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2020W R I T I N G F O R L I F E/ / S E P T E M B E R 2 0 2 0 / /B U R B A N K S E N I O R A R T I S T S C O L O N Y VISION

Our creative writing class, “Writing for Life," had been meeting for just over a year whenthe COVID-19 pandemic upended our day to day lives in ways we could not haveimagined. Sitting together around the table in the BSAC library became an impossibility.Residents were confined to their apartments, and the flow of face to face interaction withfriends and families assumed unfamiliar new constraints. But the dedicated writers inthe class quickly adapted to our new format on Zoom.Unable to see each other in person, we were all hungry for social contact. Our weeklyZoom sessions became a precious opportunity for connection and continued to providea space for these gifted writers to immerse themselves in imagination and creativity.The richness of the writers’ stories and their spirited intelligence have made teaching thisclass a great pleasure and privilege. This book offers a sample of work writers in the classhave done since we began meeting virtually in March, 2020. ~ Sarah Jacobus, LCSW, MFA EngAGE Teaching Artist The Writers Arleen ShermanClare ToraoDolly BrittanJan FehrmanPhyllis ShankmanRegina RockSally ConnorsSuzanne Knode

Edited by: Sarah Jacobus, EngAGE teaching artistDesign: Leah KnopfPhotos:Cover / p. 21: Sarah Jacobusp. 29: Sascha Kohlmannp. 39: Matt SweeneyWRITING FOR LIFE is a program of EngAGE, a nonprofit that takes a whole-personapproach to community and creative, healthy aging by providing arts, wellness,lifelong learning, community building and intergenerational programs to thousandsof elders and families living in affordable senior and multi-generational apartmentcommunities in California, Oregon, and Minnesota.Funding for EngAGE programming at the Burbank Senior Artists Colony is providedby the Los Angeles County Arts Commission.Thank you to Megan Hocking, BSAC Programs Director, for ongoing support.

16Photo prompt:Clare Torao34Photo prompt:Dolly Brittan24Photo prompt:Phyllis ShankmanDolly BrittanRegina Rock1Checking InSally ConnorsDolly BrittanArleen ShermanPhyllis ShankmanRegina RockClare ToraoSuzanne KnodeJan FehrmanCONTENTS12The prompt: a smellPhyllis Shankman13The prompt: extremeweather, a dessert, a mode of transportation29The prompt: an elderArleen ShermanClare Torao28PoemsJan Fehrman18The prompt: a contestArleen ShermanRegina RockSally Connors21The prompt: an experience with the policeSuzanne Knode23On WorryArleen ShermanSally ConnorsDolly BrittanSuzanne KnodeSally Connors

March 12 The fear factor of Coronavirus is more disturbing than the virus itself. I wasscheduled to go out for lunch with a friend after this class. She called and cancelledbecause of her fear of the coronavirus in the restaurant—people fixing her food, etc.However, she did suggest we could get a takeout order and eat together in one of ourapartments. This didn’t compute in my brain. If the virus is in the restaurant, wouldn’t itbe on the food we carried out and into our apartment? I declined the offer. ~ Sally I wake up every morning grateful for another day, but now have to wrap my mindaround a strange, frightening new world and lifestyle. Who would ever have believed wewould have to face a pandemic in the 21st century with absolutely no resources tocombat its serious threat of illness and death? Is there any point in getting out of bed, being told that the way to control the spreadof the virus is quarantining at home? Should I just stay in bed and read? After all, this is my favorite passion. I try, butsomehow just don’t seem able to focus and am reading the same line over and over. The feelings of fear and frustration just seem to take over. “Stop!” I tell myself. “This is not a productive way to handle this.” I get up, take theVitamin C and Zinc recommended by my doctor to boost my immune system. One pieceof good advice amongst the confusing nonsense spouted by the powers that be, whowill not listen to the scientists and medical experts and live in their own “cloud cuckooland!” I decide to make a comfort breakfast. First a fruit juice, then toast, bacon and eggsand coffee. After enjoying my breakfast at an unusually leisurely pace—after all, I havenowhere to go—the caffeine from the coffee kicks in, and I am ready to go! Where? Early in each class is a check-in, or “clearing,” writing, a short interval of releasing scatteredthoughts, distractions, worries—anything that might get in the way of full presence in thesession. Not surprisingly, much of this writing over the months of sheltering in place hasfocused on the COVID-19 pandemic, providing a candid and detailed glimpse of day to day lifefor Burbank Senior Artist Colony residents under strange new conditions.1“But I must go back to the Beginning of this Surprizing time…”~Daniel Defoe, A Journal of the Plague Year

I am incarcerated, stuck, in our small 4th floor apartment. How I long for my beautifulhome and garden in South Africa. Once again, I admonish myself. I must change mymindset to survive. I am safe at home, I tell myself. I have a lovely balcony with a beautifulview surrounded by the mountains. I have to keep busy and distracted. I change the sheets, do the laundry, clean anddisinfect all surfaces, the kitchen and bathroom, wash my hands thoroughly for theumpteenth time, as if I’m going to do surgery. What now? I was going to have a pajamaday, but jump into the shower, wash my hair and do my exercises. After all, I don’t wantto freeze up and walk like a robot! Can’t believe how quickly time has passed, but I must find something to do tochallenge me or this lifestyle will bore me to tears. Thankful for technology, although I willhave to become more technologically literate to enjoy lessons on Zoom and be able tospend time, at least virtually, with family and friends. I’ve always loved a challenge andrealize there is still a world of knowledge open to me, a light at the end of the tunnel. Mymood lifts and I resolve to keep hope and optimism alive. ~ DollyMarch 26 I've developed a fondness for my bed, not that I ever disliked it, but with nowhere togo, nothing pressing to do, why give in to the Protestant work ethic that encourages notstaying in bed beyond 7 a.m.. So somewhere around 8 a.m., I literally have to force myself to consider doing my bedexercises, my established morning routine. Then very reluctantly, but guiltily, I throw offthe blanket, lower my feet to the floor, shut off the sound machine, wrap my robearound me and stumble to the door to retrieve the morning paper. The only differencebetween the present time and pre coronavirus is that this routine starts earlier, thespeed is evident and the stumbling less visible. Breakfast is now more leisurely, although I still haven’t managed to read more of themorning paper at breakfast than I have in the past. I have a new set of mat exercises for my recent back problem. I’m grateful that I cannow do them, particularly since I won’t be able to start PT until who knows when. But in addition, it helps to fill up the time now that we have been, for all intents andpurposes, quarantined I do break quarantine to go for a solitary walk, weather permitting. I rarely pass otherpedestrians, but if I have to, I keep my distance. ~ Arleen 2

I wake early these days, and today was no exception. At first light, my eyes slowlyopen, sinking into the silence. I’m not in LA anymore. It’s too quiet. I’m not sleeping wellsince my hurried return to the cabin in North Idaho. I did not plan to come here untilJune, as I habitually do, when the weather begins to turn warmer. But news reportsdescribing the COVID-19 pandemic scared me, and I arranged to leave LA before it gotworse. I was nervous about flying, but had no other choice, so I took a chance. I wake three to four times each night to go to the bathroom and stretch my calves,which are cramping again from tension and disuse. I must get out and walk more,despite my fear of falling and not wanting to walk in the mud. It’s been raining steadily,and our roads here are simple dirt roads, which are now more mud than dirt. My confusion is this seesaw of emotions between gratitude at being here—away fromLA and Burbank and the small, cramped apartment I’ve been sharing with Tim for thepast six months since his back surgery—and equally, the anxiety of being so far from myfamily and doctors. The virus has not arrived in Idaho yet, but I suspect it will soon. Thisis a small community of 8,000 to 10,000 people, many of whom are Trump supporters orconservative politically. They believe his b.s., so they are not consistently “sheltering inplace.” Fortunately, our liberal, young mayor has already ordered everything shut down—restaurants, libraries, gyms, etc.—but many in this town are fighting him on this. It’ssort of a 50/50 situation, and it frightens me, since I’m now considered by our crazyWhite House Fuhrer and his minions to be one of the “expendables,” because I’m old. Our community hospital has only eight ICU beds, although there are more in Coeurd’Alene, which is 45 minutes away. So the truth is, if I were to get sick, there’s no way Icould get back to LA (at best a three-day drive), and the doctors and care I want, unlessthe airlines would allow me on the plane, which I now doubt. At the moment, I feel fine physically. The air here is fresh and clean. The house iswarm and comfortable. My cats are happy to have me back. Tim is driving my car here ina few weeks. That’s the plus side. Now I need to stop worrying and feeling stressed out.This is all new and unfamiliar. I’ve never been comfortable with uncertainty, especiallywhen my health is at stake. I need to turn off my mind and let go of the what ifs. For now,there is no way to know anything for certain. Just breathe. One day at a time. ~ Phyllis3

I firmly believe now that nature/the universe has taken over. So many have generallyignored the messages of global warming, the earthquakes, hurricanes floods and fires—the devastation, destruction and loss of lives. Enough is enough! Nature has now sent us what is probably the last wake-up call, thedeadly COVID-19 virus, a world-wide killing. Pandemic. With social, physical isolation and closure of all businesses and public places, very fewcars on the roads polluting the air, nature has sent clear signs of renewal withouthumankind’s help. The trees and flowers are blooming, birds are singing, butterflies flying by, wildanimals nonchalantly taking over main roads and cities, the amazing air quality especiallyin California. Clear signs, no longer just hints, of how we can save our beautiful planet.April 7In the apartmentIn Burbank—four wallsAnd a terraceLonging to seeThe othersBut we can’tPandemic is a narrow spaceA squeezeAn oppressionTrying to get backTo New YorkThe lion’s denBut it’s home.Very tightThe first flightJet Blue cancelled fromBurbank-Hollywood AirportNow switching to LAX in the meantimeA tooth extractedThrobbing painFinally beginningTo subside.Still here in Burbankcounting down9 more daysAlaska Airlines had betterLeave for JFKThen WhitestoneWhere we will againBe sitting withNo oneUnable to go anywhereUntil when? ~ Regina4

Instead of hatred, racism and bigotry, people are drawing together all over the world,sharing knowledge and experience, new innovations and medicines, often at great risk.Caring and trying all ways and means to save lives and control this horrible pandemic. Hopefully recognizing the strength in unity and love for all people. Unfortunately, asalways, it’s the innocents that suffer—the powerless, the poor. They are paying the priceof the corrupt, egotistical, greedy self- aggrandizement of the powers that be. We haveto sift the wheat from the chaff. ~ Dolly April 14 It is so good to see and hear fellow humans during this time. It has been over amonth since I left this building. Believe it or not, time does go by, and the longer we“stay at home,” the faster it seems to go. I’m amazed when another Saturday comesaround and I have to change my sheets. “It can’t be Saturday already! No way!” But it is,and the new normal seems to have time speeding by like it did in the old normal. I hearwe may be allowed fewer restrictions soon, and that scares me a little. How safe will itbe to go out in the world with COVID-19 still lurking around each corner? ~ SallyApril 21 It’s been six weeks of “staying at home,” and it can be a discouraging time. However,it’s also an encouraging time. Look what we’ve accomplished by staying home. I knowwe have saved many lives, my own included. Look how we have come together throughour technology in order to stay connected. I can put this pandemic in perspective bycomparing it with the 1918 flu pandemic. I would have no word on my family, whetherthey were alive or dead. I would probably look out my balcony, not on the flowers onthe patio, but on dead bodies, which no one would have time to cart away. As bad asthis sounds, it helps to lift my discouragement at this pandemic. ~ SallyMay 5 At the moment, I’m feeling lethargic and empty of thought. I look forward to my lateafternoon walks to provide exercise, and a much-needed change of environment. Buttoday the temperature will be in the low 90s, and even my desperation knows itsbounds. I won’t subject myself to heat stroke or worse and increase my chances offurther isolation.5

I’m now wearing a mask on my walks, not out of fear of the virus, since I rarely passanybody. But, there’s lots of pollen in the air, and though the breezes have beendelightful, they do stir up whatever is causing my nose to stuff up. I don’t know howmuch protection the mask offers, but now I look like most of the few people I encounteron the street. I know that I will eventually exit my funk this afternoon. I run a pattern. Writing iscathartic for me, and now that I’ve committed my unhappiness to paper, I will pull out ofmy misery and focus on the misery of the rest of the world so I can chastise myself forbeing self-absorbed, and then I will feel better. ~ ArleenMay 12 I don’t believe in miracles, but how I want one. I want this pandemic to end now. Allright, I’ll be more reasonable—I can wait for tomorrow. I want to hear another person’s voice other than my own, not filtered through anelectronic device. I want to see people in the flesh, not camouflaged by masks. I want tohug those I love, smell foods I’ve not prepared, join with like-minded strangers at playsand concerts, touch flesh other than my own and live my life as I so recently remember. Iwasn’t a complainer before, but I promise to do it even less. Know thyself is a philosophy I take seriously. That is, until now, when knowing myself isabout all I do know. ~ ArleenMay 19 This morning, I feel I am clear-minded. But a sniggling desire to seek validity to myemotions leaves me unsettled. Giving in to it, I become fully aware of my rage and theeffort to redirect the force of it. I'm surprised to realize the intensity of it and how it has overwhelmed reasonable behavior. Then, as though the memory of my actions werefrom an event that occurred in a drunken stupor of rage, I recall what I did yesterday. Pent up anger roiling under weeks of quiet tolerance broke its silence. I gave voice toit. I demanded of the unmasked old man in the resident garage, “Where’s your mask?!”He ignored me, continuing his arrogant shuffle out to a waiting large black SUV. I haveseen this same man stomping his way through the halls, at the swimming pool, at themailboxes. For weeks, he has chosen to ignore requests, signs, warnings, to respectother residents and simply wear a mask. It is this part of his behavior that angers me,because it mirrors what offends me about what has become a social norm. It is the lackof humanity, the arrogant devotion to self that offends me.6

Not waiting for a response, I shout again, enraged. “You! Where’s your mask?!!!” He turns. Grinning, he holds up a white paper tissue to his nose. This time, I shriek, “Where’s your mask? You need to wear a mask!” He shrugs his shoulders, opens the back door of the waiting vehicle. Unloading alarge metal pot, he stands at the open door, conversing with the driver. The driver handshim a mask. He sheepishly slips the loops over his ears as he glances over his shoulderat me watching him. ~ Clare I realized I had to go to the dentist, and my heart was racing at thoughts of leaving myapartment for the first time in over 11 weeks. I didn’t realize how much fear is tangled upwith leaving my apartment for the first time in so long. Would I still remember how todrive my car? Would I be able to find the dentist’s office? So many fearful questions goingaround in my brain. ~ SallyMay 26 I took a foray into that scary world of coronavirus on Wednesday with my trip to thedentist. It was nerve-wracking in the beginning; just driving the car after so long took itstoll. Then there was all of the protocol at dentist’s office to protect me and them fromthe virus. My temperature was taken, I walked on a disinfecting mat to sterilize the solesof my shoes, then squished a disinfecting mouth wash and washed my hands for 20seconds. By the time I arrived in “my room” and met my masked, gloved and robeddentist and assistant, I was ready to pass out. However, I was able to withstand the visitand afterwards appeared in my car in the parking lot, rather invigorated. I drove aroundBurbank looking at my neighborhood, registering the light traffic and pedestrians. I amglad I was forced out into the world. Without the dental problem, I would probably stillbe apartment-bound for another couple of months, at least. I’m not ready to put myselfin harms’ way, but I feel confident in my ability to still function in this new normal. ~ Sally Enforced solitude differs from chosen solitude. Chosen solitude is under my control;enforced is not. Chosen solitude provides respite from daily activities, which may bepleasurable as well as required. Enforced solitude can lead to depression or can becomea learning experience.7

Some activities that continue during the pandemic: cleaning, cooking, computerizing,social contacting via telephone, email, and texting, reading, washing, and lots more.Activities no longer able to indulge in: physical socializing, movie theaters, plays,restaurants, spending time with my granddaughter and much more. I’ve always enjoyed spending time with myself, so how do I handle spending time onlywith myself? By adjusting to more of me, and accepting me for who and what I am. ~ ArleenJune 3 Nobody’s asking me, but at this moment I have had my fill of living in this pandemic.I know I should consider myself lucky that to date, my loved ones and I are still around.And I am! My older sister even beat the odds after having been diagnosed with the virusback in March. But every so often, I feel oppressed and long to return to the dull, dependable world Ileft behind. There are even times when reminding myself of my luck and the misery ofothers isn’t enough to lift that oppression. It probably doesn’t help that I started to typeup my ongoing writing of this disaster, making it even fresher today. I’m sure my afternoon walk will bring me some relief. It usually does, particularly whenI hit the shady segment of my route. If the wind is blowing, I lift my arms slightly to coolmy armpits, breathe deeply through my mask and lift my body in spirit, if not physically. ~ ArleenJune 9 The marches. Highly emotional, possible changing times, watching from inside out. This feels so exciting, so impossible and so scary. We’ve been here before, thenchange seemed to have stopped. Watching the marches on TV alone, I feel always onthe verge of tears. Feelings of hope again with this new awakening, but fearful problemswill stop it. It’s too hard having conversations with people who see this collective worldgathering against racism differently. The words of my friend Sidney stay with me: “Staycalm, stay calm, stay calm.” We have days ahead. Miss family and friends even more now. ~ Suzanne8

June 16 A rain of fiery life bombs land near me every day at every turn. They seem to occurmore frequently now than I ever recall. Maybe, I am in a “heightened state of awareness.”Deaths, car accidents and disease, each a bomb of tragic loss land closer and closer tome. Yet I am spared any direct hits. I wonder why? I feel the heat of the flames, hear theanguish in voices of friends. Their fears, their anger—embers waft around me, singeingmy skin. The smoke makes my eyes tear up. I choke on the heat. Yet I am alive,unscathed. I don’t know why. I don’t know that there is a reason. I only know gratitude. I am grateful when I breathein clean air. I say thank you to an unseen angel, god, spirit, who has protected me andgiven me the means to survive each day. I am most grateful for the love of dear friendswho are now my family. I am reminded daily how fortunate I am. Maybe, that is the why of this right now…an existential answer. A reminder that as aspectator, I have much to be thankful for. Maybe this is the answer to my other questions about purpose. What I do on thisearth with what time I have left here is to explore this gratitude. Find ways to express it.To give to others, to acknowledge their value. And not to squander all the gifts of life Ihave been fortunate to have experienced. ~ Clare It has been about a month since I broke from virtual isolation and partook of thegreater world with a trip to Trader Joe’s. The excitement of that accomplishment alsoprovided material to write about. Today I wildly increased my adventures with a two-in-one excursion. First, to CVS andthen to Staples. The joy of widening my horizons, reacquainting myself with familiarvenues and congratulating myself on my accomplishments was most satisfying. Compared to the life I’ve been forced to lead during this pandemic, it really felt like lifein the fast lane. Other than Trader Joe’s and delightful visits to my family to sit in theirback yard, six feet apart and talking for several hours behind a mask dampened with myhot air from holding forth, these new ventures gave me hope that there is light at the endof the tunnel. I finally got to see how the Burbank Blvd. traffic over the 5 has beendetoured. I hadn’t been able to quite figure out how the construction being done on thebridge was going to affect my travel. Now I know.9

When I speak with my elderly aunt and uncle in Florida, I have to do most of thetalking, since they are not only cooped up more than I am, but cognitively, they havemore difficulty conversing. It’s not easy for me to hold forth when my life activities havebeen so reduced that I have to embellish the little that I do. But now that I’m living in thefast lane, I look forward to my next conversation. ~ Arleen Most of my days are good. My Zoom sessions with people I know and with people I’mgetting to know over the past few months seem to set a tone for my day. I’m energizedby talking and laughing with people. It does make a difference. ~ SallyAlways on my mind not seeing family this summer and knowing that could really mean awhole year. I feel sad. It’s all right to feel sad. I don’t want someone telling me to feeldifferently. It’s all right to feel sad and enjoy writing or drawing classes and reading. Iwant to tell everyone to read Enter the Aardvark. It helps. This isolation is driving me nuts. ~ SuzanneJune 30 There is something “niggling” at the back of my head, and that’s the spike inCoronavirus cases. It’s hard to pin down, but I actually feel “excited?" I don’t know if that’sthe word or not, but it’s definitely a feeling that makes me feel somewhat guilty. PerhapsI want the “stay at home” to last longer, perhaps I am gleeful at the stupid (in my mind)people who go out without masks and don’t practice social distancing. They are, anddeserve, the spike. I don’t really think that’s it. It’s the chaos of the pandemic that drawsme to the news and to my Google feed. I refuse to look at other news, but I am drawn topandemic news. The spike creates more news. ~ Sally10

July 6I find it harder and harder to get up from the chair and do something. The harder is nota physical something, but a mental harder. I have found this progressing as the “stay athome” order gets longer. It’s easy to blame “stay at home” for many things—some I’msure are accurate. We are finishing our fourth month, and sometimes the anxiety itcauses prevents me from doing anything except sitting in a chair. ~ SallyJuly 7 Climbing the walls is not my favorite pastime, but it’s all I can do now that the plagueis here. I walk the empty hallway as if it were a forest with growing things planted by thepast. The walls close in. I put one hand over the other and pull myself up into theclouds. I want to let go until I hit rain, and it washes away windows and doors. The hallway grows larger and I fall backwards into my life. ~ JanJuly 14 There are so many things to miss during quarantine when we are cut off from theoutside. I long for the freedom of rain. A life form nurturing my skin. I think of all the rains I’ve known. The desert rain waiting in the clouds but nevermaking it to earth. Just the scent of sage in the air. On Kauai, great swoops of rain swept across the island. In the graveyard, the fallenpetals from sweet plumeria. In Florida, it rains for days. Roads and the yard flood. Lightning and thunder defineour days. Explosions inside and out. As the quarantine circles around me, I slip inside the memory of rain. ~ Jan11

The old woman approached the door of the tattered house. The smell of must waspungent even on the outside, but that did not deter her. It was clear that no one had livedin the house for many years. The stairs creaked and almost splintered as she took eachstep slowly, hanging on tightly to the old wooden handrails. She had returned for a finalvisit. She was sick now, and she doubted she would have the strength or perhaps even bealive in another few years. She’d made it a ritual every three to five years to return to the place where she’d beenborn and raised. She looked forward to it and the flood of memories that she could savoras she entered each room. She heard the voices of her parents and siblings, now allpassed on. Their chatter, laughter and taunts were made fresh once again. She was theyoungest of five. It had been a lively family, a home where she felt safe and well loved. Shecould imagine her mother in the kitchen, cooking her favorite dishes, and her father in hisstudy, bent over his books. These visits gave her comfort. She fingered the old wallpaperthat was peeling off the walls in her old bedroom. She saw herself as a young child lying onher bed, dreaming of a life like the one she had when she grew up. The town had deteriorated after the mill closed down in the late 60s, and there weremany old vacant houses in her old neighborhood that had been left standing empty fordecades. No one was moving there anymore, so the town never bothered to tear themdown. What had once been a hopeful, bustling community was now reduced to a fewhundred mostly unemployed older residents. All the young people had left for the cities asshe had, at the urging of her parents after she completed her university credits. She’d always planned to move back, but it had never happened. She’d gotten a good jobin the city, met a kind, handsome man, gotten married and had three children of her own.She took her children back to visit their grandparents often before they died, but after theirdeaths, the children no longer wanted to go there. So she would visit alone, and hadcontinued to do so, long after her husband died and the children had moved away. She always brought a bottle of her favorite perfume, musk-scented, with her. She hadused it all her life as her favorite scent, and she doused herself in it after she entered thehouse to disguise the musty smell that got worse each visit. It made it possible to stay inthe house for several hours at a time after she opened all the windows and doors. Sheclosed them tightly when she left. This time, she laid her head upon the door when leaving. I will not be back, she said tothe empty space. Thank you for the memories and the joy I feel when I visit. This place isnot what others see—this is what home has always been for me. My home. She closed thedoor and moved slowly back down the rickety steps, tears streaming from her eyes. ~ PhyllisThe prompt: a smell12

When you’re afraid of flying like I am, how do you get from Chicago to LA? “Let’s drive,” I heard Mom say. I shuddered. I couldn’t imagine being shut up in a carwith my brother and my parents for an hour, let alone a long trip from here to LA. Iclosed my eyes and sent negative energy toward my parents and their conversation.The next thing I knew, they were calling a family meeting with me and my brother. Theyloved family meetings. Supposedly, it was a chance to get my and my brother’s input.But we knew it was a time for them to tell us what they had already decided. I went into this meeting with fear. Oh please, please, no car trip. Even though I wasdeathly afraid of flying, I thought that that would be better than hours in a car. At leastthe flight would be shorter. Train brochures and schedules were spread out over thecoffee table, and big smiles were spread over my parents’ faces. “Guess what, kids,” said Dad. My brother and I rolled our eyes at each other.Mom’s face lit up as she said, “We’re going by train! Just three days and we’ll be inCalifornia visiting Aunt Libby.” I relaxed and smiled at Mom as she continued, “We’ve got tickets on the LA Flyer! Youtwo can ride in the glass dome car while you see all the magnificent country betweenhere and Los Angeles.” My brother looked at me and smiled. My dad took over and told us about the five-star dining car where we would havebreakfast, lunch and dinner for three days. Then it was Mom’s turn again to describethe bunk beds where we would sleep for two nights. I was excited about the trip, but mybrother would rather have flown. He wasn’t one for staying in one place for a longperiod of time, and three days was a very long time for him. However, once we boarded the train, we raced through it, oohing and aahing overthe white tablecloths on the dining room tables and the strange drapes covering thebunk beds in the sleeping car. But the pièce de resistance was the sparkling dome car.We spent hours looking up and out as the states flew by outside. On the last day, the chef promised us cherries jubilee for dessert. My brother and Iwere excited, as the chef promised to light the cherries jubilee on fire right at our table.As we finished dinner and waited for our dessert, the sky outside started to darken, andwe could see thunder clouds filling the sky. I looked at my brother and nodded towardthe stairs to the dome car. We started to slide out of our seats, getting our feet in theaisle, ready to rush up the stairs to see lightning and feel thunder shake the glass dome.The prompt: include these three elements - extreme weather, adessert, a mode of transportation.13

Our parents knew what was going on and put hands on our shoulders, stopping us.“What about the cherries jubilee?” said Mom. It was a dilemma for me, and I could see the same on my brother’s face. Which wouldit be? The thunderstorm or flaming cherries jubilee? We looked at each other, noddedour heads, and started toward the stairs. Unfortunately, they were already closed off,but that didn’t stop us as we snuck under the rope and flew up the stairs before anyonecould stop us. Mother Nature put on a show for us that night. Lightning lit up the sky above us, andthunder boomed in reply. We watched the lightning, started counting and put our handson the glass as the thunder shook it. The conductor finally realized we were in the dome car and came to take us back toour parents. Standing at our table, the chef was just lighting our cherries jubilee. ~ Sally It was during the famous Northeasterner in March of ’77. Walls of snow were six orseven feet high along our block, and the sidewalks and streets were snow-packed with afoot and a half. The mayor of the city was stuck in Florida, and the governor had takenover. Everyone was running out of food and supplies and trying to get to the stores byfoot, as nothing new was coming in by plane or train or bus for weeks. The morning it finally stopped snowing so badly, I went to the basement to get ourred plastic sled and put it on our front stairs to wipe off. I then took the little cageelevator up to our apartment to get our little girls into their snowsuits and strategizetogether about how we were going to get this show on the road. There was my husbandgetting a suit on—a suit for God’s sake—to go to the office and meet his new partner,whom he was sure was going to be there. “What are you doing?” I yelled at my husband in disbelief “Of course he won’t bethere. He would have to take a train into the city.” He continued to dress. This is where I lose the story. Just remembering him dressing, I go nuts. I mean, weneeded food just like everyone in the city. We needed supplies. Our cupboards werebare. There was a time element. Thinking back, this was really the last straw. He put his boots on and left, with no eye contact. I watched the door close, turnedand looked at a three-year-old and an 18-month-old. “Let’s get our snowsuits on.”14

Three bundled ladies took the old, slow, cranky elevator down and headed out of ourbrownstone, the two children in the sled, and headed to the middle of the road. Passingneighbors on their way home, I pulled the heavy sled as fast as I could and made it tomarket in very respectable time. Now, I wondered, how do I get us all into the storeincluding the sled? I pulled the sled into the store and waited for an empty cart. My younger child got the seat; the elder child climbed into the basket with the sled. “I want to sit in the seat,” the older daughter started. “You have more room where you are,” I said. “Seat,” echoed the little one. “She always gets the seat.” “She doesn’t fit in the basket." “Seat,” she chirped again. “The sled is hurting me.” “It’s not touching you.” “Seat!” “I can’t see anything,” whined my older daughter. “You can stand up when we stop,” I told her. “Seat!” “Not now, when we stop,” I told her again, reaching out to ease her back down into the basket. “Seat!” This conversation repeated over and over throughout the whole shopping spree.The shelves were rapidly emptying. No fresh food, period. No milk, no cereal and nobread, forget meat or chicken, and hot dogs must have been among the first to go.I grabbed some no-name chips, ice cream, two candy bars, wine, two potatoes andsome lady fingers. Our healthy main meal was now decided, but what for dessert? ~ Suzanne15

After dinner that night, we gathered in the screened porch of the old summerfarmhouse on the Sound. We laughed about the pile of clams that three-year-oldGeneva had devoured like candy. We all had labored for hours in the cold and rain, shoveling clumps of heavy, wet sandand chasing clam blowholes until our arms ached. Geneva’s plump hand directed us toclusters of holes in the sand that were sure signs of clams near the surface. For her, itwas a game of finding blowholes. Spade in hand, my fingers red from the cold, I dug andcleaved away from each hole a small mountain of sand and shells. I was sad to see I hadcrushed so many shells in my zeal to unearth the clam treasures. “Ooh, ooh, Mommy! Clams?” She would ask, pointing at the piles of sand. At that point,she had no idea that they would become dinner. We had plopped the clams in a bucketof sea water. The plan was to feed the clams corn meal until they were to be steamed forour meal. Inanimate clumps in the bucket, the little bubbles barely gave away that theywere alive. And so, for Geneva, it was now a game of collecting clumps.The prompt: 16

Exhilarated by the wind, Geneva ran from one stretch of the beach to another,chasing sandpipers that mocked us for stealing their clams. Their ballet-like foraging onthe wet shore was so much more elegant than our rainboot trudges scarring thesmooth glassy sand. Our piles of sand, broken shells protruding, dumped next to jaggedvoids where our shovels had speared the shore left behind an unsightly mess. Finally, buckets loaded with clams and sea water, we lugged them the half-mile backto the old red wood-framed house. There in the screened porch, the buckets sat untildinner. Geneva was delighted to feed the clams heaping cups of cornmeal. She had noidea that feeding the clams cornmeal would disgorge them of unsavory waste. And ofcourse, she had no idea that that was part of dinner preparation. Someone fired up two large black pots filled with water on the large wood stove inthe kitchen. One was for the corn, still on the cob, and the other was eventually for theclams. Lettuce was torn and fresh ripe tomatoes chopped. Secret spices were mixedinto oil and vinegar. Coffee was brewing, and someone had brought a cherry cobbler toput it into the oven to warm. Laughter and chatter filled the cavernous old kitchen. Geneva ran from adult to adult,soliciting stories and conversation. Outside the gray day faded into night. Finally, when we sat down in mismatched chairs set around the wide-planked table,we smiled at one another amidst the golden glow of overhead bulbs and table lamps. Isaid a silent prayer of gratitude to myself. We passed bowls around and scooped outfood. We exchanged plates laden with mounds of steaming clams, corn on the cob,glazed potatoes and carrots, bright green salad and a basket of biscuits. Geneva grabbed a hot biscuit and rubbed it into the smear of butter already meltingon her plate. Someone seated next to her set a half-opened clam on her plate next tothe butter. Geneva peered into the open bivalve, surprised. The little clump of steamedclam was pulled from the shell, rubbed in the butter and handed to her. She popped itinto her mouth. A look of joy crossed her face. She pointed at the big platter of clamsand exclaimed, “More, please!” She was handed one clam at a time. Coating each one with butter, she barelystopped to look up. She chewed each one with great relish. I watched as she asked formore. Everyone marveled at the pile of vacated shells. Someone counted over 18.Everyone laughed. I caught Geneva’s look. Actually, I believed that it was the butter that kept her askingfor more. But no matter. Her big brown eyes flashed bright, and her flushed, buttery grinradiated happiness. From that moment to this one, all that matters is the memory of herexpression of pure joy. ~ Clare17

I may be an adorable, dimpled and pudgy eight-month old, but that doesn’t mean Iwant my super-proud mother to enter me into a baby contest. I accept my adorableness, always have, but I’m a very private person and don’tappreciate being displayed and evaluated like a prime piece of meat. I know that timesare hard, and a year's worth of diaper service and Gerber’s baby food is why my motherentered me. Undoubtedly, she knew I would win, but she never even consulted me. I can’t go against developmental milestones. As an eight-month old, my internallanguage may be ahead of my peers, but my speech development isn’t. Not that I’m notmore adept at it than my rivals in the contest, but “mama,” and “dada” don’t quiteexpress my anger at this infringement on my rights. Those two words and a couplemore don’t allow me to express to my mother how dim-witted she’s being. If my fatherwere here and not off fighting the Germans, I know he would have put the brakes onher hair-brained project. I could try to sabotage her plans by showing the judges the worst of me. I could stareunsmilingly at them and show no dimples. I could noticeably soil my diaper and forcethem to hold their noses. I could kick the two babies on either side of me to make themcry. If one of those judges gets close enough I could spit up on them. Wait a minute! Who’s that blondie with the blue eyes and a gummy smile that they’regravitating to? “Hey guys! Yoo-hoo! Wanna see my dimples?” ~ Arleen There was going to be a new board election at the Civic Association, and two menwere running for president. One of them, George, was an unknown, even though he hadbeen a member of the Civic for quite some time. Still, he had never involved himself inthe work of the board, which is voluntary. As a lawyer, he was busy, but now he wasgoing to try to put in some volunteer time. The other guy running for president, Jonathan, was a known entity to the oldermembers of the Civic Association, and not in a good way. A known thorn in the side anddo nothing. He talked a good game, and none of the newer members knew what a totalzero he was. In fact, he had never volunteered for anything, never helped in any way. Tothe contrary, he had sued the board more than once in the past because he wanted toget a closer look at the finances, which were clearly posted on the website. But nothingseemed to be enough for this guy. The newer members seemed blindsided by his loftyrhetoric and ability to talk about himself as if he were God’s gift to the world.The prompt: a contest18

The older members of the board who had once been president decided to meet withGeorge to help him raise his profile and show himself in his best light. He was a lawyer,so they thought that shouldn’t be too difficult. When they met with him, it was obviousthat he was a much better choice than Jonathan. He was genuinely interested in thetown and helping the lake community stay afloat. The question was, how were they goingto convince the others? Being a volunteer president was not the easiest task in theworld. It was a lot of work for very little appreciation. Many people just complained. Itwas the personification of the expression, “Let no good deed go unpunished.” Our only hope was that George’s bio would show the new members what a good guyhe was and they would be persuaded to vote for him. Otherwise, we knew that ifJohnathan became president, the Civic association would go to pot, and the town wouldtake over the lake, and that would be the end of our precious lake community. We reallydid not want that to happen after all of our hard work. ~ ReginaAlberta and her friends gathered around the bulletin board at work. They were all talkingat once about the company contest and the grand prize of a trip to Paris in the spring.She, like many others, pulled out her phone and took a picture of the contest guidelines.Alberta wanted to go over them with her best friend Lorraine at their leisure. Bernie walked up behind her and whispered, “Wouldn’t it be great if you or I won, andwe travelled to Paris together?” Startled, Alberta wondered if Bernie assumed she would take her along if she won.Bernie was just a colleague, and a somewhat strange one at that. Alberta had befriendedher when others seemed to shun her, but never really thought of her as a friend. Alberta took her break time to study the contest guidelines. She rummaged around inher bottom drawer for the folder she'd been given when she started the job. When shetook it out, she realized she had probably not looked at it since she was hired. Nowonder the company was using their mission statement and code of values as thefoundation for the contest. At least employees would take them out and read them forwhat may have been the first time. Alberta started scribbling concrete ways she couldmotivate her colleagues to reinforce the company’s mission. Of course, she also had tobe willing to model them herself. Bernie again appeared behind her, looking over her shoulder, pointing out herinterpretation of the mission statement and suggesting they talk about it over a drinkafter work. Alberta looked up at her with surprise; they had never gone out togetherafter work. She had plans with Lorraine, so she made up an excuse to refuse Bernie'sinvitation. Bernie tensed, folded her arms and stormed back to her desk. 19

That evening, Alberta reported Bernie’s strange behavior to Lorraine and describedother incidents of Bernie’s behavior that came to mind. But Bernie was soon forgotten,as Alberta and Lorraine dreamed of their trip to Paris in the spring. As Alberta approached her desk the next morning, she noticed Bernie looking at her.She felt a twinge of guilt for ignoring Bernie’s invitation, but she shook it off as shegreeted her colleagues. However, Bernie’s coolness was hard to ignore, and Alberta’sefforts to smooth things over were rebuffed. Although unnerved, Alberta finally put it outof her mind. She and her colleagues were very secretive about their ideas. It was evident thatpeople had different ideas, but no one would be specific. Bernie, however, was veryoutspoken and accused the company of using the contest as an advertising gimmick. "What are they going to do with all of our ideas,” she asked, “except use them toadvertise their company? Does anyone think they would actually implement the modelswe’re submitting?” It was still exciting when everyone electronically entered their submissions. After all, atrip to Paris was in the balance. Alberta and her colleagues finally discussed theirsubmissions, and she was surprised at the range of models submitted. The creative workby her colleagues really made her proud to be a part of the company. Bernie still ranted about the unfairness of the contest. She threatened to sabotagethe whole thing. Privately, she told Alberta that she could easily win the contest if Albertawould agree to go to Paris with her. Alberta stayed away from her after that and spoke toher only about business. Everyone was anxious to see the contest winner, but as time went by with no results,interest diminished. There was less and less talk of the Paris trip. But Alberta noticed thatpeople were actually modeling the company’s mission statement and their values. A month later, Alberta entered the office and found Bernie packing up her desk with asecurity guard hovering over her. She looked at Bernie questioningly, but got nothing buta glare from her. Office gossip was rampant, with everyone wondering what Bernie haddone to get herself fired. A memo was posted later that morning: TO: All Personnel FROM: Management RE: Paris Contest “The Paris Contest has been cancelled due to corruption of the submission input of allpersonnel. Please watch for information on a new upcoming contest.” I found an email from Bernie later that day. “Check out the advertising departmentand see how many ideas have been stolen from you suckers.” ~ Sally20

I was meeting up with my fellow history student for a quick bite before seeing amovie. I was looking forward to this for many reasons, but the one I was kind ofkeeping to myself was the main test coming up. John was so much brighter than I, andmaybe he would have some suggestions to kick start my brain to a new place. “Oh stop it, Susie," he said, "you’re just as smart as I am, and besides, we’ve readalmost all the material together. So, instead of me telling you, I have a betterapproach.” On and on, throughout our delightful meal, my wonderful friend keptgetting correct answers out of me and showing me my strength. As we finished our desserts, a light rain started, so we decided to drive to thetheatre. John’s car was the closest, and after a slow start, we crawled along in the raintraffic. We saw flashing red lights in both the rearview mirror and the door side by mywindow. A soft siren started. John slowly pulled to the curb, gave me a quick glance andshrugged his shoulders. He rolled his window down. In a voice from above, a dark blue-uniformed body said, “Could I see your registration and license please.” This was not aquestion, but a firm order. John reached over me and opened the glove compartment, keeping one hand onthe wheel. I had a strange thought that that looked so uncomfortable. He handed thepapers to the officer and asked me to take his wallet out of his back pocket while hekept both hands on the wheel. Of course I did, but wondered why John was acting thisway. He handed over the license. We waited and waited in silence while the officerreturned to his police car. “You didn’t have your rear lights on, or are they broken?” he asked John when hecame back to John’s car. “Oh no, sir, they were on.” I leaned over to say, “I saw him turn them on and maybe the rain….,” but the officerstopped me. “Are you all right, Miss?” he asked me. “Of course,“ I said. “I’m fine.” He asked me again. I leaned over to try and whisper to John that he just didn’t understand, but John’sface was stone, and I froze. Something uncomfortable started seeping into the car, andI realized that it was leading to a fear I had never known. "Would you step outside, please,” the officer directed John. John suddenly seemeddifferent from the person I had just had a meal with. “Sir, I didn’t do anything….” his voiced trailed off as we watched the officer use hisshoulder phone to call for backup. My new fear was now getting stronger. The prompt:anexperience with the police21

“Sir, you’re under arrest. Please step out of the car.” “What?” I heard my strong friend say in a slow, quiet voice. “Please put your hands behind your back.” He did as he was told and was then led to the police car, where the officer put hishands on top of John’s head and steered him into the back seat. A strong siren startedup along with flashing lights as the police car slowly pulled away. A second officer put his head in the driver’s window and asked if I had a way home. “I have my car,” I said. I stepped out into the light rain and watched as a waiting towtruck approached John’s car. Within minutes, the street I knew, with John’s car, thepolice and John were gone. I turned and started walking toward the movie theatre, caught myself, and tried toremember where I’d parked my car. ~ Suzanne22

You sour smelling, acrid tasting,Colorless, unwelcome thought.How dare you intrude at this time of thePandemic?I am not yours, you do not own meYou think my isolation would welcome you?Be gone!Me, myself and I are a crowd of oneHappy with our own company. ~ ArleenWorry sits at the top of my headMorning, noon and night.A dark black cloudThat smells of garbage left out in the sun.Get out of my headWith your cacophony of noise.The yellow eyes of a wolf peer at me,Telling me I can’t accomplishWhat I need to do.I used to worry about being likedMorning, noon and night.But now I banish the dark black cloudAnd know I am okay. ~ SallyOn Worry(improvisational poems inspired by the poem “I Worried” by Mary Oliver)The gray of worrySmells like rotten eggsA bitter pill to swallowWorry sounds like thunderBlasts my eardrumsFragments my soulGnaws away my wellbeingOverpowers rational thinkingWasted energy,Problems may never happenRobbing me of sleep.How does one stillthese unwelcome thoughtsthat run around my brain?Endless, unsolvabledestructive circlesA hamster exercise wheelRound and round going nowhere. ~ Dolly23

Laila was late. Very late. She might miss the train. She rushed out of the taxi as itstopped in front of the train station in Amsterdam. Suddenly, she realized that she’dnot seen her passport for at least a day. She searched her purse first, the place shewould normally have put it, being a frequent traveler and knowing the importance ofthose simple required documents. It was not there. Crap! she said silently to herself. I can’t get on the train without it, and my visa isinside my passport. She laid her suitcase on the ground and hurriedly ruffled throughthe contents, feeling her fear increase. Not there. She thought back over the past 24 hours—the delicious supper with Giselle, a newacquaintance, whom she’d met at the hotel. After dinner, she’d lingered in the hotel barand had casually met Rolf, a stunningly handsome man who’d been eyeing her fromacross the room. He bought her several drinks and wooed her patiently, closing thedeal with a soft passionate kiss on the back of her neck. She had succumbed. Why not?What difference could it make? She was young, single, independent. Wasn’t this sort ofthing part of the adventure of travel and new experiences?The prompt: 24

She’d left him lying in bed that morning, smiling up at her warmly as she’d hustled togather her things and leave for the train. He’d asked her to stay, but she’d refused. Ascharming and sexy as he was—fabulous smile, muscular arms and chest—she didn’twant any entanglements. That was her rule for now. Maybe when she got back to the States in six months she’d feel differently. Just maybeshe’d be willing to give a good guy a chance. But not now. Now was only for her.But where was her passport? She picked up the book she had tucked into her purse andopened the flap to the page she’d been reading. Her passport slid out of the page andlanded on the ground in front of her. Laila breathed a quick sigh of relief. All was well. New adventures lay ahead, and shecould continue her journey uninterrupted. She grabbed the passport, tucked it into herpurse and ran as fast as she could to the nearest ticket window in the train station. “One ticket to Antwerp, please,” she said, breathing hard. The clock behind the womanin the window told her she had 15 minutes to get aboard her train. The woman looked ather and smiled, hearing her American accent. “Your passport, please.” ~ Phyllis Damn, I can’t find my passport. I was positive I had put all my necessary documentsinside the zippered pocket of my handbag, but the wallet is not there! I am nowsearching through my hand luggage, even though I’m convinced I did not put it there. I am trying to slow my breathing and not panic. All I need now is to pass out!Have I been pick-pocketed? Is it possible? I can’t believe this is happening to me. I take adeep breath, try to stop hyperventilating, and start searching again. I go through everyitem in my luggage, without success! Back to my hand bag, look at my watch. Yikes! I’m going to miss my plane. Why iseveryone nonchalantly walking past me? Can’t they see how distressed I am? Anyway, ifone kind person did ask what’s wrong and offered their help, what could they do? One more try. I scrabble around in my handbag and decide to take everything out. Iam now peering into an empty bag. Suddenly I realize there are two zippered pockets ineach side of the bag, Hallelujah! I thought there was only one pocket, and of course I was looking in theempty one. Phew! I grab everything and race to the gate, hearing my name called, andjust make it before closing. I sit in my seat, try to calm down, relax, try and comfort myself that I'm not losing it! ~ Dolly25

Penelope wanted to check her belongings right away after she got off the Greyhoundbus. She placed the small valise on the sidewalk in front of her to make sure her mostprized possession hadn’t been spirited out of her carry-on while she was asleep duringthe trip from Vancouver to San Diego. After all, she was traveling alone. It was a glorious, warm day, and the sun was brilliant. People were walking about hereand there, wearing shorts, riding bicycles and dragging luggage. There were bunches ofpeople around the bus depot. Pen kneeled down next to her luggage and opened it.Right on top she could see the box with the mezuzah that she had prepared for hersister Jane and brother-in-law Hal as a housewarming present. She hoped it wouldplease them. She had gone to no small amount of trouble and expense to have theprayer made up for the mezuzah and placed inside, as Jewish religion requires. Moneyshe really couldn’t spare. Underneath the box was her coat, which she wouldn’t need here in the Golden State.She pushed her fingers under the plastic bag, looking to unearth the manuscript of herfirst book. She had brought it with her so that her older sister Jane could read and giveher reaction to it. Jane had a Master of Fine Arts degree. There was a wealth of materialto write about coming from their refugee family. Pen had written about their parents’trek across Russia to Siberia, escaping the Nazis, then back to Kalisz, Poland, after thewar, where they learned that all of their family had been wiped out. Shaken anddepressed, they made their way to a few different displaced persons camps on theAmerican side in Germany. Six years later, they were accepted to settle in the UnitedStates. They were among the last people to leave the DP camp at Lech Field. After a longvoyage from Bremerhaven on the General Stewart, a military transport ship, the familyfinally arrived in New York, penniless. Taking care of two small children was outside ofPenelope’s parents’ ability in their dissociative state, but they tried. Pen had been working on her book for quite some time, and Jane was the first personto whom she was showing the work. She was nervous about it and wondered how Janewould react to a memoir about their family from Pen’s point of view. She had warnedJane that she was writing it. Pen worried that Jane would react badly to passages in hermanuscript about Jane’s suicide attempts and consequent electro-shock therapy. Shehad thought long and hard about not including those years in her book, but they wereso much a part of her teenage years that she couldn’t imagine excluding them.Penelope’s attempts to keep her sister alive during her nervous breakdown were centralto her own feelings of powerlessness during her youth.26

Penelope and Jane had a complicated relationship, but they were both into writing.Pen trusted Jane’s instincts about writing, though maybe not about much else. She reallywould rather not have been staying with Jane at her house in San Diego, because Penknew that Jane would surely be lording it over her that she had money and Pen didn’t.That was the crux of it. The Smythes lived in a seven-bedroom five-bathroom house,even though there were only the two of them rattling around in it. To Pen, it wasobscene opulence. To Jane, it was compensation for a childhood of deprivation. Pen remembered another time visiting them in Incline Village, Nevada, where theSmythes had bought a huge villa close to Squaw Mountain so they could go skiing.“Oh, you have to come out to visit us at Passover,” Jane had gushed. “It’s so gorgeous outhere. You’ll love it! We have a whole wing where you can stay. You can come with us tothe Seder our neighbors are hosting.” She’d sounded genuinely eager to see Penelope. So Penelope, against her better judgment, had let herself be convinced. She hadn’tseen her sister in more than a year and thought she missed her. When she arrived, Janeshowed her the wing of the house Pen would be staying in. “By the way,” Jane enunciated carefully. “Don’t take any towels out of the linen closetby yourself. I'll tell you which towels you can use.” Penelope had begun to feel extremelyuncomfortable, like a fly in a spider web, already sorry she’d come. The next morning, after a sparse breakfast of oatmeal and coffee Hal had prepared,Jane had made an announcement. “We’re all going skiing at Squaw Mountain. You won’thave to pay, since we are members. You'll be our guest.” She’d smiled triumphantly. “Thanks so much for the invitation,” Pen had told her, “but I had an accident andbruised my back the last time I skied. I now have a herniated disc and am afraid to injureit further. I won’t be able to join you.” Jane had made a sour face and turned to Hal, who said nothing. “But how can youforgo this opportunity to ski at Squaw Mountain?” she’d asked Pen. “Everybody who’sanybody wants to be there.” “Sorry, I just can’t chance it,” Penelope had explained. She wouldn’t allow Jane topressure her into hurting herself again. “All right,” Jane had said reluctantly. “Don’t touch anything in the house while we’reaway, especially Hal’s computers. They are very expensive.” Pen had looked at her sister in wide-eyed disbelief and walked away. Coming out of her reverie, Penelope looked down at her suitcase and snapped itshut. Breathing in deeply, she hit the Uber app on her cellphone and gave directions tobe picked up at the bus depot and taken to her sister’s address in the Carmel Canyonsection of San Diego. ~ Regina27

The moon rises pale as Parchment full of storiesShe’ll never tell. Her eyesAre round with fear.I see scars on her cheeksThat are not from the weather.The light deepens toBlood orange, the color ofA gypsy dancer’s skirtShe swirls and twirls,Barefoot in a wildfire.My mother’s moonTurns so white it hurtsMy eyes. Keep them open,She says. In this world you’ll needall the light you can get.Fire on the RiverThe people beat drumsAs if they were canoesTo carry them forward.Voices rise amid fallInto the thick brown water.Slapping at the surfaceDemanding to be heard.There is no turning back.The grapes of wrathHave all been eaten.This is when the moonShatters into a thousand sparks.And lights the current below.You can see the river in their eyes.My Mother's MoonChapelWe travel throughThe night by train.In the distance smokeRises from arabesquechimneys. PlumBlossoms drift by.In Faro we walk toA small chapel whereThey show us roomsMade from bonesOf nuns and priestsWe wander in silence.Its so quiet we can hearThem breathe. ~ Jan28

My mother’s father, Grandpa Jake, lived in Massachusetts, but visited us yearlywhere we lived in the Bronx. I was 15 when he died, so for most of the years he visited,I was a child and then a self-absorbed adolescent. Jake honed his tailoring skills in the Polish shtetl where he was born and raised.When he emigrated to the U.S. in the early 1900s, he was a tailor in and around theBoston area, where he settled with his wife and children. Invariably, when he visited, hewould be involved in some sewing project. Once, when I was 13, he was fitting me for apair of pants at the behest of my mother. I had no interest in the project. He cut thematerial using a standard pattern. I felt so uninvolved, I can’t even remember thematerial or color. On the other hand, I was at an age when I was very much aware ofmy body, and having this old man draping and fingering the material against my bodymade me uncomfortable. “Ouch!” I blurted, as he stuck me with a pin. “Sahree,” he mumbled through a mouthful of straight pins. “Can’t see so good nomore,” he said, as he removed the pins from his mouth. As if this indignity wasn’tsufficient, he further upset me as he smoothed and straightened the material in thearea of my crotch. Whoa, I thought, it’s time for a tailoring break! One of Jake's visits coincided with our annual outing to Radio City Music Hall. Jakewore thick glasses and had impaired vision, but when the Rockettes appeared onstage, scantily clad and kicking those legs high up to heaven, Jake would be on the edgeof his seat, just shy of drooling. One year, he was with us for a Passover Seder. Our Seders were an occasion forfamily get-togethers akin to Thanksgiving; there was no religious significance attachedto them. But the year Jake was there, he conducted a Seder service. Being young, I wasexpected to be silent. Unfamiliar with protocol, however, I just wished it would end sowe could return to noisy eating and conversation. My sister and I exchanged looks thatspelled out what we thought of the rite. Had we been sitting next to each other, I’msure we would have had some physical exchange under the table that would havegotten us in trouble.The prompt: something about an elder in your family that fascinatedand/or repelled you growing up29

We lived on a main thoroughfare in the Bronx, Boston Road. A couple of bedroomsfaced out on this bustling street. The apartment buildings across the street had stores atstreet level. One of those stores was owned by a tailor, and my grandfather wouldfrequently sit in front of a window to check out the tailor’s business. Many customers?Few customers? Business good? Business bad? Unfortunately, his poor vision didn’tallow him to see the customers’ facial expressions, so he couldn’t definitively identifyhappy customers or dissatisfied ones. He may not have known the tailor, but my retiredgrandfather wanted to believe he was a better tailor than that guy across the street. Hadhe been able to see better, he was certain he would have seen customers exiting thestore with stony faces expressing dissatisfaction. ~ Arleen A stately figure with a broad handsome face, Ruby, my namesake, unloaded herselffrom the long black Buick. After grabbing a bouquet of spring flowers and adjusting herfur wrap around her shoulders; she sailed up the driveway like the Queen Mary. As she reached the porch steps, my father swung open the door with a joy I hadrarely seen on his face. He stepped out, extending his hand to help her up the concretesteps. Ruby peered up from under a black-brimmed hat. It was then that I noticed thatthe fur wrap topping her silk-dotted dress was a ring of dead animals. Mink, I learnedlater. They clutched each other’s tails in their mouths. I marveled at the ring of fur. I hadnever seen anything like that in all my six years. This was the first time I was aware ofmeeting Ruby, known as Mrs. McFarland. Ruby acknowledged every child’s birth in my family with a gift, accompanied by a carddecorated with roses, always signed “Lovingly, Ruby” in a large swirling scrawl. I couldonly assume that somewhere during the early months of my life, she must have alreadygreeted me into the world. My father, who named the girls in the family—my mother, theboys—gave me the honor of her name, centered between my first and last. Ruby McFarland held a special place in the hearts of my father and his mother, mygrandmother. As a student at Banning High School, my father distinguished himselfacademically. Ruby arranged for him to receive an Encyclopedia Britannica set. As thedaughter of a minister, she chose to live her faith and sought out financially challengedJapanese-American students to assist in the seaport town of San Pedro, California.30

Ruby’s encouragement and guidance helped my father earn a scholarship toUC Berkeley to study engineering. But his academic pursuit was cut short by World WarII. Instead, he enlisted. He applied, and was sent, to the U.S. Army language school inMonterey, California, and so avoided relocation to an internment camp. My father’smother, now a widow, and his brother were sent to Manzanar. My grandmother’s tinyrestaurant in San Pedro, Mom’s Café, was ransacked while she was in camp, then torndown to build a warehouse because of its proximity to the docks. Ruby salvaged whatshe could from the café before it was gutted. She saved a few bowls, glasses, salt andpepper shakers, drinking-straw dispensers and even some aluminum pots and pans,which she stashed in her garage. A year after the San Pedro and Terminal Island Japanese-Americans were rounded upand taken to camp, Ruby had saved enough gas rations to make the drive up toManzanar. She filed forms with the war department field offices and braved threats toher safety to smuggle in a bottle of wine and some sweets to my grandmother. Anxiousand uncertain of the future, Ruby and my grandmother commiserated over wine andsong. After making the trip to Manzanar alone, Ruby returned home to the scorn of hersea-captain husband and to “Jap-lover” scrawled on her garage door. Years later, on spring break from my first year of college and prepping to protest thewar in Vietnam, I decided to visit Ruby to wish her a happy 86th birthday. It had beenseveral years since I’d seen her. My father jotted down the directions to her residenceafter locating it on one of his many Triple- A foldout maps. I hoped to rekindle arelationship with Ruby and interview her about her experiences during World War II. Ipromised my father to drive his car safely down the 405, which to him meant staying inthe slow lane. Keeping my word, I drove the speed limit most of the way. Checking the address number and street name on my bit of paper, I slowed the carin front of a low stucco bungalow. Its soft rounded corner edges, horizontal details andround entry alcove window offered a nod to the art deco design influence of severaldecades earlier. The diagonal line of numbers next to the front door matched up withthe address I held in my hand. I was wearing a short cotton dress and sandals. I carefully rearranged the flowers forher birthday and checked to make sure I had the card. I bounded up the walkway. Thedoorbell chimed a tune I didn't recognize. I looked, just in time, to see through the largepicture window a blur of white fur disappear over the edge of its perch near the glass. I heard someone on the other side of the door trying to open it. The door knobjiggled. Then again, more rattling. I heard Ruby’s muffled voice say, “Hello, there. Canyou go ‘round to the back door? I can’t open this one just now.”31

“Okay!” I shouted cheerily. I had no idea where "‘round the back" was, but I walked tothe end of the building, down a driveway and around the building into an alleyway.I saw Ruby standing on a little porch holding on to the back door. Her once statelyfigure was hidden under a cotton night dress that billowed around her. The pink rosepattern on the nightdress reminded me of her baby gift cards sent many years ago. Afaint pink crocheted shawl hung on her still-broad shoulders. It was nearly two in theafternoon, but she still had on her cotton flannel night cap. The cap’s ties swayed likeloose kite strings. She leaned over from the waist onto the metal rail outlining the porchand stared at the slippers on her feet. “Hello, Mrs. MacFarland?” I called softly, but my voice startled her anyway. “Oh well, there you are. I wasn’t sure you’d know which door belongs to my place,”she said, nodding her head to the row of porches along the back of the building. “You probably don’t remember me,” I began. “I mean, like this. I was a a few yearsyounger the last time I saw you.” “Of course, I know who you are. You are Ryoji’s little girl,” she said. I was stunned. “The Little Tokyo Japanese American newspaper wrote about you on the front page:Queen of the Los Angeles Nisei festival! I called Ryoji as soon as I saw your name.” Still surprised, I said, “Yes. Well, yes, that was me. I mean, that is me. Of course. Myname is Clare, but my middle name is your name. Ruby.” She chuckled at my introduction and said, “Come in, dear.” Stiffly, she swept her armout, welcoming me into her home. She led the way into a tiny, but immaculate, kitchen.A crisp linen dishcloth hung on the oven door next to an oven mitt and pot holder. Agentle arch opened up to a large front room. Beyond the arch, I saw an ebony piano that dwarfed the room. I was sure it hadgraced a much larger room with a much higher ceiling some time long ago. A white satinshawl embroidered with brightly colored flowers was draped across the piano, its longfringe touching the shiny wood floor. Suddenly, the large white ball of fur I had seenearlier through the picture window sauntered into the room. Like a cloud, it floated uponto the piano in one leap. “Prince!” Ruby called. But Prince ignored her. He turned his back to us, tail up. Hecircled once, then sat and stared at me. “This is Prince,” Ruby said by way of introduction. “He’s a cat. However, he isconvinced that he is royalty.” I stared back at Prince. Bored, Prince sprawled out on the embroidered flowers inthe middle of the piano. I was amazed. He was the largest cat I had ever seen. He musthave been a foot tall and over a foot long, including his tail. His white fur was dense andlong. Ruby always seemed to have unusual, furry creatures around her. 32

With a wave of her hand at Prince, Ruby turned and motioned for me to sit at thekitchen’s small banquette. Before I could sit, she had already turned on the gas flameunder a kettle and was setting out fine bone china cups and saucers. The cap’s ties thatframed her face swung in tandem with each head turn. I asked Ruby about her visit to Manzanar, why she’d gone and if she’d been afraid forher safety. She said only, “It was a long time ago. They were the war years.” But she told me in great detail about the local Hispanic high school students whocame to visit and help her with house cleaning. She paid them and encouraged eachone to go to trade school—nursing, carpentry, automotive—or to college to study art,literature, science or engineering. She gave them her time and her love. This was the last afternoon I spent with Ruby. She was still the same Mrs. MacFarlandshe had been to my father, my grandmother and the Japanese American community inSan Pedro. I drove home that afternoon proud to know her and grateful to carry hername for life. ~ Clare33

The grey skies perfectly reflect my grey life and the emotions overwhelming me. I am almost at the hospital to begin another three-day shift. I find that I’m draggingmy feet, reluctant to face the sadness and frightening environment, where the workused to fill me with worthiness and satisfaction. I have been non-stop nursing withoutreprieve, but can’t come to terms with so many people dying in spite of implementingevery possible intervention. The frustration and feelings of being helpless, even after 15years of nursing experience, is devastating. At first, the fear of taking this curse home to my family consumed me, but now—is itpossible? I am too tired to think or feel, just race from one patient to the other, settingup life-saving machinery and mechanisms with too low a success rate! Fortunately, my colleagues—the doctors, nurses and technicians—have formed atight-knit, if worn out, group, supporting and shoring each other up. All hands andminds working as one and never giving up. Everyone so happy and relieved when a patient has recovered and is beingdischarged, standing in the hallway cheering, clapping and sending well wishes. Thislight at the end of a very dark tunnel keeps us going, restores hope and optimism andhelps us get through one more hour, week, month. We keep reminding each other, “This too shall pass!” and those who survive will havelearned a valuable lesson to rebuild, restore and renew our beautiful earth and stopand smell the roses! ~ DollyThe prompt: I am grateful for a good night’ssleep. Feeling more rested than Ihave been in many months. Idecided to walk to work today, eventhough it’s raining, the rain dropsso refreshing on my face.Myfervent wishes and prayers withevery step I take are that the rainwill wash away this horrible deadlyCOVID-19 virus. 34