy Herbert

t all began in twenty-four,

And now it’s been a neat four score,

Since that eventful date of yore,

When all of us were given birth,

And still we grace this lucky earth.

We must admit to slowing down,

Which gives us time to look around,

To seek the knowledge yet unfound,

To understand and contemplate,

This wobbling world’s uncertain fate.

Younger folk will seek advice,

When books and gurus may suffice,

They willingly pay any price!

How can this be? Can they not see,

Not even asked, we give it free!

I

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As collagen and fascia fail,

In turn will gravity prevail,

And as we climb the bathroom scale,

There is no longer any doubt,

We’re way too thin or far too stout.

TV and pamphlets entertain us,

Saying exercise will sure maintain us,

And proper diet can sustain us,

So if we walk and drink Ensure,

It’s in the cards—we shall endure.

When all is done and all is said,

We’ve ended where Dame Fortune led,

And now renewed we surge ahead,

No looking back—but onward go,

Lunging toward the great nine-o.

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The Old Rocking Chair

Dorothy Herbert

he old rocking chair had lion heads on the

ends of the arms. It resided at my

grandparents’ when we were all quite small. We took

turns rocking and putting our fingers in the lions’

mouths. The chair eventually ended up in my possession

and a procession of young nieces and nephews rocked

happily as part of their childhood. Eventually I passed it

on to a niece to calm her two little boys during manic

moments and lull them to sleep. The benefit to me was

that on visits to their home I could still claim time

rocking back and forth as visions of my younger days and

of my grandparents renewed happy memories. It was a

nice continuum as life hastened on.

T

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To be a writer you need to see things as they are, and to see things as they are you need a certain basic innocence.

Tobias Wolff

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Karin R. Fitzgerald

Karin R. Fitzgerald was named Rose Karin after her German

and Swedish grandmothers, and called “Rose” by her family.

She knew at a very young age that “Rose” didn’t fit her, but a

given name is a lot like a porcupine quill: once embedded, it’s

hard to remove. She tried unsuccessfully to ditch the “Rose,”

but the name stayed with her like an unwanted house guest.

Love solved the problem when student nurse Rose Karin met

handsome law student James Martin Fitzgerald. For sixty-one

years of marriage, darling James called her Karin, and so did

everyone else.

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Fade to Orange and Black

Karin Fitzgerald

t’s eight in the morning, Michigan time, and I’m

looking forward to another blissful August day

swimming and boating in the pristine waters of Lake Huron.

I’m the pampered guest of my daughter, Denise, and son-in-

law, George. Sharing the comfort of their wonderfully cozy

summer home on Marquette Island is always a pure delight. I

settle back into an old blue wicker chair, take my first

grateful sip of coffee and gaze out the wide windows of the

screened-in-porch. That’s when the first tiny blip of orange

catches my eye as it disappears into the trees. I am

immediately on high alert as another and then another blur of

orange is swallowed by the forest.

I stand up for a better look and hope that what I have

just seen might be the forerunners of the migrating monarch

butterflies. Everyone wants me to experience this incredible

phenomenon before my vacation ends. Through the screen

door I hear the phone ring, then my daughter’s excited voice.

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“Mom, they’ve arrived! Grab your jacket, we’re leaving in five

minutes!”

The three of us hurry down the winding path to the

dock and jump into the boat. George revs the motor and we

leave a churning wake as we head across the water to Point

Brule, the lovely mainland home of George’s sister, Cara, and

brother-in-law, Fred. The anticipation grows. We cruise into

the boat slip, tie up and climb the ladder to ground level. Fred

and Cara are waiting for us.

They lead the way. Up ahead is a grove of enormous

cedar trees. No one speaks as we step into the shade and

quiet of these giants. I stop dead in my tracks. Nothing has

prepared me for this. I see thousands of swirling orange and

black shapes. They float silently in and around the cedar

branches, fluttering by our faces and bodies, as if to offer a

silent benediction. The air is soft and warm. A slight mist

curls and drifts languidly through the trees. This contributes

to my sense of having stumbled into a different dimension.

I’m awestruck and honored to be a witness to one of nature’s

most magnificent wonders.

I float up out of my reverie. Fred taps my arm to get

my attention. “Do you know what the monarchs are doing

now?” I shake my head. “They need liquid to keep hydrated.

They can’t regulate their body temperature and dry out so

easily. They suck up moisture on the foliage with a little

flexible tube like a sippy straw.” He holds out his hand. A

butterfly alights just long enough for me to peer at

something that looks like a leg, except it’s curled under the

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tiny head. Fred is looking at his hand too. “That curled thing

is called a proboscis. It unfolds when a butterfly needs to

drink.”

Grateful for the explanation, I realize that everyone

else wants to tell me what they know as they gather around.

The snippets of information are delivered in whispers

because we all feel like we are in a leafy chapel. As we slowly

walk beneath the trees, I learn that the female monarchs look

for milkweed plants to lay their fertilized eggs. Once that’s

done, both the males and females die. Their busy lives only

last two to six weeks, but make way for the next generation of

monarchs to carry on. I find out from George and Cara who

have grown up in this part of Upper Michigan that one

generation of butterflies east of the Rocky Mountains will

migrate to Mexico and one-generation west of the Rockies will

migrate to Pacific Grove, California.

I feel like a human sponge, soaking up these whispered

insights. I want to fill up with monarchmania and squeeze it

out later to enjoy. The gentle rain from a late summer shower

starts to fall. We stand together and look up, blinking away

the light drizzle, anxious about the butterflies and reluctant

to leave. The monarchs quickly begin to light on the branches

and fold their wings. Satisfied now, as if we are the caretakers

and know that our little charges will be fine, we turn toward

the house. I look back. A few of the little beauties still dip and

turn, soar and glide in all their orange and black elegance.

Once in the house, Fred fires up the computer, finds a

good website and prints information that I can save and read

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at my leisure. I’m happy about this because there seem to be

so many generations of monarchs, such a huge family, and I

am not at all clear which relatives live and which die. The

computer pages are passed around. Many of the facts are

known by the initiated four, but some of them are new, even

to them. They are very surprised to discover that the

milkweed plant the egg-turned-caterpillar feeds on delivers a

potent poison to protect the adult monarch from being eaten

by birds and small mammals like mice. Nature does a great

job keeping her most fragile creatures safe.

All too soon the wonderful afternoon has slipped

away. I gather up the stack of printouts and we take our leave

with affectionate hugs all around. We three move past the

cedars, empty now except for the sighing breeze. We board

the boat; it’s cold now on the Bay. Back home on the island,

we sit down to a relaxed dinner and decide to retire early.

Denise and George each have a favorite book and I have the

many, many pages of monarch information. I settle down on

the big comfortable bed, pillows propped up behind me, the

occasional hoot of an owl an appropriate introduction to my

reading.

I know from the afternoon tutorial that four

generations of monarchs are born each year. The stunning

finale to this unique life cycle extravaganza is the wildly

wonderful, mind-blowing fourth generation of butterflies

born in September. These creatures do not die in two to six

weeks, but live for six to eight months. Called the

“Methuselah generation,” these “Methuselahs” are destined to

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become the senior citizens of the butterfly world. It’s these

same young and innocent butterflies who will make the

dangerous 2,700 mile, two-month long journey to reach their

Mexican hibernation colonies. Their November arrival in the

evergreen forests of Mexico’s Sierra Madre Mountains must be

a thrilling sight as the Methuselahs fold their wings and cover

the trees by the thousands.

Five months later, these same Methuselahs will receive

an urgent message with the tick-tock of their biological

clocks: “Wake up, find a mate and lay the eggs.” In a short

time these eggs will become a new first generation of

monarch butterflies. The fabulous Methuselahs, old and tired

now, their work complete, will be taken into Mother Nature’s

arms and this new generation of monarchs will start their

northward trek. Once again the magical monarch migration

will begin. I yawn as the pages slip from my hand and I fall

asleep with a smile on my face.

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Sally Tilbury

Sally Tilbury and her husband worked in the family business

prior to retirement. Beverly Hills Travel, Inc., a commercial

travel agency, had five offices, with their flagship office in the

Beverly Hills Hotel. She moved with her husband to Sonoma

County in 1990, and upon her husband’s death, she came to

live at Varenna. She has three daughters, six grandchildren,

and six great-grandchildren all living in Northern California.

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A Good Scout Sally Tilbury

e was squeaky clean. He smelled of soap, strong

soap, almost like naphtha. It was obvious his

haircut was the homemade "sit on the kitchen stool and do

not move" type. His hair had been slapped with Dad's ancient

pomade. I could see the tracks of the comb through his hair,

his ears scrubbed red. What a joy to sit in the pew behind him

and members of his troop.

An expert mom had ironed his uniform. Those pants

had not just been pulled from the rumbling dryer. They had

knife-sharp pleats. This great-grandmother did not know

there were any expert ironers left.

What a lift in these worrisome world-weary times, the

rock-throwing, the hate. He represented something decent to

me, something outdoorsy, young and hopeful. It made me so

proud to sit behind his troop.

Each of the boys was to receive an award this day. It

would be a document with a gold star on it. Each of the boys

had created a book of writings about Scouting, its virtues,

principles, kindness to others, peace and love in the world. I

prayed their lives might be fruitful and peaceful.

It was only when he turned around that I noticed the

fresh black eye.

H

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Helpless A Drabble by Sally Tilbury

wo large men wearing green scrubs placed her on

the gurney and began to roll toward the surgery.

Our four-year-old daughter appeared to be a small bundle

on the cart. I was terrified. She had been born with

strabismus, or crossed eyes. Early surgical intervention

was so that her eyes and brain could work together. This

was her second surgery.

As the doors of the scary elevator closed, the small

bundle raised her finger toward one of the men and said,

"I'm not going to do this today, but I'll come back

tomorrow."

The elevator door clunked shut.

T

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I don’t know exactly how it’s done. I let it alone a good deal.

Saul Bellow

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Nancy Humphriss

Nancy Humphriss grew up in the small town of

Northampton, Massachusetts. After graduating from the

University of Massachusetts, she married her hometown

sweetheart, raised a family, and followed her husband to

seven different states, Sydney, Australia for four years, and

one year in Jerusalem. Her teaching career began with first

graders in Florida. After earning her Master's Degree in

Comparative Literature from Indiana University, Nancy ended

her career teaching foreign students for 17 years at San Jose

State University. She and her husband retired to Santa Rosa in

1997, and moved to Varenna in 2009. She feels very fortunate

to have had such a satisfying life.

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A Horse is a Horse, of Course, of Course

Nancy Humphriss

y sister and I lived with our parents on a modest

five acre spread in a small town in

Massachusetts. Although he had a regular job, my father was

a farmer wannabe. Therefore, he was delighted when my

older-by-five-plus-years sister showed enthusiastic interest in

owning a horse. He bought her one, and she quickly became

very proficient in handling and caring for Topsy, as she

named her. Thus began several years of memories, not all

positive, but many funny.

Part 1: The Horse and I

I watched with envy as Shirley developed her

horsemanship, entering contests, riding with friends, and

spending much time grooming and pampering her new horse.

She was thirteen and I was eight, so she decided she would

teach me the techniques of being a horsewoman. The first

time I sat myself on the saddle, Topsy quickly decided I was

not her master, so she headed at a vigorous trot toward the

barn, planning, of course, to behead me and free herself from

M

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what was on her back. In panic, I managed to slip from the

stirrups onto the ground, shaken but not yet cowed.

The second attempt proved no less frightening, since

now Topsy noticed the clothesline was much closer and

therefore quicker. Again, I failed, falling in a heap. After a few

days and some more verbal and “watch me” lessons, I was

ready to try again. This time Topsy realized there was an even

quicker and easier way to rid her back of me, so she lay down

and began to roll over. Obviously, this ended in the same way.

Crying, stamping my feet, and hurling hard words at my

sister and her horse, I ran upstairs to my room, slamming the

door behind me. At this point both my mother and I decided I

needed to find another sport, something not involving horses!

Part 2: The Horse and My Mother

Not long after my dad bought Topsy, she presented us,

unexpectedly, with a baby horse, a foal. My sister named him

Teddy, and he was darling, left free to roam around, usually

following his mother. After a few months he began to be a bit

aggressive, nipping our hands and trotting after us. Soon he

revealed his even stronger male tendencies, and my mother,

who loved gardening, became a bit intimidated by Teddy, but

she still felt in control. One day, as she was taking dry

laundry off the line, I saw her, clothes basket in hand,

swinging it at the angry colt. She finally took off running with

Teddy close behind. She made it to the porch and into the

house, slamming the door on Teddy, who stood on the porch,

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nose to the glass window, peering in at my terrified mother.

At this point my dad decided one horse was enough, and

Teddy was sold to a stable owner where my sister had visiting

rights for the duration.

Part 3: The Horse and the Wagon

Shirley wanted to be able to take her friends for buggy

rides, so she borrowed a cart and hooked Topsy up. Off she

went with her friend, down the lane and out of sight. How

cute they all looked, like a storybook picture. After fifteen

minutes or so, we saw Topsy galloping at full speed, dragging

a very broken wagon, wheels coming off, and no Shirley or

friend. Topsy ran into our yard, across my dad’s carefully

tended lawn and into the flower garden, wreaking havoc all

the way. Nor did she stop there, but continued through my

dad’s corn field, making a swath three feet wide before

disappearing down the hill. Fear and panic ensued, but soon

my sister and friend appeared, looking bedraggled and

defeated, but not harmed. Needless to say, when Topsy was

found, safe but tired, she knew she had won again. No more

pulling carts for her!

Part 4: The Horse and the Porch

My sister took very good care of her charge, and

keeping her clean, shod, well fed, and loved came naturally.

One day Shirley decided Topsy needed a bath, so she tied her

to the post of our back porch and approached her with a

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bucket of warm water, soap, curry comb, and towels. Topsy

gave my sister a baleful eye, then began to rear and buck

until the post gave way, along with the roof of the porch.

The whole back porch more or less caved in, and

Topsy once again took off, dragging the post behind her.

Shirley managed to find her, calm her down, and bring her

home. How well I recall sitting on the steps of our now

demolished porch, waiting for my dad to come home from

work. I secretly found some ill-willed delight in knowing I was

not in any way to blame, and that whatever followed wouldn’t

involve me. But my father was a relatively understanding and

gentle man, so the “punishment” was simply not to ever again

hitch Topsy to anything, be it a post or a wagon.

Part 5: The End of the Story

We had Topsy to the end of her years, and Shirley rode

her almost daily until the horse was put out to pasture and

retirement. My sister continued her love of riding and horses

until her age, 80, prevented her from participating in her

favorite sport. Although I never was able to enjoy horseback

riding, I certainly did enjoy watching from the sidelines, and

these remain some of my favorite memories of my childhood

on the farm.

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The Turkey and the Chicken Nancy Humphriss

t seems to me that the world is getting more and

more angry, threatening, chaotic, disturbing and

violent than I ever remember it being before. The news

continues to emphasize our need to be more tolerant of those

with whom we may disagree, more understanding of other’s

ideas and viewpoints, and, in general, more civil. This little

vignette I am about to relate is no great expose or even “big

deal,” but it spoke to me in its small, rather simple way.

I was sitting in the chair in my beauty salon, awaiting a

haircut, gazing out the side window at the sidewalk, when

suddenly a magnificent turkey gobbler came into view.

Alongside him, trotting to keep up with the long strides of

the turkey, was a beautiful black and white feathered rooster.

Stopping to look around, something interested them and they

ambled over to a glass door on the other side of the sidewalk.

They peered together into the glass door, appearing to wait

for someone. Obviously they were together in the sense of

companions or friends, and while I may be assuming more

than was actually happening, they looked as if they were

I

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enjoying each other and were somehow communicating as

they stood there. One of the hair stylists had granola she had

brought for her lunch. She grabbed a handful, carefully

opened the door, and gently scattered the food along the

sidewalk. The poultry couple lifted their heads, not at all

alarmed at the sudden appearance of a human, and

considered the idea of eating the granola. Evidently they

agreed to go for it, and they both began to peck, more or less

taking turns. Someone in the salon took out her cell phone

and photographed the scene.

It was an episodic minute that somehow shouted the

much needed point, to quote the clichés of the past: “Make

love, not war;” “Opposites attract;” “Celebrate diversity,” etc.

I know turkeys and chickens are not mortal enemies

like mountain lions and deer, but this little scene, sweet,

unusual, and very, very pertinent considering the current

state of the world, seemed to speak to those of us witnessing

it. It saddens me to think how different the world would be if

we could only learn from the turkey and the chicken.

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The only interesting answers are those which destroy the questions.

Susan Sontag

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Jack Russ

Jack Russ shifted his writing focus to fiction in 1999, after

years of professional non-fiction. He earned awards for three

short stories and published his first novel, In Dangerous

Waters, in December 2010. For three years he served as

President of the Mt. Diablo Branch of the California Writers

Club, and concurrently formed and promoted the Tri-Valley

Branch of CWC. Jack holds a MA in Management and is a

retired Navy Captain and carrier pilot. He and his wife Arlene

moved to Varenna in May 2011.

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The Pink Letter Jack Russ

teve stepped into the red gloom of the aircraft

carrier’s ready room, sweaty and tired from the

night’s second mission over Vietnam. A short, by now routine

mission debrief helped him escape the ready room’s somber

atmosphere and the absence of the usual chatter.

Steve checked for mail from Becky at the Duty Officer’s

desk before heading for a shower, food and overdue sleep, in

that order. His only letter was junk mail offering a credit

card. What would he do with a credit card at sea?

“Guess you’re taking care of these for Brick now,” the

Duty Officer said. He handed three envelopes to Steve.

Steve stowed his pilot’s flight gear next to the empty

peg for helmet and harness assigned to his roommate, John

“Brick” Goretti. He downed a paper cup of the last of the

quick-mix lemonade, and left for his stateroom.

Steve tried to ignore the ominous silence of the

cramped stateroom. Brick usually had his tapes going full

blast. One of their ongoing hassles had been Brick’s

insistence on playing his tapes loud. Steve’s distaste for

Brick’s choice in music gave them something to argue about

S

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other than their missions and the deadly routine of round-

the-clock combat operations.

Steve’s eyes couldn’t escape Brick’s three letters. He’d

dropped them on their shared desktop with the other

magazines and stuff he’d promised himself he’d clean up one

of these days. He hesitated. Would he be violating Brick’s

privacy if he opened the letters? What would Brick do in his

place?

The top letter was more junk mail. Steve tore open the

envelope to be sure and trashed it. The second was from a

sporting goods company advising they’d sent the boots Brick

had admired in a recent catalog. Steve made a note to expect

a package sometime in the future.

He stared at the last letter, the pink one. No need to

turn it over. It was another from Brick’s fiancée, Trish. There

had been many of the same pale pink envelopes since they

had left San Diego five months before. Steve remembered

Trish as the gushy, southern belle type. He had only met her

once, at the squadron’s pre-deployment party. A pretty girl,

blonde with pale freckles, and barely up to Brick’s shoulders.

They made an interesting couple on the dance floor. It was

quite a sight to see the ex-football linebacker from Alabama

twirling a miniscule partner less than half his weight. But give

them credit. Their dancing was show-stopping. Her feet were

in the air more often than on the floor. Brick hadn’t been

considered graceful before. He took on new stature that

night.

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He reached for the envelope but stopped before

touching it. Was he ready to deal with another man’s mail? A

quick check of his watch showed he still had time to get into

the early sitting in the wardroom. He couldn’t think clearly on

an empty stomach. He’d deal later with the pink letter.

Later turned out to be after a quick lunch, a short nap,

and a special intelligence briefing for an upcoming mission.

The pink envelope, like a magnet demanded his attention

each time he entered or left the room.

He and Brick had enjoyed a special bond. It hadn’t

involved reading each other’s mail, although they talked

about people and events and things their infrequent mail

contained. Steve had pictures of Becky and his baby son

Bobby taped to the bureau, the son he’d never held. He would

though, and soon, unless their deployment was extended

again.

Brick’s few pictures were of his mom, dad and sis, a

picture of Brick and Steve at one of the squadron parties at

the Cubi Point Officer’s Club early in the deployment, and a

couple of snapshots of Trish taken before they left San Diego.

Brick was the neat one, a relative term, Steve decided, looking

around the cramped stateroom.

Trish’s letter was postmarked nine days ago, March 21,

1967. Not bad, considering how slow some mail had been.

From the heft of the envelope there couldn’t be more than a

couple of sheets in it. He laid it back on the desktop. Should

he open it? Would he object if he and Brick changed places?

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Probably not. He paused again, unsure. After all, he had been

designated to clean up Brick’s affairs.

The “Dear John” opening gave him pause. Hadn’t Brick

always chuckled at the way she began her letters? He’d read

some of the openings to Steve, things like, “My Dearest,” or

“You Big Hunk.” He suspected some letters opened in a more

intimate tone. Brick hadn’t chosen to share those.

Trish’s first paragraph didn’t sound like much of a

love letter. Becky’s letters usually started off with something

like how much she missed him.

Trish began with “Hope you are well and getting your

sleep.” Brick had mentioned that he told her of their back-to-

back missions during the past month. That tempo had

everyone dragging. There’d been some let-up since, but not

much.

Trish wrote that she’d talked with Brick’s mom the day

before and all was well there. His dad had to go in for some

dental work. His kid sister was looking forward to her senior

prom. Trish hadn’t seen her dress. She said his sister

described something in pale blue and slinky on the phone.

Steve remembered the skinny teenager and thought the kid is

really growing up.

Page two, a half page long, must have been written

later because the ink was different. He thought he detected a

slight change in the handwriting.

“This is very hard for me to tell you. Please don’t think

unkindly of me,” it began.

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Steve stopped reading. He really didn’t want to get into

Brick’s truly personal affairs. Maybe he should slip the sheets

back in the envelope and hold them. But, hold them for what,

and for how long?

“You remember my neighbor, Dick Lambert?” her letter

continued. “You knew he works in the building next to mine.

We went to lunch once about a month after you left. We

began seeing each other more often. Well, to cut it short, he’s

asked me to marry him. I didn’t know what do. Guess I

should have told you sooner. I’m sorry. You’ve been gone so

long, and well, Dick kept pushing. Besides, mother likes Dick.

Last night he gave me a ring, and I told him yes. Please

forgive me for not telling you sooner. I love Dick and believe

I’ve made the right choice. Thank you for all the good times. I

hope your life is full and happy.”

Steve stared at the sheets for a full minute, hands flat

on the desktop, letting his anger subside so he wouldn’t

succumb to an urge to crumple the letter and toss it. He

stared at Becky’s picture. What would she advise him to do?

He stuffed the pages back in the envelope and resealed

it. Across the front he wrote,

“Return to Sender. New address is

Hanoi Hilton Prison,

Hanoi, North Vietnam.”

31

Elisabeth Levy

Elisabeth Levy was born, raised and trained as a registered

nurse in Switzerland. In 1958 she immigrated to the USA,

working a few months in Portland, OR, Galveston and San

Antonio, TX before settling in San Francisco, CA. She worked

in Dermatology with her husband, Dr. S. William Levy until he

died in 2005. She always liked to write, and in 2006 started

getting serious. She joined the Oakmont Writers and

published Destiny, a translation of her friend’s life as a

paraplegic and several essays in the yearly Oakmont Writers

Anthologies. She helped get the Varenna Writers off the

ground.

32

Is There a Wolf in the House? Elisabeth Levy

n a small village in Switzerland, in a big 200-year-old

house, lived Heidy with her parents and three older

sisters.

The living quarters were on the second floor. At the

top of the creaky wooden stairs, a glass door opened into a

long stretched-out hallway. To the right was the kitchen with

the pantry. In the corner sat the living room. The main

attraction in the living room was the large blue tile stove with

a tiled bench, a great place to relax and read any time of the

year. In winter it was truly appreciated, as it kept the room

nice and warm. Heidy loved to hold her hands on the tiles. It

made her feel good and the warmth went through her whole

body. There was a little opening for keeping those 12” x 12”

cotton bags filled with cherry pits warm.

The bags were recycled flour bags, soft to the touch.

Grite, the maid, would wash them, cut them to size and sew

them together. At cherry season the family would carefully

collect the pits, wash and dry them, and fill the bags.

I

33

At bedtime, Heidy would grab a bag and put it into her

cold bed. It warmed the sheets until she was ready to slip

under the covers. The only problem was that sometimes the

cotton bags broke and the cherry pits spilled into the bed.

Heidy had a ritual; before she put the bag to her feet, she

would hug it and feel the warmth next to her heart.

This monstrous tile oven was heated by shoving two-

foot long sticks bundled together into the oven opening in

the kitchen. Heidy loved to watch the sticks burning and

becoming glowing embers. At that time Grite would shut the

valve, and like a miracle, the heat would penetrate the tiles

and warm the living room.

On the south side, adjacent to the living room, was the

bedroom Heidy and her older sister Erika shared. It had three

doors, one to the living room, one to the hallway and one to

their parents’ bedroom. In the hallway between the two

bedrooms was a small coal stove, heated only when the

outside temperature was below freezing. Across the hallway,

tucked in the corner, was the separate toilet and next to it the

bathroom. To enter the bathroom was like going through a

dark little alley containing an old wooden toddler’s bed and a

chest of drawers. A door with opaque glass separated it from

the actual bathroom, which had a sink and a tub. Every

Saturday evening Mother would heat the bathroom oven for

their weekly bathing time. She would scrub the girls’ backs

and made sure they did not linger and have fun for too long.

In the hallway, across from Heidy and Erika’s bedroom,

were four wardrobes, one for each girl. They fit exactly

34

between the bathroom and Margrit and Lily’s bedroom, which

was adjacent to the glass door leading down the stairs. This

long hallway had only one light bulb down by the kitchen and

living room. The other end with bathroom and toilet was

dark. Most of the time there was no heat except in the living

room.

At the age of five or so, little Heidy loved to hear

stories. She had just started to read stories on her own. She

loved the Grimm’s fairy tales, like “Little Red Riding Hood,”

“Snow White,” “Cinderella,” and others. Grite was a good

storyteller. Sometimes she even made them up, like the one

of Mrs. Milk. As the two of them watched the milk coming to

the boiling point, Grite would say, “Mrs. Milk and her children

were on their way to catch the train. All of a sudden, they

heard the train coming. They ran, but of course, they always

were too late.” If the milk did not flow over, Grite told her,

“Mrs. Milk and her children had no chance.” Other times, the

theme would vary. Maybe those stories spurred Heidy’s

imagination.

When it came to the Grimm’s stories, her imagination

ran wild. Little Red Riding Hood? That wolf with its gray

unkempt furry coat and his huge white teeth, could he hurt

her? Where did he hide, somewhere in the house?

During the summer Heidy had no problem. It was light

when she had to go to bed and the wolf had no place to hide.

The winter was another matter. During those long winter

evenings the family would gather in the heated living room.

35

Heidy learned to knit. They would listen to radio plays and

music. All seemed well, except now Heidy had a problem.

Going to the bathroom was scary. She had to leave the

warm, brightly lighted living room, enter the long shadowy

hall and pass the dark little room behind the row of closets

before she could reach the toilet. It was so dark, like in the

forest, and she was sure the wolf was hiding in that dark

room. She tried to be very quiet and tiptoe to the toilet. When

she thought nobody would notice, she would sneak out of the

living room, leaving the door open, just a little. But soon

she’d hear an angry voice: “Don’t leave that door open; we are

freezing.” Usually by that time she was far enough, she could

run the rest of the way to the toilet and be momentarily

saved. The way back was not so bad. She could quietly sneak

out of the toilet and run into the light, reaching the living

room safely. Her sisters never asked her why she wanted to

leave the living room door open, and she was sure if they

knew, they would mock her and laugh.

A few years later Heidy had a little brother. Poor Heinz,

one day when he was three years old, their oldest sister

opened her closet and showed him a mask she had used a

few days before to entertain a group of seniors. He got such a

shock, screamed hysterically and called the mask “the wicked

doll.” In contrast to Heidy, he would not pass Lily’s closet and

the dark little room to go to the toilet by himself, day or

night, summer or winter. Their mother even burned the mask

and showed him the empty closet, but it didn’t help. The

damage was done.

36

MayBugs Elisabeth Levy

emories happen to come back. Susan Bono, our

writing group facilitator, gave us twenty minutes

to write about a summer morning. Only when the class was

over did lightning strike me: the maybugs, of course. And

here is the story.

During my childhood in Switzerland, I remember how

every three or four years we had a maybug invasion in May or

June. They would make themselves at home in oak, fruit, and

other trees and feed on the new and tender leaves. After

about five to seven weeks they became larvae, dug themselves

into the soil and played havoc with root vegetables and fruit,

such as strawberries. We would hear their churning-humming

sound in the evening before they went to sleep. Needless to

say, it was very important to catch these one-inch long

creatures with their hard brown shells promptly.

For the fun of it and to make sure that my memories

were more or less correct, I checked with my sister, a friend

from the same village, two friends from neighboring villages,

and my cousin. We all clearly remembered similar

experiences.

Every village was responsible for collecting as many

maybugs as possible. A bulletin instructed the villagers how,

when, and where to deliver them. Collecting was mandatory

M

37

for every family who had trees in their backyard. The farmers

were required to deliver a certain quantity of bugs and only

got paid for the surplus. People like my family who had just a

few trees got paid for all the bugs they delivered. The evening

before the designated day, our parents made sure we knew

the importance of following the protocol.

I heard my Mother’s voice, “It’s time to wake up.” It

was 4:00 a.m., and not even daylight. My clothes were ready

on the chair. I dressed quickly, put on shoes and off I ran

down the stairs to the back of the house. My Father had

already put heavy sheets under the first tree. Mother had

gotten the big kettle of boiling hot water ready.

“Come on, kids, let the fun begin,” my father said in a

low voice. He didn’t want to wake up the maybugs.

We gathered around the first tree and started shaking

it as hard as we could. We began to hear this crackling sound

as the sleeping maybugs came tumbling down. As they

favored the new leaves, they were mostly closer to the ends

of the branches. We shook the tree until the noise stopped.

Next, we had to be very quick, fold the sheets, hold them

closed, and empty the bugs into the hot water before they

woke up. One or two escaped, crawled out of the cloth and

flew away.

My sisters and I were fascinated, but had no time to

loiter. We had only enough time to shake our heads to get rid

of the maybugs in our hair before we started shaking the next

tree. The same thing was repeated a few more times until we

were done.

38

My parents gave a sigh of relief and told us we did a

good job and earned the money we were about to get. We

looked into the hot water kettle. It was hard to figure the

amount of bugs swimming in there. Soon the bugs and the

smell began to bug us and we decided the sooner we got rid

of them, the better off we’d be. By now it was daylight and

the whole village was on its way to the designated collection

place, a farmhouse with a big barn on the main street. We

loaded our kettle on the cart and pulled it the few blocks up

the street. The arriving villagers were all in party mood.

The men chosen by the city council, plus the owner of

the farm, were prepared. It really was a well-organized affair.

One man lifted the kettle, poured the water through a

strainer, weighed the bugs, called out the number of pounds.

Another one took the smelly bugs to the back of the barn,

while another calculated how much money was owed us. It

was not much, maybe a penny or two per pound, but we were

proud to put the money into our savings, knowing we did an

important job. Fewer larvae would dig into the ground and

destroy the roots of the new harvest of vegetables and fruit.

As a final note, there was no waste; the maybugs were

ground up and used as fertilizer.

Illustration by Alexa

Rhoads

39

John H. C. Riley

John H. C. Riley was born in Glasgow, Scotland, and moved

to Canada as a young boy. During World War II he served in

the Canadian Navy. A 40-year career in the newspaper

industry in Canada and the USA followed. An active athlete

until recently, John played for Charles Schulz’s Diamond Icers

Hockey Team for 30 years and was Master of Ceremonies for

Snoopy's Senior World Hockey Tournament for 37 years. He

and his wife Mary Louise, whom he met on a university tennis

court, were recently honored by the Schulz family and the

Redwood Empire Ice Arena for their service to the

tournament.

40

Embarrassing Success John H. C. Riley

y parents were in their mid-forties when a

Canadian snowfall piled snow four feet high on

their driveway in suburban Toronto, Canada. Well may you

ask the whereabouts of their only son when they needed him!

Courtesy of Canada’s federal government, I was

participating in an all-expenses paid cruise to that northern

pile of coral in the Atlantic Ocean known as Bermuda. But

there’s always a catch, isn’t there? Instead of fascinating

shore excursions, each day would entail that navy routine

known as “work-ups”—the process of putting a new naval

vessel (in this case, a frigate) and the crew through all its

paces: engines, all armament including depth charges

projectors, ASDIC and radar, and all communications

equipment. All this, of course, was supervised by highly

skilled training officers.

As the gunnery officer, my men and I were under the

scrutiny of a warrant (i.e. non-commissioned) officer. He

deserves some sympathy for his behavior during the incident

I am about to relate. He was a permanent navy individual

who, along with almost every member of the very small

Canadian navy at the beginning of World War II, had become

M

41

submerged by a host of volunteer reserves who had joined

the navy after the start of the war in September 1939. The

spectacular growth of Canada’s navy to the status of third

largest navy in the world meant that the permanent force

formed roughly less than fifteen percent of all of Canada’s

naval personnel on active duty. This was a source of

occasional resentment—not always concealed. The day on

which the focus of attention was on the twin four inch guns

provided an illustration of this.

Today’s training with offensive weaponry is done with

“high-tech” virtual reality computerized equipment. World

War II’s equivalent for big guns amounted to a large box with

an aperture by which the trainee could see a model of a

submarine on the surface of the ocean and the fake splashes

of a shell hitting the water in front of or behind the broadside

of the submarine. The trainee, having been given a broad

range in yards in which the submarine was located,

proceeded with a fake attack based on the traditional artillery

procedures. The distance estimate was changed up or down

appropriately until the projectile crossed the target again.

The reversal of range and change of range up or down

continued until the target was hit.

At last, the big moment had arrived when the big twin

four-inch guns would open fire for the first time since being

installed on the new frigate. This was the real thing, certainly

no puppet show. I got a range estimate from radar, checked

the wind, response of the ship to the ocean and gave the

order to fire the already loaded dummy shells. Surprise! The

42

first shot hit the target. Result—momentarily stunned! Brief

mental paralysis! Never, never, never in all the puppeteering

“virtual reality” practices did the trainee hit the target with

the first shot!

Pause. What to do? Inadvertently—almost

automatically—I gave out the instruction I had used so often

in the puppeteering practices, “Down 200!” Now I was

embarrassed on top of stunned! I kept the binoculars glued to

my eyes as the warrant officer volleyed a six word epithet at

me. The first two words lowered the level of my intelligence

considerably and the other four insulted my mother. “Rapid

salvoes!” I blurted out correctly. My gun’s crew obliged and

shattered the rest of the target.

That worn-out phrase, “All’s well that ends well,” applies. I

had an embarrassing success. Meanwhile, the warrant officer

was unaware, as I was also, that the admiral in charge of

operations in the Bermuda area had come aboard the ship to

see how the “work-ups” were going. He was standing behind

the warrant officer and me during the warrant officer’s

somewhat less than complimentary description hurled at me,

and later dealt with the insubordination. Best of all, over a

few days, my father and mother removed all snow from the

driveway in time to access the street coincidentally with the

snow plow’s clearing of the street by the city employees.

43

Renée McKnight

Renée McKnight, a recent arrival to Varenna in Santa Rosa,

was born in New York, but has lived most of her life in

California. She is a mother of four sons, grandmother of ten,

and a tennis player. She has always loved to keep house and

cook and bake for her family. She has traveled extensively

with her dear husband Ed and her family. She has never

written anything before, but plans to continue writing and

learning. She hopes these little vignettes will be entertaining.

44

The Party Renee McKnight

t was a surprise party for me at my house, with all

my family, and I wasn’t supposed to know about it.

However, I soon found out and arranged things accordingly in

the dining room with the dishes, silverware, napkins, etc., and

eagerly awaited the rest to come.

About three o’clock in the afternoon the bearers of

wonderful food started to arrive, and one by one began to

assemble their goodies. There was the smell of seafood stew

simmering at the stove as Debbie quietly stirred things

together; Tiffany put her stuffed peppers into the oven to

heat, a green and red vision to behold. You could almost taste

them already. From Cov’s kitchen came his homemade chili in

a deep pot, ready to entice with rice on the side. The salads

were glistening on the table, green with lots of vegetables,

pasta salad made by Sue and Nancy, and platters of cheese

and crackers and a savory baked brie cheese with brandy and

brown sugar by Becky. There was even a fabulous fruit salad

made by my grandson Kyle, which really surprised and

delighted everyone. The desserts were things of beauty: cakes

and pies and cookies made by Monica and her mother, Sally.

Everything was colorful on the white tablecloth and it smelled

wonderful. The sound of the others doing the cooking in my

kitchen was music to my ears and what a symphony it made.

After eating all this wonderful food, I didn’t mind so

much that today I turned eighty.

I

45

The Decision Renee McKnight

e were at the train station, full of excitement

and trying to get the next train to Paris. We had

just turned in the canal boat after an adventurous week of

traveling the small canals of France, discovering and enjoying

France all by ourselves, my husband Ed, his son Cov, his wife

Suzanne, and me. It wasn’t easy at first, but we soon got the

hang of it, and it turned out to be a remarkable experience,

one we will never forget, worth every moment of anxiety and

pride in our accomplishments along the way.

We had already turned in the rented car after leaving

the boat and found our way to the local train station, hoping

to be in Paris in a few hours. There we were, looking a bit

worn, and trying to read the signs on the platform. Everything

was written in French, of course, and the word “Paris” was

mentioned on several signs, only confusing the issue.

“How are we going to choose the right sign?” That was

the dilemma. After taking a two-month course in the

language from Alliance Francaise at home, I seemed to be the

only one able to speak and understand a little French. I was

immediately looked upon as the “knowing one” and I have to

say it elevated my standing momentarily! All of a sudden I

was supposed to get us to Paris with my vast new knowledge!

W

46

There was no one around us on the platform to ask for

help, so I intensely studied each sign, hoping to find a clue

for the correct route. All the while, everyone was yelling and

talking and giving me their advice, until I shouted in

frustration, “Shut up and let me think!”

There was complete silence as I made my decision, all

the while shaking in my shoes and praying they wouldn’t

notice that I was unsure. We boarded the train and sat down,

cautiously looking around to find some clues until I was able

to ask a fellow passenger if this train was going to Paris. The

answer was, “Oui, Paris, oui!” A big sigh of relief was heard all

around and smiles remained on our faces all the way to Paris.

It felt good to have made the right decision.

47

The Trees Renee McKnight

s I sit and look out through the sliding glass

doors of my kitchen and beyond the deck, I

see a stately group of Redwood trees, just four to be

exact. They have been there since 1994, almost seventeen

years, and I have watched them grow from tiny plants, no

more than a foot high, to become such a proud and

magnificent group.

My husband Ed and I planted them after the

Oakland Hills fire in 1991, where there wasn’t a shrub or

a tree left on the burnt and barren hillside. It was a very

sad sight to behold. A very kind gentleman from Berkeley

offered six “baby” trees to us, four redwood and two oak.

We happily accepted his gift and couldn’t wait to begin

digging. It wasn’t easy on the dry hillside, but for us, it

was a joyful labor of love to be able to replace what was

lost.

I now look upon these wonderful gifts from nature,

the redwoods now about forty-five feet high, giving me

privacy and a sense of peace, and remembering that

lovely time spent with my husband.

A

48

It’s never too late—in fiction or in life—to revise.

Nancy Thayer

49

Bernice Schachter

Bernice Schachter was born in Elizabeth, New Jersey and

lived in the town of Linden until she moved to Southern

California in 1973. When her two children were in college, she

completed the college education that had been interrupted by

WWII and a 25-year marriage. She earned a master’s degree in

sculpture from Goddard College in Vermont, studied Art

History at California State College in Northridge, and taught

sculpture part-time at Everywoman’s Village in Van Nys for

twenty-five years. She spent summers in Pietrasanta, Italy

teaching the Italian method of stone carving. After retiring to

Laguna Woods Village, Bernice found the time to write two

books, The Masks of My Muse and The Creative Quest.

50

Homage to Pietrasanta Bernice Schachter

runo Lucchese, a world famous sculptor, agreed to

accept the role as my faculty advisor while I was

working for my master’s degree. When he learned of my

interest in stone carving, he said in his charming Italian

accent, “We go Pietrasanta with mio amico Isolanni, from

Pratt Art Institute in New York. I meet you there in the

summer.”

Bruno spends every summer in Pietrasanta at his

charming villa in the shadow of the duomo in the town’s

square. For centuries, the city of Pietrasanta was the Mecca

for sculptors from every part of the world who came to learn

sculpture from the local craftsmen working in bronze and

marble. Long after Michelangelo built the roads to the

quarries, great sculptors such as Henry Moore, Isamu

Noguchi, Fernando Botero, and countless others great and

small, lived and worked in this small city at the foot of the

great marble quarries. All found a welcome and inspiration in

the beautiful region of Tuscany. There we experienced a

sense of community, found the material to work with, and

studios to work in for both students and professional artists.

B

51

I had hesitated about going to Italy for the first time

until my dear friend Sally booked us both on a trip to Europe.

She promised to put me on the train to Pietrasanta in time for

the Pratt Art Institute Summer School. In spite of my fears of

joining a group of twenty-plus college kids all thirty years

younger, it all worked out after I moved from the crowded

shared dorm to the local pensione nearer the town’s square.

There I found a new home with friendly faces of adult

sculptors who had the same passion for stone carving. We

thrived on wonderful Italian feasts for ten dollars a day that

included a single-bedded private room.

Sem Ghelardini, the local artist, was the unofficial

ambassador to all who came to work in the arts. He

originated the slogan that still stands today, “Pietrasanta: City

of Art and Artists.” He took an interest in the Americans

attending the School of Stagio Stale and arranged transport to

the great Henraux quarry where we first faced the marble at

its source. Sem selected a pure piece of statuario especially

for me and assured me it would carve well. This was the first

piece I ever carved in marble. It became “The Fallen,”

symbolizing the many soldiers who died in Viet Nam.

The School of Stagio Stale was an industrial school for

the young Italian students who were learning to perpetuate

the trade of marble workers and artisans. While they were

away during the summer, Pratt arranged to use the facilities.

It was there I learned how to use the tools and machines that

would lift, cut, shape, turn, bore, and polish marble. We were

52

assigned the space and were required to turn in a finished

project at the end of the summer semester. On seeing

Botticelli’s “Venus” for the first time on a field trip to

Florence and the Uffizi Gallery, I found my inspiration for my

class project. It was an abstract form in black Belgian marble

standing three feet high. I spent the mornings utilizing the

machines at the school and became proficient with the use of

the pneumatic air hammer (the Italian invention that

revolutionized the art of marble carving.) I was able to

complete the finished sculpture polished and mounted on a

marble base by the end of the three months.

I called it “Venus Rising.”

But there was more learning to be had. Every

afternoon, after my class at the school on the outside of the

town square, I mounted my rented bicycle and pedaled over

to the Tomassi Foundry to work beside Bruno to learn the

techniques of sculpting in wax and casting in bronze. As the

casting was very expensive and far more than I could afford, I

did small works that taught me all I needed to know about

the intricacies of mold making and the lost wax process. I

completed a group of small sculptures in bronze that was the

beginning of a Mythological series that I continued to work on

from time to time.

At the completion of the program and a good

evaluation from Bruno, I knew I had to return to Pietrasanta. I

made plans to rent a studio to teach the Italian Method of

Stone Carving on the completion of my Master’s Degree. My

53

thesis involved research into the Venus figures in sculpture

from the cave goddesses to contemporary Feminine forms.

Going home to Linden was not a happy time. I missed my two

kids who were now living in Southern California. My daughter

expressed the desire to present me with my first grandchild.

This made me anxious to find a new life in California as a

grandma and an artist.

With a separation agreement from my marriage in

hand, I moved into The Casa De Vida (the Good Life

Apartment) in the San Fernando Valley. My sister Phyllis,

who lived nearby in Encino, helped me make a new

beginning. I was able to find a part-time job as a sculpture

teacher in a school called Everywoman’s Village in Van

Nuys that was a featured story in Life Magazine. I knew

this would be the place for me. I spent the next twenty-five

years on their staff. This allowed me to take three months

off every summer to go back to Pietrasanta with new and

eager students to learn about the joys of stone carving in

Italy. Despite the noise, dust, sweat, some blood and tears,

all who went with me loved the experience. Many of my

students returned to Pietrasanta time and time again as I

did for the next twenty-four years. Each summer was filled

with the excitement of new discoveries for myself and the

people who joined me in their creative quest. It was there

in beautiful Tuscany I completed my legacy carved in

stones.

54

I write for myself and strangers. The strangers,

dear Reader, are an afterthought.

Gertrude Stein

55

Loisjean Raymond

Loisjean Raymond, born on a cold January afternoon in

Great Falls, MT, was baptized Lois Eugenia Balyeat. Before she

graduated Ukiah High School, she had attended ten schools

and lived in sixteen houses. She got married the day she

graduated from UC Berkeley (1948). She and her husband,

Bob, had five children and lived in Little River, CA for 40

years. After Bob’s death in 2009, she moved to Varenna. She

was active with Varenna Writers until she re-connected with

her friend John Simmons, a widower. The two are married

and making a new life in Ukiah.

56

The Tree in the Middle of the Garden Loisjean Raymond

The tree there in the middle of the garden . . .

I must not touch nor look upon to see.

I’m free to feast on every fruit around it,

But can’t enjoy that single, center tree.

A plentitude of riches—oh, such bounty

And all the gifts God freely gives to me!

Such magnitude, my human nature baffles!

And I recognize my own perversity.

For do I focus full upon my blessings

Or lust, instead, for that which cannot be?

What spirit in me turns my eyes upon it,

To gaze upon that one forbidden tree?

57

The Inner Me Loisjean Raymond

Read on, my friend, feel free to see,

About the thoughts of “Inner Me,”

The “Me” of me that seldom shows,

That very rarely I expose.

I always try to keep “the pace,”

And scarcely share that secret place,

That inner heart that wants to bloom,

But never finds the “elbow room.”

Perhaps, if reading to the end,

You may identify a friend,

That “Me” of me I tend to hide,

May be like you, yourself, inside.

58

How do I know what I think until I see what I say?

E.M. Forster

59

Shirley Johnson

Shirley Johnson studied Foreign Languages at the

Universities of Minnesota and Wisconsin. After marrying and

having three children, she taught Spanish in a California

community college for some twenty years. While always a

constant reader, she didn’t write until she joined a memoir

group while living in Carmel. Using materials from those

memoirs, she put together the story of her life in a self-

published book for her children and grandchildren. When she

arrived among the first group of residents at Varenna, she

was happy to find others with similar interests and joined the

writing group.

60

A Class on Demand Shirley Johnson

n the twenty-some years I taught Spanish at

Monterey Peninsula College, a community college

that prided itself on its location and on being responsive to

student and community needs, I had a number of different

assignments, but the strangest one came about at the height

of the Civil Rights Movement, after sit-ins and strikes at many

major universities in the country were already old news. The

ideas that fueled the unrest at those institutions had arrived

at ours, and our president, Bob Faul, was faced with student

demands for Black Studies. He found teachers for a Black

History class and one in Black Literature, but when he was

confronted by a delegation of young, angry black students

dressed like African warriors in fake tiger skins, carrying fake

spears and demanding that he also provide them with

training in Swahili (the language of their ancestors), he was

caught off guard.

That Swahili was not a tribal language but the lingua

franca used generally for government and business was not

of concern to them. Swahili spoke to their romantic notions

of “roots,” of great African cultures on the continent lost

during European enslavement. So, being a smart

administrator aware of experiences on other campuses, he

I

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wisely agreed to their demands. The students simmered

down, and he set about to find a teacher. He knew a young

Kenyan student on campus who spoke Swahili, but he still

needed a credentialed teacher.

I entered the picture when one evening I walked into a

dinner party where Bob Faul was a guest. As I was about to

greet everyone, he suddenly exclaimed, “Here at last is my

Swahili teacher!”

I looked around and realized he was pointing to me—a

very white middle-aged woman who worked hard to pass

muster in Spanish. I thought my teaching Swahili was a joke,

but Bob was serious and determined to keep peace on his

campus. I had a credential, room in my schedule to add

another class, and being a creative administrator, Bob was

able to work around regulations to give the warriors their

language class.

I make their demand sound rather foolish, and I

suppose it was in a way, but the movement had energized

and excited young black students by giving them the feeling

they might have the power to change society and their lives. It

was important at that moment for them to be heard.

I wish I could remember the name of the young Kenyan

who worked with me to organize the course, but I no longer

have records of those days and I lost track of him when the

course ended. For several tedious weeks in the fall, he and I

sat together in a small, stuffy recording room off the

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language laboratory and repeated phrases which I first read

in English, and he then pronounced in Swahili, pausing to give

the student time to repeat. We recorded dialogues and

vocabulary this way, day after day, until we had enough tapes

to last two semesters, a boring job using a dull Swahili text

procured from the Foreign Service.

When classes began, I introduced the students to their

Swahili teacher, sat in the back of the class, gave him

suggestions during the week about teaching methods, and

tried to cheer him up in the face of the rapidly diminishing

enthusiasm of his students, who were not only required to

attend class, but also to spend two hours a week working

with our mind-numbing tapes.

Would they have been more enthusiastic had there

been more professional tapes to work with? I doubt it. No,

they had won their battle and now had to memorize

dialogues and vocabulary, always a task demanding

discipline. Other courses in the program, like Black History,

were more immediately gratifying, even when poorly taught.

Hundreds of schools across the country were hastily patching

together programs in Black Studies, creating departments,

and searching for qualified black instructors—and they were

very scarce.

Our Swahili class lasted two semesters until, as the

enrollment declined below the number required to justify a

class, it quietly met its end, and my career as the teacher of

record for a language I could neither speak, read, nor

understand, came to an unheralded end.

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Susan Bono

Susan Bono is a writing teacher, freelance editor, and thirty-

year resident of Petaluma. She founded Tiny Lights: A Journal

of Personal Narrative in 1995, and its online counterpart,

www.tiny-lights.com, shortly after. She serves on the advisory

boards of the Mendocino Coast Writers Conference and

Petaluma Readers Theatre. She co-founded The Writer’s

Sampler series for the Sebastopol Center for the Arts and

currently co-hosts the quarterly Speakeasy literary readings at

Aqus Café in Petaluma. Her writing has appeared in

publications such as Sheila Bender’s Writing & Publishing

Personal Essays, the St. Petersburg Times, the Petaluma Argus

Courier, and Passager Magazine.

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Go Fish Susan Bono

obby Schallis was the thorn in our fourth grade

teacher’s side. I’m sure Mrs. McCrary would have

sold him to slave traders if any had showed up at Dingle

Elementary School. I think back on him now and see a small,

wiry, buzz-cut bundle of energy only marginally contained by

a wooden school desk.

Bobby was brilliant in the dodgeball circle and on the

kickball diamond, his short, swift legs pumping as he ran. In

class, he did what he could to remain in motion, which, in

Mrs. McCrary’s rigidly constructed realm, was limited to

stirring up trouble with flicked erasers and other projectiles,

and shooting off his mouth. Mrs. McCrary, in her never-

ending quest for the silence of the grave, was often heard to

say, “Mr. Schallis, be quiet!”

I’d like to think I knew even then that Bobby was bright

as well as complicated, a freedom fighter with enough spunk

to protest the stifling atmosphere Mrs. McCrary was so eager

to maintain. But in reality, I ignored him whenever possible. I

was intent on maintaining my Good Girl status. I had learned

to handle my boredom by looking out our second story

classroom windows at the tops of the rustling sycamore

B

65

trees. Besides, I was a full head taller than Bobby and

obsessed with someone more my size: Scott Leathers, the

blond, blue-eyed alpha male of the fourth grade. Bobby had

showed no interest in me, but he didn’t fit my romantic

notions anyway.

But at Coffee Hour one Sunday in March, I found

myself face to face with Bobby Schallis in the fellowship hall

of the United Methodist Church. I’d never seen him there

before. Suddenly, he appeared before me, looking as if he’d

spent all morning trying to worm his way out of his dark

wool slacks, ironed white shirt and clip-on tie. He asked me

the last question I expected to hear from a boy who

pretended to catch cooties from girls at recess, “Wanna come

over to my house and play?”

Dumbfounded, I could only mumble a stunned, “I

guess.”

With disquieting speed, Bobby darted off among the

coffee drinkers congregated on the slick linoleum to ask his

parents. Moments later, he clattered back in his scuffed dress

shoes, grabbed my arm, and propelled me on a search for my

own mom and dad. With Bobby standing at my elbow, I was

unable to communicate my deep reservations concerning his

plan, and my parents failed to notice the panic in my eyes.

The next thing I knew, I was sitting on the bench seat of a

Buick between Bobby and his older sister, heading off into the

unknown.

Once we got to the Schallis household, misery seized

my young swain. He had been released to the comforts of a

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tee-shirt, jeans and tennies, but I remained in my Sunday

finery. That hardly mattered to me, as I didn’t go in for

rugged entertainments. Coloring books and Barbies were

more my line. He was equipped with neither, so we shuffled

from room to room in his family’s tidy tract house until he

offered to show me their fish pond. Cautiously, I agreed.

The oval concrete trough in the middle of the backyard

was something of a wonder. The suburban landscapes of the

1960s rarely featured more than a patio, a swing set or

sandbox, and maybe a barbeque. This fountain, the legacy of

a previous homeowner, had murky water choked with tangled

plants and the look of prolonged neglect. I was about to

comment on the smell of stagnant water when I noticed

flashes of orange and gold among the crowding plants.

“Koi,” Bobby said, marking the first time I ever heard

the word. “From Japan.” I’d seen big goldfish before at places

like the zoo and William Land Park in Sacramento. But until

that moment, I had no idea they were actually something

exotic.

We quietly looked at the fish going about their

business, although quiet was not a state Bobby could

maintain for long. Soon, he was taking off his shoes and

socks, rolling up his pants, and wading in. Ever the

gentleman, he invited me to join him, but I backed away in

my patent leather maryjanes, white tights and taffeta skirt to

watch from a safe distance as he scooped up water with a

peanut butter jar.

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Just when I was starting to wonder how long I could

maintain my polite expression of feminine interest, he

sloshed over and handed me the jar of dirty water. In it was a

tiny, pale yellow fish, smaller than any I’d seen in the tanks at

the Sprouse Reitz or Woolworth’s.

“Here,” he said. “A baby koi. For you.”

My heart leapt, not for my brave cavalier, but for the

miniature creature in the container his mother obligingly

found a lid for. Its small bright eyes and nearly transparent

fins were utterly adorable. I was returned home that

afternoon dreaming not of the romantic overtures of Bobby

Schallis, but about how big my new pet might get.

Back at school on Monday, Bobby tried to act as if we

had some sort of understanding, but I rebuffed him, figuring

the best way to deal with the ambivalence this public display

of affection generated was to pretend nothing had happened.

The fish, symbol of love’s mysterious, uncharted depths, was

dead by Tuesday. Chlorinated tap water probably did it in,

and the confining routine of Mrs. McCrary’s classroom never

allowed Bobby’s tender side to resurface.

The seeds of my relationship with Bobby, if that’s what

it was, did not fall in fertile soil. I was too busy pursuing my

unrequited love affair with Scott Leathers to encourage a

young rebel’s latent gallantry. I never saw his family in church

again, either.

Bobby Schallis moved away at the end of 5th grade. I’d

like to think he grew up and found profitable ways to channel

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that boundless energy, and that he eventually linked up with

a girl who enjoyed his kind of fun. But I know the people we

are now are not so different from who we were as nine-year-

olds. I suspect Bobby is still out there making grand gestures

no one fully appreciates, while I’m busy looking off into the

distance, not recognizing love when it’s being handed to me.

69

WORDS FROM THE WISE One-liners Worth a Second Look

The Varenna Writers Club is always up for a challenge. From

time to time we assign ourselves the task of summing up a

lifetime of learning in a single sentence. The gems featured

here deal with resolutions, love, hard times, and life in

general. More pop up on our website from time to time:

http://varennavoices.blogspot.com..

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Words from the Wise One-liners Worth A Second Look

“Assume assumptions are to be avoided.”

Bernice Schachter

“The best resolutions are those that are

easier done than said.”

Susan Bono

“Be careful what you ask yourself to resolve.”

Ellie Rutigliano

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“Making resolutions has the power and

the permanence of a snowflake.”

Shirley Johnson

“Love is a renewable resource.”

Shirley Johnson

“Love: the best show in Vegas.”

Bernice Schachter

“Love: the best show anywhere.”

Dolores Fruiht

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“There's always enough love to go around, even when

you don't know where you've misplaced yours.”

Susan Bono

“Love is a strong emotion; when honest,

it improves those involved.”

Sally Tilbury

“Hard times get harder the more you dwell on them.”

Susan Bono

“You can't get anything from prunes except the pits.”

Joyce Cass

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“Maybe my next collection of essays

will be called, My Life, Lately.”

Shirley Johnson

“The more foolish we become, the wiser we become.”

Dolores Fruiht

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75

Dolores Giustina Fruiht

Dolores Giustina Fruiht was born in Portland, Oregon in

1923. She received her education from the University of

Portland and served as an overseas nurse during WWII. The

mother of five children, she moved to Santa Rosa in 1952. She

is an accomplished potter, photographer, philosopher,

graphic artist and writer. She has written, designed and

published the books Becoming, Contemplative Vignettes from

a Potter’s Spinning Wheel, and In Silence. She’s attended the

Varenna Writer's Group from the beginning.

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More Contemplating

Dolores Giustina Fruiht

part of me still grieves for the loss of a long held

dream. How do I move beyond? Intellectually I

know how to discipline my emotions; I practice, then all of a

sudden, the volcano erupts. Oh, the uncertainty of “journey,”

the paradox of life.

I must “let go” of this world, not just the difficult

issues of the world, but all of it. That I find mighty hard to

do! I want to keep the joy, the success, the blossoms, the

warm colors, even the challenges she presents. I am in this

world. I have created many dreams, or have the dreams

created me? The fibers from the broken dreams are the ones

that keep tripping me. Why? Why can’t I cut them, prune

them like an ungainly shrub in my garden. Gather the

clippings and allow them to become compost for the new.

Even return the beautiful, fragrant rose blossom back to the

soil out of which she grew; another blossom, different, but

just as beautiful, can emerge.

A

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I am a good gardener. I can and do remove that which

does not lend to the whole. Certain spontaneity is able to

arise and surprise. Integration is not a problem for me in a

garden; rather, it is a challenge. There is always opportunity

to diversify. There is always time for a solo. The harmony and

peace a garden of care emits speaks to all who walk in her

presence. As I watch, the birds flit from shrub to shrub,

splashingly bathe in the pottery bird bath. I, too, with them,

give thanks for the majestic “race” the world shares.

Creatures and creation becoming one.

Then why, why cannot I apply the same truths to my

response in relationship? There is no absolute. There is no

one way. There is no right way. So much remains invisible. So

much remains unknown. It seems so easy to accept, trust,

and surrender to a garden. It is beautiful in spite of, or

because of. It is a work of love and beauty, yet it changes with

the seasons, dies, renews, only to die again.

Nature is wisdom; silence in nature is more wisdom.

Perhaps I do not hear what I am listening to—too busy

listening to dreams. The broken dream will only dissolve as I

return it to the world out of which it came, plow it under,

below the reach of any desired echo. In this inner space of

nothing, in this inner space of silence, there will be no

expectation, no cultural or worldly placed values, only divine

wisdom carrying you to a deeper level of “being” just who

you are, when you are what you are, with awareness.

I sit on the steps this foggy but silent morning and

meditate on a painting that hangs in my stairwell.

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It is always interesting to pause and reacquaint oneself

with some intuitive response rendered at a crucial moment.

An emotion temporarily frozen with a spontaneous splash of

form and color via the paint brush. Frozen, yet very fluid, as

one watches the movement of life’s winding stream bounce

her way in between, across, down, and over nature’s collected

matter.

The slim figure—standing—ready to toss her long held

mask into the fiery abyss before her becomes stilled.

Archetypal faces watch from the Tree of Life as she

consciously prepares to jump into space unknown.

This image gives me goose bumps, and yes, sends

chills down my spine as I once again contemplate the external

and internal stimulus that allows such a breakthrough.

Forces, you keep coming, sweeping me into unknown ends.

Ends that are only beginnings, as life extends.

Beside this young stilled figure rocks a canoe, the

canoe that carried her across the river. Her canoe of truth, of

discernment for life’s sacred passage, the canoe bearing the

symbol of ancient past. The canoe that now must be cut

loose.

Sitting on my stairway, I can even now feel the texture

of the canoe, the womblike entrance, the cool breeze of dawn.

I was there and at the same time I was (am) here. I was (am)

both places at once. Time was (is) vertical; time was (is)

timeless.

I can also smell the old oak that gives rest to the raven

high above and see the shadow her spreading limbs cast

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below. I actually become the raven, and for a very brief

moment, see into all dimensions of the earth.

The course of this quest into a new consciousness was

a lengthy one. One of persistence and survival, of chaos and

complexity. But from this challenge came unity, a new state

of being. Be it the morning sun breaking through a standing

forest of trees or the human ego becoming transparent as the

spirit falls upon her, it is the spirit that quickens the soul. Are

we not but spirit unfolding?

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A Nostalgic Drive Dolores Giustina Fruiht

y daughter drove down from Red Bluff for the

President’s weekend to visit me. We decided to

continue the drive on to the coast and pack a few more boxes

from my Bodega Bay home that I was trying to vacate.

It was an overcast day but the colors were so vivid and

carried such energetic power. Bright, radiant mustard covered

the fields of neglected apple orchards that border Highway 12

en route to Bodega Bay. Freestone’s gentle rolling hills were

verdant green with spring’s recent rains. And the acacia trees,

erect as vigil guards, aglow in full blossom, escorted us into

this countryside of beauty.

Nostalgic memories glided through my mind as easily

as Tina’s car glided upon the open roads before us. Just

yesterday (well, more like forty years ago) we drove the same

winding highway, stopping at the then-young apple orchards

with our then-young family of five, gathering the aftermath of

a bumper crop. We would then trek to the nearby cannery

with our worthwhile yield and can applesauce for winter’s

pantry. Apple and cherry gleaning were a yearly Sunday

M

81

afternoon affair. We would return year after year to the same

orchard, creating a comfortable relationship—friendship,

actually—with the owners.

The present fruit trees, the few that remain standing,

are as gnarly as my hands. Guess we are probably the same

age, and even perhaps weathered by the same forces of

nature. A concrete foundation, now stark in appearance, is all

that remains of the once bustling cannery.

On toward the ocean we drifted, enjoying the

countryside.

A great number of black crows were lined up on the

old Bodega schoolhouse fence, the very spot where

Hitchcock’s “The Birds” was filmed in the ‘60s. We lived in

Santa Rosa at the time of this big event. This sighting gave an

eerie feeling to the overcast day, as if for a moment it was

then.

I looked to my right where an old sawmill also once

stood. Our son served as night watchman one summer when

he was in high school. Through the fog, I could visualize its

ghostlike appearance revealing to me the mark it had once

played in time’s history.

These memories kept flashing, but I became more

conscious of all the symbols that were formed by them, and

the metaphors of meaning they in turn birthed. Birds, I

mused, are a symbol of freedom—freedom from material ties.

(Was I not moving from the Bodega Bay home to a smaller

residence?) They are also a symbol for spiritual freedom, an

ability to soar to higher awareness. As I stood before the vast

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span of window in my (to be leaving) Bodega Bay home, the

symbol of “window” shouted its message to me. “Window”

gives one an ability to see beyond a given situation. It also

provides an inter-dimensional awareness. When we sat

momentarily in chairs around the dining table, I applied my

knowledge of the chair symbol. A chair in a dream depicts

one’s attitude, position, how one sees oneself. What was my

attitude regarding this move—honestly?

It was interesting to treat our nostalgic drive from

Santa Rosa to Bodega Bay as a dream. As in a dream,

yesterday and yesteryear slid in and out of focus. Just as a

musician plays his slide trombone, one realizes it is the space

between the notes that creates the music. It is the space

between the notes that creates the journey. It is the space

between words that writes the story.

83

Joyce Cass

Joyce Cass was born in San Francisco, leaving her heart there,

but moving around in Northern California ever since. She

published her memoir in 2006, A Leaf from the Family Tree,

and has been delighted to be a member of the Varenna

Writers group.

84

Up in Smoke Joyce Cass

he taxi’s tires alternately hummed and slapped

against the surface of the Bay Bridge as we neared

my beloved city, San Francisco. The familiar skyline defined

itself for my eyes—an eagerly awaited sight. Oh, how I had

missed it these four months of the fall term stuck back there

at Ferry Hall enduring loneliness and homesickness that no

amount of studying, learning, or meeting new friends could

will away! But forget that for now as I was home for ten full

days, and my head swam with the prospects of all the fun

and parties that lay immediately ahead for this Christmas

vacation.

Inside the taxi my mother and I sat together on the

back seat while Dad faced us, seated uncomfortably on the

edge of the jump seat. He made a handsome figure, and

today, because it was Saturday, a day of leisure, he wore a

sweater vest under his sport coat. His tie was knotted with

care and its grey pattern brought out the shine of his

whitening hair, full and wavy. Because I was home, his hazel

eyes sparkled with humor and he was in rare form, full of

stories and small talk.

T

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Mother, too, looked all shined up, full of warmth and

good spirits. She wore a soft suit of royal blue with a single

rope of pearls around her neck, her “good ones” given to her

long ago by my father. The blue suit emphasized her eyes, the

color of cobalt. I didn’t see any gray strands in her hair, so I

assumed that she’d recently been to the hairdresser. Both my

mother and father cared a great deal about their appearance.

Was it only four months ago that I climbed aboard the

Challenger bound for Chicago and boarding school? The trip

seemed an endless four-day and three-night ordeal, with

devoted hours spent writing letters to those left behind as

well as playing card games with some of the servicemen who

were aboard. Luckily Mother was traveling with me, so I

managed to avoid the amorous advances of the most

persistent of these “Railroad Romeos,” and chose instead the

light-hearted ones, most of them heading home for brief

leaves or furloughs before the serious business of warfare

began. They were all amazed that my parents were sending

me all the way from California to Illinois for school. I secretly

agreed with them and thus remained resentful about the

whole decision.

But for now I was briefly home and the dreariness of

the past few months faded from my mind as I noticed for the

first time all the battleships and aircraft carriers sitting in the

middle of the Bay and docked in the piers lining the

Embarcadero. Earlier that morning, after my parents had

greeted me at the train yards at the Oakland Mole, and after

all the hugging and kissing was done and the bags loaded

86

into the cab, they had begun the recent wartime stories of all

the changes that had occurred in the city. I looked and saw it

all about me. The war all at once became very real for me and

nothing I’d seen in the Midwest prepared me for this sight as

we headed off the bridge and looked west on Market street.

“Yes,” Mother smiled, noting my wide eyed stare. “The

Fleet’s in this weekend—you and Dick had better stay off

Market Street tonight. Speaking of Dick, I forgot to tell you

that he called last night—he wanted to know if your train was

on time, but I really think that he wanted to come with us

today. Dad and I knew that you’d have plenty of time for him

for the next few days, so we thought we’d just come alone.”

She smiled again and patted my hand. As she spoke I was

glimpsing a vast sea of milling sailors crowding up Market,

their white hats breaking the monotony of navy blue.

Well, now is the time, I thought, as we headed west up

Pine Street. I’d better put my plan into action, seeing now that

we’re together in the cab and they’re in such a good mood. I

had to show them that during my months away I had grown

up some, and reached an independent decision on my own.

After all, my sixteenth birthday was coming right up!

I swallowed nervously as I shifted, reaching for my

purse on the seat next to me. No, I cautioned myself, don’t

chicken out now, this is the perfect time. I reached in and my

fingers closed around the smooth surface as I withdrew the

flat sky-blue cigarette case trimmed with shiny gold. A flip of

the release switch opened to reveal ten neatly laid out

Chesterfields, my parents’ favorite brand.

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“Care for a cigarette, Mom?” I barely got the words out

as I held the case in front of her. I didn’t dare look up and

over at my father. There was an imperceptible moment of no

movement or response as I held my breath, waiting. I forced

myself to look directly at her and caught her eyes searching

tentatively my Dad’s.

“Well, Joyce, well—what a pretty case. Well, no, I don’t

think I’ll have one just now, we’re almost home.” I reached

over to offer one to Dad, my hand shaking only slightly.

Elaborately, with exaggeration, each movement sharply

defined, he lifted up the little gold bar that held the cigarettes

in place and selected one with one hand, while the other

fished in his jacket pocket for matches. He said nothing as he

went through the ritual of lighting up, and then, exhaling, he

said in a pleasingly serious manner, “Needless to say, Joyce,

you’ve caught us both by surprise. I don’t know quite how to

respond—give me a minute.”

He looked out the window as the tiny cab filled with

his exhaled smoke and the meter ticked loudly behind his

head. I followed his lead and lit up my own cigarette, trying

desperately not to cough. The Fillmore Street arches flashed

by my vision. Another deep drag, and then the merest of a

sigh escaped him as he looked at me.

“I must say that in one way I’m quite proud of you.

You’ve faced up to the fact that you are smoking now and

you’re not going to hide it from us. I certainly didn’t do that

when I started, and for that reason I give you a lot of credit.

Of course I’m happy that you can be truthful with us, but—“

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As he went on, I stubbed out my cigarette in the filthy

cab ashtray and experienced a euphoric feeling of acceptance

and relief. It was almost as if he was seeing me in a new light.

Could it be that I was finally stumbling down the hallway

leading to the rooms of their world? He continued to speak.

“I’m also sad that Mother and I, by our own actions, have

perhaps led you to start this nasty habit, and I’m very sorry

for that.” He looked down at his smoldering cigarette with

distaste and released another heavy sigh. His father voice

took over. “I’ve read recently that smoking at an early age is

very likely to stunt your growth and we certainly don’t want

that. Also, you’re still a very young lady, you know, and

people don’t look kindly at young high-schoolers with

cigarettes dangling from their mouths. We can only hope that

your habit will be very limited and maybe—“

His voice trailed off, and at that moment the taxi

pulled up to the curb in front of our house. I was grateful and

elated to have the critical conversation over with, but excited

to be home. I ran up the stairs to see if my room had

changed, but somehow I realized that maybe, maybe, the

change would turn out to be just within me.

89

Here and Now Joyce Cass

e wear our robes of conviviality well

We women of a certain age.

Accustomed to years of civility

We have attained our resilient phase.

Conversations demand less than full attention

Our occasional responses too offhand to mention.

A short amiable time talking together

(With much of it spent focused on the weather!)

Our sisterhood, well-trodden beyond the fragile stage

Binds us close, we women of a certain age.

W

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