EDWOOD OAST ENTER ENIOR January/March

A quarterly publication of, by and for the Redwood Coast Senior Center community
RC
SC
EDWOOD
OAST
E N I O R
ENTER
January/March 2016
GAZETTE
Redwood Coast Senior Center • 490 N. Harold Street, Fort Bragg, CA 95437 • (707) 964-0443 • rcscenter.org
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January/March 2016
Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette
1
In This Issue
Be a Part of the Future !
2
No Resolutions – A Checklist
Please! • Charles Bush
3
THE LOGGER’S LAMENT
Yesterday’s Hero
Jay Frankston
4
6
Ideograms • Joe Smith
Swimming • Adrienne Ross
13
The Town • Rose Mary Hughes
14
Not Anymore • Gene Lock
16
Waiting • Nona Smith
18
Our Journey to Isreal
Orah Young
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Laurel Moss
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BOARD OF DIRECTORS 2016
“The Happy Couple”
Cover Art
by Richard Rios
Rick Banker, President
Bob Bushansky, Vice President
Claudia Boudreau, Treasurer
Zo Abell, Secretary
Charles Bush, Executive Director
2
Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette
January/March 2016
No Resolutions – a Checklist Please! — Charles Bush
Resolutions drive me crazy. One more
thing hanging over my head. Another obligation which creates another possibility for not
succeeding. At the same time I love the idea
of a “new annual start.” As I get older, I prefer working with a simple checklist. It’s a
way of reminding me how I want to act, and
what I want to express in my life. The items
on the checklist affirm what I believe to be
the kinds of actions that increase happiness,
health, prosperity, and meaningfulness.
What works for me about this checklist is
that I can do something about these little
“vision statements” almost anytime. I just
read through them every morning, then plan
to move in the direction they point toward
in some small way.
No obligations, no deadlines, just a little
direction and lots of success each day – or so.
1) I am aware of any ongoing health issues
which are causing me discomfort. I’m getting
good professional support and treatment
focused on improving the way I feel and
function. I understand the advice I am being
given, and do a good job of implementing
the advice and instructions I’m getting.
2) I move around a bit every day, enjoying
the feeling of having a functional body. I
exercise a bit; stretch some; take walks regularly; do a bit of physical work each day; and
dance, stretch, or move my joints regularly. I
feed my senses with a variety of physical
experiences and appreciate all the capacities
of my body.
3) These days I am eating moderately,
never stuffing myself. I try not to binge on
sugar, refined and processed foods, and salty
greasy snacks. Every day I enjoy a wide vari-
ety of different types
of food, including
whole grains fruit
and vegetables. I
enjoy my food a lot,
and especially like
having social meals
with friends.
4) I maintain a fulfilling and interesting
social life. This includes spending time with
friends, and scheduling some enjoyable
activities that involve the company of others.
I stay open and enthusiastic about having
some new experiences in my life.
5) I stay interested in what is happening in
my community and actively enjoy the many
things that living on the north coast has to
offer. I regularly try to learn new stuff. I like
finding things out, especially when what I
learn “changes my mind.” I’m still growing
wiser all the time.
6) I find ways to use my skills, knowledge
and time to help other people. I make myself
useful in ways that improve the lives of others, and help to create a more comfortable
community.
7) I am actively engaged in running my
own life. I plan for the future and organize
my responsibilities in the present. I spend
time keeping my personal life and my affairs
“in good order.” I am realistic about the
changes the future will bring to my life, and
I spend time planning so that I am ready for
what comes.
By the way, the mission of the Senior Center is to support healthy, joyful aging by supporting exactly the things on the checklist!
January/March 2016
Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette
3
THE LOGGER’S LAMENT – Yesterday’s Hero – Jay Frankston
“I was 12 years old when I got my first axe. Fifteen when I got my first chain saw. I
was young, and strong, and proud. My father took me into the woods with him and
showed me how we could tumble those giant trees, lash them to ropes and load them
into trucks driven by men who, like us, were pioneers in the remaining wilderness of the
Pacific Northwest.”
“Axes would swing and chips would fly and chain saws would buzz loud and long
under the tall canopy of leaves a hundred and fifty feet overhead. The noise was
interrupted now and then by the shout of “TIMBER,” the cracking of the trunk at the
base of the giant, the whistling of the fall, and the massive thump as it hit the ground,
the reward of long hours of hard work. This was followed by a hollow silence throughout
the forest before the resumption of intense activity.”
“We were men then. Real men! I was strong as an ox. My skin was tight and red as
all outdoors and no one asked me my age when I ordered a beer. I was part of the
crew, a woodsman, a lumberjack right out of the movies of the 50s, respected, admired,
a hero of sorts. Then someone went into the forest and counted the remaining trees
and everything changed. What was good became bad. The hero became a villain and
everything turned upside down. I never grew to understand it, and if I did, I couldn’t
deal with it. My life had leaned too far in one direction to be felled in another.”
“I am much older now and I drive a logging truck. I no longer stick my head out of
the cab and smile proudly at my cargo. I try to protect myself behind rolled up windows
from the curses of people who curse under their breath as they see me drive by with,
they say, a litter of dead trees on the back.”
“What I was made to be proud of, I am now made to be ashamed of. And the medal I
won for bravery in action during the war remains in its box at the bottom of the drawer.
It is no longer the measure of my worth as a man and I feel as though my life is for
naught. I have been used.”
“And now, toward the end of it, no one is there to acknowledge the houses that were
built with lumber from the trees I felled when I was young, strong, and a hero.
Harvest Market makes weekly vegetable, fruit, and bread donations and supplies
much of the fresh produce for the 800 lunches we serve to elders every week, in the
dining room or delivered by Meals On Wheels to shut-in seniors at home.
Harvest Market also collects close to $900 a month for the senior Center through
their bag purchase program.
Without this generosity we literally could not operate the lunch-for-seniors service, because our federal subsidy does
not cover the cost of the program.
Harvest Market is truly an anchor for redwood Coast seniors food services. Many, Many thanks.
Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette
4
Sixteen
She grows arises awakes
Becomes becomes …
Another day clear ice blue warm
Like the middle of a diamond I suppose
(I’ve never seen a diamond)
Awakes and kitteny
Is enchanted is enchanting
Licks tawny fur and lightly,
Lightly, softly
Becomes becomes …
Rick Banker
January/March 2016
How can you love your mind
and not your heart?
How can you care for your left hand
and not your right?
How can you nurture
one part of your body
at the expense of another?
And aren’t I a part of you?
And aren’t you a part of me?
And isn’t mankind a single body?
And aren’t our feet starving
while our heads are bloated?
And shall we not live
in absolute harmony
or all die
for having failed to recognize
that you and I are one?
Jay Frankston
The Goddess Creator
I am the aftermath of floods
The leavings of fires and war
The bodies of families
Skeletons of children and the old
I am the afterbirth, the blood and guts
Prime earth air water and fire
I am nourished
And more, I am
Rhododendrons waltzing
through redwoods
pinking past curves
glistening pine needles
attracting deer, squirrel, fox and hare
awakening the eye
springing in the wind
I am
Laurel Moss
ENDOCINO
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January/March 2016
Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette
Ideogram: Polliwog
My worst nightmare? To grow up to be
like my mother, green and goitery, with a
croak they should’ve oiled into oblivion
years ago. Her, a senior amphibian, still
doing the soft shoe on the lily pads!
The way she spreads her eggs any old
where is shameful. The Frog King’s marvelous gift to males? Can’t she see her pop
eyes and bumpy skin in the mirror of the
pond, the pouch under her jaw?
Talk about lazy, she sleeps all winter in a
muddy house. But come spring, you can bet
your sweet bippy the floozy’ll be puckering
up her fat lips for fat kisses from randy lads
in search of a princess.
Ideogram: Worm
So there’s no big diff between our fronts
and our derrieres? Why do you choose us,
then, to wiggle underwater on the hook, to
dance the hoochie-koochie and make big
goo-goo eyes at fish?
Yeah, we’re about as welcome as halitosis
or fancy Italian designer patent leather
pumps that pinch, till it’s time to dig us out
of the earth and put us on the menu for the
finny ones you hope to fry.
Think twice about laughing last and best
before tossing us into the lake. Think about
the time there’ll be no taste or tongue for
laughs, when we squirm in the void where
teeth and tonsils used to meet.
Ideogram: Shell
I’m not the pretty shell you admired on
the beach. That shell began to lose its luster,
its iridescent shimmer, the moment you
picked me up and thrust me into the miasma
of a pocket where money goes.
The moment you tried to own me. As if
you could own all the swell and froth, the
rumpled sea! I was a whorled mobile home
5
for a live animal. Now, faded and forgotten, I
do tricks for dust from a shelf.
Pick me up again. Hold me to an ear.
Hear the roar, the crash, the hiss as the
ocean takes back a wave, again and again.
Feel sand slip away between your toes. Tell
me once more I’m so beautiful.
Ideogram: Weeks
Fifty-two may seem like plenty. To those
sentenced to hard labor or invited on vacation with a mother-in-law, it may seem about
half an eternity. It certainly seems enough
weeks for an ordinary year.
For one birthday to the next. And then the
weeks begin flashing by faster than cards in
a marked deck shuffled by a riverboat gambler dealing himself aces off the bottom.
Faster than a speeding haiku.
Listen. The last few weeks are already
ablaze, panting loud as a prairie fire sprinting for the finish line, gasping for breath.
Suddenly all the time left is burning, all the
time left behind turning to cinders.
Ideogram: Cramps
All writers dread cramps, even bards. A
bard resembles a weather emergency radio
— always in standby mode, awaiting the
broadcast of a poem. His task is to bottle it
in a vessel of transparent words.
To trap the poem like a firefly in a jar with
air holes punched in the lid, then let it go
free, like a spark from a campfire in spooky
woods leaping into the infinite. But a bard
with a cramp catches not a line.
When a charley horse nips the sonnet
muscle, the rondeau bone, verse swoons
away. Flowers hum with poetry, but the bard
hears silence roar. The sea has turned into
yogurt, and he has no spoon.
Joe Smith
6
Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette
January/March 2016
Swimming – Adrienne Ross
“No impact. No gravity,” Craig said, “You
could try it for a couple of days.” Craig was
the physical therapist. With one hand flat
against the sole of Ellie’s bare foot, he
rhythmically and gently flexed and
extended her ankle.
“What about riding a stationary bike,”
Ellie asked him, “or some kind of aerobics
class?”
“Uh uh.” Craig pulled Ellie’s leg out
straight and bent it back, then started
pulling and pushing her foot again. He
looked at her over her bent knee. “No
pressure on the ankle. Oh, a little walk
won’t hurt it.”
“I’m not a very good swimmer,” Ellie
said.
“You’re not competing in the Olympics.
Just conditioning and endorphins. Okay,
that’s all for today.” Craig dropped Ellie’s
leg, no longer a topic of interest, on the
table. “Ice every night and don’t forget the
exercises. The more repetitions you do, the
sooner you can ride a bike.”
“No more jogging?”
“Never say never.”
“Aging, too, I guess...”
Craig held out his hands, palms up, in
the universal but ambiguous gesture of partial disagreement. In this case, Ellie knew,
it meant: “In some people aging plays a
part, in others not.” Craig was slim and
neat, smaller than Ellie who was by no
means a large woman, and he had a look of
wiry endurance. Ellie was older than Craig
and had gray hair, but in this situation he
had the authority.
“Try swimming,” Craig ordered, “it’s a
good workout.”
***
“Swimming, mom,” said Rose. “Swim-
ming will strengthen your entire upper
body.”
“I don’t know how to do the breathing,”
Ellie said, “I don’t want to change my
clothes. I don’t like to get wet.”
“I’ll teach you the breathing,” said Rose,
who was presently teaching 6- and 7-year
old day campers how to swim.
“The chlorine will ruin my hair.”
“I’ve got this great Australian shampoo
that washes out chlorine, it has little bits of
fresh fruit in it.”
“Indoor pools give me the creeps.”
“The pool is outdoors.”
“I don’t look like a swimmer.”
“What does a swimmer look like?”
“Swimmers have long arms. Their faces
look smooth and big under those caps.
They have great haircuts, like Janet Evans.
I look like a jogger.”
“Mom—”
“You know. Solid. I look good on the
track. I look awful in a bathing suit.”
“Mom. Everyone looks awful in a
bathing suit.”
“I don’t like to be cold.”
“The pool is heated.”
Oh, god, there was nothing for it. Craig
could equivocate, but jogging was out forever. Rose was leaving for college at the
end of the summer. Ellie had two months
to learn breathing from her daughter.
***
On her first day she threw a sweatshirt
over her bathing suit, which was actually
an old unfashionable leotard, the kind that
came up to the collarbone and covered the
hips. She carried her towel and her money
in her hand. The dressing room looked
scuzzy; there was a cement floor, benches
around the walls, and tacky green net bags
January/March 2016
Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette
for swimmers’ belongings. Barefoot she
walked outdoors to the pool. She did not
look at anyone. She walked down the steps
into the pool quickly, as though she knew
what she was doing. The water was not
cold, but neither was it warm. She struggled and floundered, gasped, choked,
gulped and coughed, thrashing her arms
and legs from her imperfect kinetic memory of childhood swim lessons, 40 years
ago. Panting, she grabbed the other edge of
the pool to get her breath. A long wait.
Then she groped her way back and stumbled up the stairs out of the pool. At least
I got wet, she thought. Back in the dressing
room, she realized that if she took off her
wet suit, she had nothing else to wear. It’s
all right, she comforted herself, how was I
supposed to know? This is my first time.
She drove home shivering, sitting on her
towel.
“I swam one lap,” she told Rose, “and
swallowed half the pool.”
“Everyone swallows half the pool, mom.
Even lifeguards swallow half the pool.”
The next day Ellie bought goggles. She
swam two clumsy laps and swallowed half
the pool. The third day she swam three
laps.
“If I can swim ten laps I’ll die happy,”
she said to Rose.
Rose went with her, and gave her
instructions. “See, mom, tilt your chin up.
You don’t have to turn your head all the
way, just enough to get some air. You don’t
have to sort of lunge out of the water. Just
turn your head.” Ellie watched her, then
tried it. She swallowed half the pool.
“Oh oh oh,” she sputtered and moaned.
“Try it again, mom. Watch me.” Ellie
practiced breathing that day and every day
for the next two weeks. She bought
another leotard.
***
Every day after work she went to the
7
pool at the hour of afternoon adult lap
swim. There was a terrible cold ten-minute
interval between the warm dressing room
and the first few laps. During that period
Ellie was miserable, self conscious and
uncomfortable. When she walked into the
pool her skin was surprised. She always
expected the water to be slightly warmer
than it was, more welcoming. She stood
waist deep at the shallow end of the slow
section. The water positively glowed an
unearthly turquoise color. When she lay
down in the water and began moving off
slowly, she saw through her goggles magical fractal patterns made by the sun falling
through solid wetness and skimming over
the floor of the pool. Patterns like woven
ropes glittered and flashed.
Her routine was to dress in jeans and a
t-shirt over her suit before she drove to the
pool. There she took them off again and
put them together with her towel in the
green net bag. After swimming and showering, she rolled up her wet swimsuit in
her damp towel, and over her bare skin
slipped on her pants and shirt. The first
few times she put on her trousers without
panties underneath, she felt strange, almost
wanton. She stubbornly felt it was important to carry back and forth only the essentials, just as she had always refused to buy
any special gear for running except shoes.
When she learned to breathe, swimming
was easier. Not fun, not trance-like, not
energizing, not like jogging. But easier. She
practiced every motion she had learned
from Rose. Back and forth she swam. She
grew to recognize in herself a fondness for
the pool. Every day when she arrived the
pool shimmered aquamarine in the late
afternoon sun. She began to look forward
to this radiant color which appeared
nowhere else in her life.
At a yard sale she found a little duffle,
once black but subsequently faded to a
8
Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette
patchy amorphous watery color, in which
to keep her by now numerous swim things.
She had shampoo, conditioner, skin oil,
soap; ear plugs and goggles; even a cap,
which had to be wiped dry and dusted
with talcum powder after each use, just
like a diaphram. She kept her swim card in
a little zip pocket of the bag, and some
extra money, just in case. Her bulging
swim bag did not contain excessive equipment. On the contrary, it made her feel like
a pro.
***
“My goal is 20 laps.”
“36 laps is a mile, mom. That means
you’re already swimming over a quarter of
a mile!”
Hearing Rose, Ellie felt confident. Rose
came again and gave her another breathing
lesson. Ellie now felt that her movements
back and forth across the pool were more
like swiming and less like struggling. She
bought a waterproof watch with a lap
counter.
“Swimming is so boring,” said Lynne,
one of the slow section regulars with
whom Ellie had quickly made acquaintance, “that it absolutely taxes one’s imagination.” But Lynne was a more accomplished swimmer than Ellie. Ellie never
tired of concentrating on her breathing, or
of watching the underwater light show, or
of counting laps and lengths and parts of
lengths. All summer long, while Rose
sorted things and packed things and gave
things away and bought new things and
took boxes of things over to her daddy’s
basement to store, all summer long Ellie
swam every day.
***
Ellie was doing her ankle exercises while
watching a rerun of Cheers. She braced
herself against the wall with one hand and
went up and down on her toes 50 times.
Then she pointed her toes in and went up
January/March 2016
and down another 50 times. The doorbell
rang.
“Mom!” Rose yelled through her bedroom door, “Daddy’s coming over to pick
up boxes.”
“Right,” muttered Ellie through her
teeth, “thanks for letting me know.” She
opened the door to her ex-husband.
“Hi, Richard.”
They exchanged kisses. Rose pushed a
box into the hall. “Books,” she said. Back
she came with another box. “More books, “
she announced.
“The kid is organized,” Richard said.
“How are you, Ellie? Rose tells me your
ankle went out, is that true? Is it true
you’re not running?”
“I’m swimming,” Ellie told him, “swimming is much better for you than jogging.
Swimming is one of the best conditioning
exercises you can do. It strengthens your
upper body as well as your back and legs.”
“Mom is getting to be a real jock, dad.
She gets out there every single day and
does it.” Rose threw her athletic young arm
around her mother’s shoulder. Ellie pulled
her daughter near and gazed upon her
marvelous skin. Thank you, Richard, she
thought, as close to prayer as Ellie ever got,
thank you for this perfect child. She
quickly imagined herself knocking wood.
“Look at Rose,” Ellie told Richard, “she
never catches cold. It’s easy on your joints,
too. No gravity.”
“Hey. I only asked.”
***
Ellie was soon swimming 20 laps. She
now knew she would be able to swim a
mile. She bought a real bathing suit and a
pair of thick Brazilian zoris that cost $15.
At the end of one month she went to see
Craig for an evaluation.
“You’re still doing your exercises?”
“Yes, three times a week.”
“Ice?”
January/March 2016
Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette
“I’m not using the ice any more. I’ve
been swimming.”
“How often?”
“Every day.”
“Three or four times a week is probably
enough. Your ankle looks good, Ellie. I
wouldn’t jump on it if I were you but
there’s no reason you can’t start using a
bike now. Go slow at first.”
“Does that mean you’re discharging me?”
“Clean bill of health,” Craig said.
***
Rose, her summer job over and her
packing nearly finished, spent most of her
time driving around town to say good-bye
to all her friends. She didn’t come to the
pool any more. She was too busy, she said.
The night before she left for college, she
stayed over at her boyfriend’s. The
boyfriend was going to an entirely different
college, and this was their big good-bye.
Teenagers don’t need sleep like we do, Ellie
thought, they don’t feel the cold. Early in
the morning, with four cardboard boxes
and two immense suitcases, mother and
daughter drove to the airport.
“I just hope my roommate has a stereo,”
Rose said, “Mine is in daddy’s basement.”
Ellie saw that Rose was tense and raggedy.
She bought her daughter a pale waffle,
which Rose criticized for its plastic quality
and then devoured. She bought her a magazine and some sugarless gum and stuffed
two $20 bills in her pocket. “For travelling,” she said.
Rose’s flight was called. They hugged for
a long time. Rose began to cry. “Oh mom,”
she said, “I don’t want to go.” Ellie held
her daughter in an embrace she had practiced for 18 years and finally perfected at
this very moment.
“You’ll do fine, honey.” She gave Rose a
tissue. “And,if you don’t like it there, you
can always come right back home and go
swimming with me.” Rose laughed a croak-
9
ing little laugh. She kissed Ellie’s ear and
left. Ellie felt tired and a little gritty, a
familiar airport feeling.
***
On the way back from the airport, Ellie
decided she would not go to work that day.
Instead, she stopped at a cafe and drank
foamy coffee and read the newspaper. At
home, sun streamed in through the windows and she felt sleepy and stupid. It was
only 12 noon. Slowly she changed into her
bathing suit and put on her jeans. She
spent a long time deciding which sweatshirt to wear. She slipped into her $15
zoris and rolled a clean towel into her
swim bag. Driving to the pool she felt
mechanical and mindless. The sun was too
bright. It was hard to think. She had never
before been to the pool in the middle of
the day. The light was different, the pool
was a different color, the contrast between
air and water had moved into another
range. Dreamily she went through the
familiar motions, slipping off her outer
clothes, putting her gear in the green net
bag. The pool was practically empty at this
time of day. It had a new greenish tint she
liked very much, like a tiny square ocean.
She walked into the water, adjusted her
goggles, and swam slowly off. Her arms
and legs moved as of themselves. She
breathed calmly, turning her face rhythmically to the left as Rose had taught her to
do. To and fro she swam. She thought of
nothing. She glided through this alien element as though it were native to her body,
as though she had been born to it and
grown up in it, as though she were composed of its substance. The old landdwelling self within her, the mammalian
self, knew what had changed. From her
eyes another kind of water flowed and
flooded the lenses of her goggles, so that
she couldn’t see where her daughter had
gone.
10
Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette
January/March 2016
Mourning
Death doesn’t come at a convenient time
like a period at the end of a sentence,
the amen at the end of a prayer,
or the bell at the end of class.
It drops in on you unexpectedly
while you are eating or watching a movie,
an unwelcome guest
for which there was no seat at the table,
a power outage that turns off all your lights
and ends your existence on this plane
to the dismay of those who loved you
and wanted to have another chance to tell you.
Death doesn’t walk a straight line
or stand mute like a solid brick wall.
It zigzags and dances at your wake
allowing you a brief glimpse of the
mourners assembled in celebration of
your life before taking you across the
rainbow to eternity.
Death doesn’t mourn or grieve,
no tears of sorrow from the great beyond.
The reaper separates the wheat from the chaff
freeing your soul from its earthbound shackle
and letting you soar free and undefined.
Death doesn’t recall your moments of joy or
sadness.
Nor does it place your life on a scale
to sing your praises or bemoan your failures.
It opens the pores of your being
to allow your essence to mix with the ether.
Jay Frankston
Michael E. Brown, M.D.
Psychiatry & Psychotherapy
347 Cypress Street, Suite B
Fort Bragg, CA 95437
(707) 964-1820
Free and Low Cost
Classes & Therapies
Everyone is Welcome!
Donation Only
Yoga, Tues 4³5 pm
7·DL&KL7KXU-6:30 pm
Meditation, Sat 8:30-9:30 am
Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette
January/March 2016
11
Steven Huber, our bus driver.
Fort Bragg-Mendocino Coast
Historical Society
343 N. Main Street,
Fort Bragg, California
~See Local History Displays
~Enjoy Local Stories
~Love Local History?
~Join the fun
~Learn to be a Docent
~Welcome Visitors
~Tell Local Stories
961-2840
<fortbragghistory.org>
On a rocky point, pine clad of the north woods
where the glaciers scraped off all they could,
my Finnish friend and I toiled cutting logs,
scraping bark the traditional way,
‘til, by the lake there sat our log sauna,
Built to stay.
Through the winter every Saturday night we’d
gather
Build up a good sweat, then work up a lather
In a cove free of ice we’d plunge
Just a minute, then up the bank we’d lunge
Back to that baking, glorious warmth so fine
So intense it sent cold chills up your spine.
Near the stone hearth, in the dark, we sit
Salty sweat we’d taste as it dripped,
More fulfilling than church this ritual, I must
confess
A blast of steam could make me utter, God
Bless.
So light and supple, when complete did I feel
So convinced fire and ice all things could heal
Next Saturday my friend, shall I come and
getcha
And smiling he’d say, ya’ sure, you betcha.
Haikus
Coal Steam rising up
Early morning river of sun
Dreams evaporate
Tree Limbs, like bare bones
Framing a cold, slate grey sky
A warm breeze whispers
Perched on my arm
A friend finally trusts me
We enjoy the warmth
12
Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette
January/March 2016
poetry reading in a small town
P hoebe G raubard
a t t o r n e y at L aw
70 7 • 964 • 3525
[\
wiLLs • trust
Probate • eLder Law
594 S outh F ranklin S treet
F ort B ragg, C aliFornia 95437
44951 Ukiah
Street
Mendocino
707-937-2436
frankiesmendocino.com
Homemade pizza
‘™Ž‹…ǯ•‹…‡…”‡ƒ
Falaf
alafel,
el, soups & salads
Gluten-free & vegan options
Organic ingredients
Beer & Wine
Free WiFi
Dz“NOURISHING
COMMUNITY”
dz
we have been notified
we have several weeks
to prepare something of value
to share an inside look
at what makes us
get up in the morning
how we arrange words
to define our take on life
we choose our favorites
our greatest hits
poems that move
as a grand river
or a roadside gutter
big thoughts
and muddy thoughts
all mixed together
and out comes a blend
of joy and longing
then, another storm arrives
washes everything away
until we notice something
gently nudging us
or screaming at us
to keep it going
strolling
they hold hands
as they stroll in unfamiliar towns
stick close together
only let go when the sidewalk
gets narrow and crowded
their eyes turn towards shop windows
with strange art objects or crazy shoes
this is a vacation
letting go of home-life and routines
now, just holding hands
and strolling
Mickey Chalfin
January/March 2016
Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette
13
The Town — Rose Mary Hughes
Highway 24 runs more or less from
Kansas City to St. Louis. Driving down
from Kansas City there’s a forked junction and turning left is the town of
Clifton Hill, Missouri, population 100. A
tall pole with a sign reading “Prepare to
Meet Thy God” greets one on arrival.
The houses are all white not to mention all the people. Most of the houses are
humble two or three small bedroom
homes. The Kruse house sits at one end
though: two-storied, vacant, Victorian,
abandoned and ghostly. Up from the
Kruse house is another small house
whose owner was said to have been
related to Sally Rand, the Fan Dancer.
Upon entering the town and passing a
few houses, crossing the railroad tracks
once stood a bustling little town with a
drug store and general store on one side
and on the other, a bank, barber shop,
post office, and grocery store. One time
the bank was robbed.
The town consisted of two sides with a
railroad track dividing the two. The
“wrong” side of town is the side one first
enters after the junction. The cemetery is
also on that side. A small building stands
beside the railroad crossing and is emblazoned “City Hall.” Years ago, one could
travel via train back and forth from St.
Louis to Kansas City.
As children, my sister and our friends
could run from one end of town to the
other. In the evenings, we played a game
called “Mark Up.” One side would chalk
up the black tar streets and hide while
the other side would trace the marks to
find them. On Halloween, we would let
the air out of tires and turn over outhouses. We could run, play and hide in
bushes around the houses. Cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians. No one
watched us. We only went in to eat dinner.
When we became older, we would walk
two miles in the country to a friend’s
house. No one tried to kidnap us. There
were no computers, no cell phones (in
fact, phones were something we cranked
on the wall and the numbers were all like
4 and 6), no newspapers, no bookstores,
no libraries, no museums, no sidewalk
cafes. It was just a place where we knew
the names of all the cows, horses, cats
and dogs. The streets were paved with
gravel and tar with no street signs or
names. There were exactly two churches
and one school where the elementary and
high school were in one building.
In retrospect, it was a magical time and
place to be young with more freedom
than any child or teenager these days
could ever dream or imagine.
Singing, Dancing & Dying
The back row of a movie theater.
Singing and dancing on the screen.
Musicals of the 1950’s.
Large piano playing woman
Babysitter with
Visits to the dead;
People we never saw alive.
A childhood my sister and
I regurgitated.
Rose Mary Hughes
14
Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette
January/March 2016
Not Anymore — Gene Lock
I
t’s gone. Not slowly faded, but
there every morning. And then
never.
Where I live, I can gaze north, all the
way to the King Range on Mendocino’s
Lost Coast. Just over the nearby cove lies
tiny Caspar; A few houses and a Christmas card church, left over from the lumber rush of the early 1900s. Lovely to
look at, kind of Currier in need of both
Ives, and a little paint. This I watch over,
with first cup of coffee in hand.
I never knew it as my ritual, until a
small piece of it went missing. “It” is that
familiar grey spiral of chimney smoke,
from the white clapboard cabin just seaward of the sharp-steepled church. The
smoke floats up around 7 each weekday. I
imagine someone in stocking feet, stoking the fire in a little stove, maybe for
heat, or breakfast bacon, maybe both. I
must wait until the rising sun shortens
the church steeple’s shadow, to then shine
where the smoke curls up from the chimney. Just a few minutes more. Ah, there it
is. Or was.
I never wondered who lit that little fire,
or how many people depended upon it. It
was just that familiar smoke, an unfurled
flag, for the new day.
I miss it every morning, now that it’s
gone. I mean, I’m doing my routine, but
you are not. I discover I am quite selfish
about this: Dammit, I need your ribbon
of smoke to wrap up my little scene here.
So get moving, why don’t you?
Maybe whomever did move away, or
got a plug-in Keurig coffee thing for a
birthday. But that would so lack drama,
here where waves growl, osprey soar, and
smoke swirls. So what happened?
In my version, the person doesn’t
move, nor disappear. It’s a she, a writer.
Like some of us, her words don’t come
until nightfall, and then they run over the
keyboard, jostling for position on the
page, some settling into an orderly (Keep
calm, carry on) file, and some not. She
writes, and writes, while the cove’s tide
moves in unseen by her, slow below on
the moonlit beach. There’s a rhythm, but
is it good enough to share? Alas, not all.
Some are good, really good. Some can be
saved, but need another twist.
Each night around one, the stack of
printed out good pages slowly grows, and
the tale glows coherent, interesting. The
pages touch, in theme, texture, and tone.
She puts them in the long-worn file
folder, and turns out her light. Darkened
Caspar sleeps then, with just the lighthouse ray sweeping the waves. When
morning light again falls west over the
steeple onto the little house, there’s that
faithful faint gray smoke, from paper
sheets blackening in the heat. These are
the nightly pages that don’t make the cut.
Finally, one morning, there is no smoke.
The best, the kept, pages are all stacked
neatly, and digital copies made. The
words start their own journey, entrusted
to the postman. She waits.
Meanwhile, I wait, too. She’ll write
again, I’m thinking.
January/March 2016
Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette
Hera’s Harvest
Under trees apples rust
Summer’s season passed
Sweet final sweep of sun
Eats at fallow fields
Tipped earth and cool moon
Hera knew when to take possession of the land
After earth’s bounty had swelled and fallen
Ripe and rich to the ground
Vested in a cloak of russets, orange, yellows
Each a richness in its givings
Seasons show a generosity of apples to
Take us through gaunt times.
Bounty
Huckleberries, hunkering under leaves
Fumbling fingers combing branches
Berries bouncing, ting-ing into tin bowls
The air clear
The aroma a bit musky
Little movement or sound
But of the crackling of branches underfoot
The revelation in shadow of beaded clusters
Black and blue berries
Sweet, sour, shiny
And spider webbed
in this late October day
The taste of autumn in the air.
Laurel Moss
Paper Dolls
For 25 cents
Glamorous, beautiful
Paper dolls
Cut out clothes with tabs
To wrap around
Piper Laurie, Betty Grable
Where hours flew by like magic
In our days of make believe.
Rose Mary Hughes
15
the line moves slowly
there was nothingness
it took billions of years to create our
universe
some say 14 billion
all we know of stars and planets
of comets and black holes
we can thank those billions of years
of evolution (theoretically speaking)
for the grand canyon, dinosaurs,
tectonic plates, rain, redwoods,
van gough, michael jordan,
sunday new york times
everything had to wait its turn
the line is very long
we’d love to take a peek; see what's coming
get a head start ...
tell that to india or saturn’s rings
alas, we can only join in
as the line moves forward
even though we are intoxicated
by possibilities of the miraculous ...
showtime will begin
not a moment sooner
than possible
between rains haiku
between rains moment
best time to get poetic
necessary thoughts
along shiny path
rivulets doing their thing
unpredictably
treetop waterfall
earthworms not under cover
like the rest of us
roads closed, stay at home
prayers for rain worked this time
great inconvenience
Mickey Chalfin
16
Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette
January/March 2016
Waiting — Nona Smith
On a robin’s-egg-blue-sky morning in
early spring, I dawdle along the sidewalk
from the parking lot to the entrance of the
assisted living facility where the woman who
used to be my mother now resides. Tall rose
bushes hug the building, their thorny
branches covered with tight, promising buds.
Closer to the ground, night blooming jasmine defies its name and gives off a fragrance that makes me want to linger in the
sun and simply inhale.
But my mother is waiting. I stir myself and
step forward. As if in greeting, the building’s
automatic double doors swoosh open. Moving down the hall, my mood darkens, aided
by the flickering fluorescent lights that create
a dimmed version of the brilliant out-ofdoors. A larger-than-usual group of residents
is parked in wheelchairs near the nurses’ station. My mother is among them. I’ve been
told they’re situated here so the short-staffed
attendants can easily monitor them. The
sight of these people waiting for nothing unnerves me. Before approaching my mother, I
take a deep fortifying breath, and my nostrils
fill with a chemical-laden, lemon-y scent
meant to cover up worse odors. I recall the
sweet scent of jasmine and wish I’d plucked
a sprig for her.
I touch my mother’s bony shoulder. She
looks up with a wan smile. She doesn’t seem
anxious today. Today she’s content to sit
patiently and pick imaginary lint from her
twill slacks.
Seated in a wheelchair adjacent to her, an
Asian woman with thinning hair holds an
open passport up to a woman in a white uniform. She’s speaking a sing-song-y language
none of us understand. Her voice is filled
with angst and it seems she’s pleading for
something. She thrusts the passport out,
then clutches it to her chest.
“Speak English,” a white uniformed
woman tells her. Ramrod straight, her voice
is soft, but I hear no compassion in it for the
woman who has lost her English words, if
she ever owned any.
A deeply tanned man, one who might be
considered lanky if he were standing, sits on
the other side of Mom. A blanket rests on his
shoulders, giving him the appearance of an
Indian chief in an old western movie. He’s
studying his lap with great concentration
and from time to time looks up and asks no
one in particular to take him back to Room
Two.
The woman in white catches my eye. She
stands behind blanket man, shakes her head
and purses her lips. She mouths, “Room
Four,” and tilts her head in that direction,
but she doesn’t take him there. I look away,
pretending not to have noticed her eye roll.
The hallway is already crowded when a
woman with tiny hands and a moon-shaped
face is wheeled in. She’s slumped and
appears relaxed until she stiffens and leans
forward in her chair, raising her hands to her
cheeks.
“Help me, help me,” she bleats, her voice
urgent, distressed. Between cries, she settles
back, her body relaxes and a vacant look
comes over her. It pains me to watch, but
the others, including my mother, seem unaffected.
I bend and kiss my mother’s papery cheek.
She looks up at me, then her eyes glaze. The
woman who isn’t speaking English presses
her passport to her chest. Blanket man studies his lap.
“Help me, help me,” the woman with tiny
January/March 2016
Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette
17
A Song of Fire
hands moans. The uniformed woman in
white examines her fingernails. We continue
our assemblage in the cramped hallway, each
in our own reality bubble.
I imagine the woman with the passport
wants to leave this country and go home, go
anywhere but this gloomy, flickering corridor. Perhaps blanket man has a romantic
liaison in Room Two. Maybe the moon-faced
woman believes she will actually receive help
from the attendant in white who is clearly
just marking time until her shift is over.
I press my nails into my palms and shift
my weight from one leg to the other, grateful
to be mobile, longing to walk through those
automatic doors and out into the bright sunshine again. But I can’t bring myself to leave.
Not just yet.
Inspiration percolates, bringing with it a
gritty momentum. I kneel in front of this
woman who gave me life.
“Mom, would you like to see the spring
flowers? The sun is shining and it’s warm
outside.” I want her to say yes.
She doesn’t answer. I‘m not sure she can
make these kinds of decisions anymore,
doesn’t even know who’s asking her to
decide. She goes back to lint plucking.
But motivation seizes me. I grasp the handles of my mother’s wheelchair and push her
forward toward the swooshing double doors.
It’s unclear if she wants to do this, but she’s
not protesting.
“Wait!” the white-clad matron cries after
us. “You have to sign her out.”
“No. I don’t,” I call back over my shoulder.
I’m not sure this is true. But I am certain
that I’m taking my mother outside to share
the scent of jasmine on this cloudless azureskied day
A song of fire
Its metamorphosing alchemy
Destroyer, creator
Melder and molder
Piping and drumming
Cool calories
Hot fudge
It leaps, flashes, crackles
Explodes into ribbons
Blue, orange, purple, yellow
Leaving
Gray, black, char
Flaky ash
It sweeps clean
With its voracious appetite
Eats flesh and bone, leaf, twig
There is no sanctity in houses
Churches melt as well
An acrobat
Flinging itself from tree to tree
To roof top, down into valleys
To mountain tops, exploding volcanoes of Fire
Fire music
Sputtering, crackling, roaring,
Hissing an anarchistic symphony
Fire is amoral is God is humankind
Is healing is a sizzle in space.
Laurel Moss
A collectively operated
NATURAL FOOD STORE
Open Daily 8 - 8
P.O. Box 367
45015 Ukiah St.
Mendocino, CA 95460
www.cornersofthemouth.com
707 • 937 • 5345
FAX 707 • 937 • 2149
18
Redwood Coast Senior Center
January/March 2016
Our Journey To Israel
We arrive at the Tel-Aviv airport. No
trains into the city until the Sabbath is
over. The Jewish Sabbath begins at sundown on Friday and ends at sunset on Saturday. During these twenty-four hours,
Jews are forbidden to work — not light a
fire, ride in a vehicle or push a button or
turn a switch. This is a day of rest, specifically commanded by God. Modern life
comes to a halt.
Sunset arrives and we find a taxi driver,
Eli, who says he’s too wounded from an
injury incurred during one of Israel’s wars
to load our suitcases.
Steve and I stow our luggage in the front
seat and climb into the back.
“Where you from?”
“California.”
He pushes a button and yells over
“Caifornia Dreamin,” “You need taxi later?
I take you where you want to go. You want
to see Tel Aviv, tomorrow? I show you. Go
to Jerusalem? I drive you.”
He doesn’t stop talking till we arrive at
our rented apartment. We yank our suitcases from the front seat, pay him what he
demands — twice the going rate — and
stand dazed in what appears to be a sleazy
neighborhood.
On the ground floor is a restaurant with
outdoor tables, so crowded the overflow
spills onto the sidewalk and street. Nearly
everyone is in costume: little girls in
princess attire, little boys in cloaks with
swords, adults in masks and Technicolor
wigs. We are overwhelmed by noise, rock
music from the cafe, techno from a couple
of blocks away.
“It’s Purim,” I say to Steve, worried that
he might think all Israelis are mad.
Our landlord meets us on the sidewalk.
We drag our luggage through the crowd
and up three flights of stairs into a modest,
clean but shabby, apartment.
Despite our jet lag, we are anxious to
experience the evening’s celebration. We
descend into a throng more numerous than
when we arrived.
A cross between Mardi Gras and Halloween, Purim celebrates with fancy-dress
costumes, dancing and special foods, the
deliverance of the Jews from their enemies.
We follow the loudest music. A half-block
away, we find a crowd of teenagers wearing
Goth costumes, dancing, hands above their
heads. Electronica blares from the corner
cafe. Revelers pour in from every direction.
Night falls and colored lights play on the
surrounding buildings. The noise is deafening. We weave through narrow streets.
Competing music blares from every corner.
Swarms of young people in rainbow wigs,
clown and sailor suits flow past.
We round a corner and find a jazz band
playing in front of a restaurant. It is now
dark. Outsized pornographic cartoons are
projected on the apartment walls across the
street: turtles with outsized genitalia perform unspeakable acts.
I’m not a prude, but these are bad. I
hope no one sees me watching. After all,
I’m old enough to be these people’s grandmother.
It’s late and we are hungry. We decide to
return to our street where we spotted an
Italian restaurant named Papa’s.
In the light of the moon and the occasional streetlight, we walk through narrow
alleys, past homes and apartments, paint
peeling from their walls, iron bars on the
January/March 2016
Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette
19
Orah Young
windows. I had imagined Tel Aviv as a pristine white Mediterranean beach city. Nothing could be further from reality. For all its
high-rise buildings, theaters, and museums, Tel Aviv looks like a third world
country — shabby, dirty and shopworn.
Plaster crumbles from walls, weeds
abound, and graffiti decorates the buildings. The larger ones look vacant and abandoned.
The cats, however, are great. Two distinct
tribes: one orange, the other white and gray.
They are sleek, healthy and everywhere.
A blond bewigged ballerina with curly
black chest hairs enters the restaurant
before us. Steve and I share an excellent
pizza and an even better bottle of Israeli
wine. In the street, the noise shows no sign
of abating. We decide it’s useless to go back
to our apartment.
Steve wants to hear more of the jazz and
I’m curious about the porno. We return
and the images have changed for the
worse, from Disney to Japanese-style
Manga, so graphic that I turn bright red.
But Steve has only eyes and ears for the
musicians; he barely looks.
We forget our age and dance.
Coast Hardware
Big City Items in a Small Town Store!
Apple iPads, iPods, and Accessories
Action, Outdoor Games and Security Cameras
TV’s & Accessories, Phones and Accesories
Counter Top Appliances, Microwaves
Coffee Pots, Toasters, Skillets, Pots and Pans
Irons & Ironing Boards, Canning Supplies
Housewares, Plumbing, Electrical, Automotive, Hardware
Lawn and Garden, Fishing, Hunting, Camping & Pet Supplies
Paint, and Computer Color Matching
Paintball Supplies and Much More!
Coast Hardware & Radio Shack Dealer
300 North Main, Fort Bragg Ca. 95437
Store Hours: Mon-Sat 9 AM - 5:30 PM • Sunday 9 AM - 5 PM
964-2318
20
Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette
January/March 2016
CANCLINI
TELEVISION & APPLIANCES
MATTRESSES
Marilyn (Pixie) Canclini
636 S. Franklin, Fort Bragg, Ca 95437
707 • 964-5611 • FAX 707 • 964-8227
cancliniappliance@comcast.net
Stop in and say hello to Pixie, Lynn, James, Miles
1-877-964-2001 (toll free)
707-964-2000 • fax 707-964-5557
MENDOCINO
COAST
PHARMACY
350 Cypress St • Fort Bragg, CA 95437
(Located between the Police Station and
the Hospital on Cypress Street)
Mon-Fri 8am-7pm; Sat 10am-4pm
Phone: (707) 962-0800
M e n d o c i n o V i l la g e P h a r m ac y
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v i l la g e o f M e n d o c i n o
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Most insurances welcome. Free local delivery available.
Se Habla Espanol • Professional service you can depend on.
Auto Repair in Fort Bragg
Let Gordon’s run a computer
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Tires
Gordon’s offers competitive
prices on brand name tires.
Brake Repair
Schedule an appointment
for brake repair services at
Gordon’s Auto Service, Inc.
Transmission Repair
Gordon’s offers transmission
repair for all of the Fort Bragg
community.
I’m Fernando Gordon, resident of Fort
Bragg, California and proud owner of
Gordon’s Automotive Service, Inc.. I
made professionalism, support and total
customer satisfaction the cornerstone of
my Auto Repair Business when I first
opened it over 20 years ago. I still hold
those core values today, all backed by
some of the best warranties in town.
Call Us: (707) 964-7095
Address: 524 N Main St • Fort Bragg, CA 95437
Shop Hours: Monday - Friday: 8:00AM to 5:00PM
Homes
of refreshing
tranquility
The Woods offers beautifully
constructed manufactured homes
for 55+ adults on 37 acres in the
North Coast. Just a few minutes’
scenic drive reaches a pristine
golf course, tennis courts, one
of six state park beaches, or
Mendocino’s famed art galleries,
shops, and restaurants. Come
see for yourself how active and
vibrant, yet comfortable and
secure life can be. To tour this
exceptional community, contact
The Woods at (707) 937-0294.
43300 Little River Airport Road
Little River, CA 95456
(707) 937-0294 | ncphs.org
The Woods is a community
of Northern California Presbyterian
Homes and Services.