"The Traveler" Glendale Community College Literary Magazine, 1984

              G. C. C. CREATIVE ARTS
MAGAZINE
Editor: Julie Goldstein; Art Director: Brian Ga,lvin; Assistant Art
Director: Kay N. Yetter; Photographic Editor; Ednabelle Ganser;
Cover Design: Sharon N. Cain; Editorial Staff: Sharon Hallman,
Lee Ann Hart, Bradley J. Witt, Joy Marsh; Graphic Designer:
Dorothy M. Barney; Layout: Cynthia Bontrager, Roger Hurni,
Karen Barta; Illustrator: Bill Swapp; Graphic Art Advisor: Mirta
Hamilton; Literary Advisor: Conrad S. Bayley; Photographic Ad­visor:
Willis Peterson; Art Juror: Darlene Goto; Printing: Runbeck
and Associates.
Published Annually by G.CC English and Art Departments,
6000 ~st Olive, Glendale, Arizona 85302
©1984 The Traveler, Glendale Community College.
TABLE OF CONTENlS
PROSE:
Sharon Hallman 4
Bradley 1. Witt 14
John Henry McGill 17
Ginger Griggs 20
e.o. Lamp 24
POETRY:
Anna Luisa Reynoso 1
e.o. Lamp 7
Robert A. Davidson .. 8,29
Lee Ann Hart 8
Jack Evans 9,16,23
Rebecca Schlofner 9,32
Karen Edelstein . 10,12,13,26
Polly Harris 1l,26,27
Phil Ciulla 12
Sharon Hallman 15
Karen Green 15
Alice Burt 15
Bradley 1. Witt 21
Sharon Hrebicek 23
Jeri Walker 28
ART:
Kandra Rice 1l,32
M. Merrill 13
Gail Bunch 23,27
ILLUSTRATIONS:
Bill Swapp 3,17,20
Sharon Kae Cain 7
Cindy Bontrager 12
Ron Jones 16
Larry J. Pelchat 21
PHoroGRAPHY:
Ednabelle Ganser 4,25,30,31
Kelly 1. Holcombe 5,6,8,28
Mathew 1. Shuldt 10
Karen Alteneder 15
Judy Mossburg 29
SCULPTURE:
Russel Lorch 9
Un Poeta
Pensamientos
escritOs en
frasEs que
solamenTe un
poemA puede expresar.
Anna Luisa Reynoso
Traveler/l
Traveler/2
A Poet
Phrasing thoughts
Only a poem can
Express
Thoroughly.
Anna Louisa Reynoso
Trave/er/3
THE
NIGHT LIFE
Sharon Hallman
Second Place Prose Award
Traveler/4
The house had long since served
its original purpose but continued to
cling stubborniy to life as if it had
something to prove. Located on the
southwest corner of a busy intersec­tion,
the structure was visibly out of
place. The property was in total dis­repair
and seemingly uninhabitable.
The unpainted frame
structure consisted of
three small rooms and
was without foundation.
Elevated just above the
ground on crumbling
concrete blocks was a
small narrow porch which
stretched the length of
the front of the house,
slopi.ng downward in
near-collapse. Each day
threatened its demise. A
sagging plywood ramp
served as a walkup and
irrigation canals formed
the property boundaries
on the north and east
til sides. Huge mounds of
-, ~ dirt enclosed the pre­CJ
mises at a right angle.
~
Qj Alongside the house was
-' {l a car that looked more
t:
~ like risk than trans- .s portation.
l' With shopping areas to e the west and south, a
g> new housing addition to
] the north and a college
- 0.. campus on the east side,
the house was little more
than an eyesore. It was a blemish on
the rapidly developing area; an
offence to the progress of the com­munity.
Progress, that omnivore
with the insatiable appetite, was a
threat to all in its path.
The sandy earth surrounding the
house was barren with the exception
of a few weeds which had sprung to
life after the warm rains, seeming
genuinely appropriate to the
unkempt appearance of the prop­erty.
An immense salt cedar patiently
surveyed the lot and undoubtedly
prevented near suffocation of the
occupants during the endless
summers.
The house had been occupied by
migrants as long as anyone could
remember. The migrants of the so
called "superfluous society." The
human mechanism who lived in pov­erty
while keeping the land owners
wealthy. They were heirs to the
undesirable tasks of a culture, reap­ing
the lesser rewards and earning
the respect of law.
The tenants who dwelt within the
walls of the house and within the
boundaries of their caste were a
middle-aged couple and their son.
The boy was about twenty and pos­sessed
the kind of beauty only inno­cence
can claim. His hair was
mahogany and he was fair of com­plexion.
His parents wore the
middle-agedness earned from an
excess of endeavor and the depriva­tion
of pleasure; the countenance
produced when dreams and ambi­tions
give way to survival - not
something that happens in a day or
even in a year, but in half a lifetime of
gradual and quiet acceptance of
what cannot, or will not, be altered.
The couple disclosed the result of
endless hours of exposure to the ele­ments.
The fields were the only
means by which they could eke out a
living. Working side by side, they
were unwitting accessories to the
perpetual rape of the land. The
woman knew equality as she worked
next to her husband. The man lived
the humility of watching his wife age
by degrees as she assentingly aided
in their survival. He ached to note
her loss of vitality and felt
responsible.
The boy didn't work but satisfied
his time well. Keeping the house in
order·and cooking the meals for his
parents occupied him during the
day. He sometimes watched televi­sion,
read or merely sat on the porch
and observed the flow of traffic. He
was not educated; however, he did
not wear the vacant expressionless
aura of a deficiency of thought. He
often appeared intense, as if he were
recalling something very abstruse.
Evenings were a predictable rou­tine.
The trio dined nominally and
discussed the day's events, while
attending to the household tasks.
The couple, however, retired early to
the rest which they depended upon
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to sustain them, leaving the boy to
himself once again.
In his life, nighttime represented
something entirely alien to his par­ents,
and he looked forward to get­ting
out. The couple was not aware
of the paradox of their son's life.
They knew only their daytime child.
Following the familiar nightly
departures and whispered blessings,
the couple settled into their rest. The
boy lay on his bed where his mother
had left him, waiting for the sounds of
sleep from the next room. Elevating
himself, he reached for and pulled
the string attached to the light, extin­guishing
the incandescent glow in
the room, plunging it into a pool of
Traveler/5
like himself - another searcher
drawn into the labyrinth of eventide.
The whirlpool of restlessness held
many in its slow-death grip as they
treaded water.
The melody reverberated in
body. All systems function at opti­mum
level. The bodymachine ceases
to exist and the mind is free to search
for answers. Other times, he would
run with all the power and force of a
sprinter, bursting forth with an
intense potency followed by the tran­quility
of fatigue.
Each night was different, each
night had something to offer and he
partook of it greedily at times, in
attempt to satisfy his needs. He func­tioned
within a hunger he was unable
to identify. The nature of the species
presided over the search for the cen­ter
- exploiting all the boundaries.
Intersecting the street, he
bounded in front of an oncoming
automobile, as he laughingly
accomplished the sidewalk to the
tune of a blaring horn. The lights
gave off a sordid glow, but he chose
not to notice.
Inside, he succumbed to the music
and began to dance with a girl much
THE NIGHT LIFE (Cont.)
dark reflection. Gradually, his eyes
adjusted and he listened for an indi­cation
that fatigue had at last over­come
his parents.
In the solitude, he studied the
spectrum of light reflecting from the
bar across the street as it pulsated,
captive on the walls of his room, pro­ducing
a hypnotic effect. A warm
draft swept the edge of the frayed
drape softly across his face, and
somewhere in the remoteness of the
night a girl's laughter resounded. It
felt good to simply lie and listen to the
quality of the night. People were dif­ferent
in the darkness; they took
chances and revealed their true
character. Stripped of their inhibi­tions,
they became what the day
would not permit.
The boy slowly ascended the bed,
cautious not to betray his exodus.
Only the cadence of his parent's
sleep could he perceive. Abandoning
the house in favor of the engulfing
darkness, he walked slowly in the
direction of the bar. The exercise
was a deliverance after beng con­fined
to the house all day. His anxie­ties
were lifted and he was liberated
once more.
The bar wasn't a constant,rather a
variable. Oftentimes, he would
simply walk, absorbing the subdued
atmosphere that most avoided. The
boy harbored no fear of the
unknown. His reflections were inten­sified
and sharpened by the solitude.
The rain never held him. He walked ~
inside the storms as if they were wel- §
come, receiving their cleansing com- ~
munion with the gracious acceptance :r:
of salvation. 'J .?
Pausing, he breathed deeply and Qj
:::l::: deliberately as he gazed starward. :>-
Studying the span of infinity which ~
formed the celestial window above, -aIII
he was drawn like a magnet to lodes- 61
tone. Venus was co-star to the ~
moon, while Orion stood the watch 0': '-- ----'
of a millenium past and future; light
years away, yet nearly accessible in
his momentary immortality.
Occasionally he would run - run
for miles, perfecting the steady pace
of the marathoner, achieving an ulti­mate
synchronization of mind and
Trauelerj6
degrees like layers of the atmos­phere,
leaving the lyrics drifting just
outside their sphere of perception.
The dancers methodically encircled
the room, satellites orbiting a com­mon
body. The boy's awareness of
time abandoned him to the textures
of movement. With an easy sweep of
her hand, the girl reached to contain
a wisp of soft curl from about her
face. The flowing sleeve of her dress
brushed lightly across his face. She
laughed frivolously, missing not a
step.
The night gave way to changes in
the east, issuing forth a new life form
- the daytime people. Small stir­rings
could be detected inside the
rundown house. The rust-streaked
tin roof began to respond to the sun's
touch, while the populace outside
undertook its task once more.
Slowly, but resolutely, the man
and woman faced their responsibility
anew - yesterpay's, today's and
tomorrow's assignment - exist­ence.
Bypassing their son's room,
they seldom woke him until they
were prepared to leave for the day.
While the faces of accountability
marched up and down in the hall, the
boy remained immersed in a drama
of his own design.
Having readied themselves for the
day, the man loaded the car and
waited for his wife. She moved slowly
toward her son's room and grasped
the doorknob firmly in her hand. As
she turned it cautiously, the paint­worn
door creaked in its resistance.
Crossing the room, she came to
stand directly in front of the bed.
Looking downward, she was sus­pended
in thought, questioning jus­tice.
Tears of familiarity escaped her
dark eyes. Regaining hercomposure,
her faith once more gave her the
necessary strength - a faith that
had allowed them to endure as a
family.
The ragged tapestry, inhaled by
the breeze, fell back to its place
against the screenless window. From
his dream, the boy could only
remotely perceive his mother's
voice, but her touch drew him back
to the surface of reality. The
exchange was mute as he looked up
to the face of tender strength and
smiled. Reaching upward, he placed
his arms around her neck and she
carefully withdrew, lifting him with
her small, strong body.
Each possessed something the
other needed for survival- his inno­cence
intermingled with the power
she was master of, achieved a deli­cate
balance. As she straightened
her frame, her rough brown hands
and thin strong arms guided the with­ered
form of her crippled son into his
wheelchair. She clung to him briefly,
bade him goodbye and went to the
fields. 0
NOW WHAT?
Love and lace.
Kids and bills.
Tears and dark places.
Dropout and pills.
My egg shell world broken,
I step into a new place,
Uncertain and shivering.
Now what?
Susan Wright
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Wrinkled old men squat on the sidewalk carving jade,
Inhaling the pungent odor of opium, incense smoke
And burning joss sticks from an ancient temple.
A noodle vendor weaves through a maze of narrow alleys
Chanting to housewives peering from dark shadows.
Rickshas and pedicabs rustle along crowded streets
Amidst the plaintive beeping of Hillman horns
And the clanking gears of doubledeck London buses,
Smoky monsters that reek of oil and gas and sweat.
The indistinguishable chatter of a polygot multitude
Fades as the Star Ferry crosses to a nearby Kowloon.
In the harbor batwing junks, sampans and waUa-wallas
Glide silently past moored Japanese steamers
Hulking against a landscape of brush-painted serenity,
Lovely trees, terraced fields and misty hills
That undulate toward the mainland like sleeping dragons.
C.O. Lamp - First Place Poetry Award
Traveler/7
WHAT'S IT ALL FOR?
What's it all for?
Why do waves touch the shore?
And birds cry at night
as though in midst of flight
A soul I knew has since gone
I hadn't seen him for so long
Yet still I was torn by the news
He so young and so much to lose
I still remember those tranquil days
When nature came alive in May
For then was when we'd play and run
So much time for so much fun
And I recall the snow-licked trees
With backs against the winter breeze
A game with ball and stick and posts
And how o.ur sleds on ice would coast
These thoughts come to me now
While I question why and how
I will sit tonight, and sigh
and listen to the birds cry.
Robert A. Davidson
Traveler/9
Cool breezes through a green forest.
Soft white stars fall gently to a
whitened ground.
Suns shine their love down from the heavens.
A chime sounds -
Voices sing-
Organs speak in their resonate voices.
A silent country sings its praise
as the hour has arisen.
like a Christ figure
nailed to a park bench,
smoking day old cigarettes,
and turning wine to flesh,
he watched us play
on the summer grass.
Once, when the sun had drained us
our games,
we spoke to him;
only to ask his name.
He cursed, waved his arms in the air,
threw a handful of the plague
to strike us dead on the asphalt path.
We ran back, laughing, to play on the grass.
PEBBLES IN THE HOLY STREAM
Jack Evans
One winter, years from then,
at the corner
where the wind was created
for God's revenge,
I saw him,
raging as he crossed the street.
I knew the time had passed
to know his name.
LOVE STORY: A Performance in 3 Acts, 15 Lines
Karen Edelstein
Prologue
Invitation
to a masque: Let's have a
party, we three. A nailpainting
fest, with wine. I'll paint yours, you'll paint hers, she'll
paint mine - bright red.
Intermission
I cannot move
she said. That's all right he
said, I can. I mean that I am
paralyzed, she said. That's all right, he said,
kindly, I'm not.
Traveler/l0
Photography by Mathew J. Schuldt
Afterpiece
Your foot
is on my chest
to keep me in my place;
I know it's true I'm trapped, but look
at you.
Traueler/ll
Polly Harris
m
bitte~l.
by unknown
lost
more and more sight
gave
less and less light
until
you
and
it
stood alone
in darkness
no one to touch
no one to save
except yourself
mind to matter
shape to afterflow
you
waited
together
silently tracking time
until
you entered light
on the far side
near tomorrow
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You meet me at the front door - joke grin on
your face tentative, padding from your mitt
in one hand, strap with cup in the other.
"I won't need that," I say. "Even after
I catch the ball, I'll still have only one."
We dissolve in laughter and hugs
I'm fifteen again, shedding heat
of another kind, holding ice to lips
swollen with kissing. "What happened
to your mouth?" my father asks.
Almost laughing, I say I caught
a hardball with it and gleefully
I watch his bent shoulders walk away.
Traveler/13
and play till dusk, till game time,
till your friends arrive I wonder
what has happened, what it means.
Then I overhear you tell them,
"My mom catches for me without a mask."
I tell you I don't need a mask;
my reflexes are fast as your fast
ball - so far. A challenge? You laugh
as you did when I feared your rocky path
climb with a sixteen-pound backpack.
Soon my hand is numb, my concentration
strained. I call for time out. Shedding
heat of palms and face into a cold cloth,
I stand before the bathroom mirror and
"Come on mom," you call. ''I'm just now
getting it right." "Be right there." I
wipe away hot tears with my palms.
"I think I'll take that padding now."
Second Place Poetry Award
Karen Edelstein
NO MASK
and I am nine again standing
below my father as he takes
my glove - "girls don't play ball" - takes off
my cap, smooths down my hair, catches
a tear in the palm of his hand
as it rounds my cheek I see his eyes.
He turns and walks away.
On my haunches, my knees spread wide,
I sit with mitt held center strike
zone behind an imaginary home
plate while you teach yourself to be
a pitcher. You ask if I need
padding to cushion your budding
fastball. I reply I'm tougher
than you think - and swallow the inference.
Still you stop, walk into the house
and return with your catcher's mask.
It isn't only 9-year-old bravado;
I see your concern - your eyes an echo
Art by Marsha Merrill: Third Place Art Award
Bradley J. Witt
THE MERCENARY STUDENT
The young man walked crisply through the doorway,
the rhythmic tap of his heels announcing his entrance to
the busy professor. The tap, tap, tap of the boy's foot­steps
grew increasingly louder as he neared the front of
the classroom. Then with a practiced movement the
young man's heels came down hard on the tile floor, first
the left foot, then the right slipping closely near the left.
"Here sir! Twenty minutes early and ready for class,
Mark Roning reporting!"
"You must be the mercenary student I requested. The
agency said they'd have one over right away but this, I
must say, is a quicker response than I expected."
"Sir, yes sir!" The young man said as he suppressed a
grin. "We thrive on punctuality, quickness and surprise."
"Please, please, only one sir." The professor's reply
was stern and in a hushed voice. "Let's not make this too
obvious. It wouldn't do too well to let the rest of the
faculty know that I've hired you. The students especially
mustn't get wind of it."
"Yes sir, sorry sir, I mean, sorry Dr. Kinsley."
"That's fine. Please take a seat. I'm sure you haven't
had time to have all the reading finished for today, but we
could somehow work that to our advantage ..."
"Oh, no sir!" The young man interrupted, "I've fin­ished
all the reading for today sir. I'm sorry to say though
that I didn't have time last night to read ahead, but
believe me I will!"
"I only called the agency last evening." The professor
said increduously. "You didn't read all night did you?"
"Sir, yes sir!" The young man snapped proudly.
"Amazing, just amazing."
"Sir. Are there any special circumstances I need to be
apprised of before class begins this morning?"
"Well, no, I don't think so ..."
"Any particularly unruly students sir?" As the young
man spoke he flipped a small black notebook out from
beneath his jacket. A shiny silver pen appeared between
his fingers as if from beneath his sleeve. "Any students
who refuse to cooperate in discussion? Or who are, well,
too cooperative? I'm equipped to handle a variety of
situations sir, but a little back-briefing certainly will help."
"The professor shifted nervously in his chair. "Well,
uh, there are a few ..." His voice trailed off as if in some
deep thought. "What will you do to them?"
"To them sir?"
"Yes, I mean, what exactly are your methods, for, say
a well, an 'unruly student' as you call it?"
"Well sir, we have a number of maneuvers which are
very effective. Such as the stern look or the ten second
Traveler/14
throat-clear. One time sir," the young man began reflec­tively,
"I simply explained to one of them that I had been
deafened in one ear during a mortar attack in Vietnam,
and that he was being unruly in my only good ear. He got
the message!"
"Ours or theirs?"
"Sir?"
"Our mortar attack or theirs?"
"Oh! HA! Yes sir, testing my response to humor! Yes
sir, very good sir! Nothing worse than a professor's joke
that falls flat. Yes sir! You can count on me to laugh first
and hardest. Yes sir, you can count on me!"
"Yes, I'm sure I can." The professor said a little
fearfully.
"Sir, rather than explain in detail our specific practi­ces,
some of which I'm not allowed to divulge anyway, I'll
leave you a copy of our 'code of conduct' as it were."The
young man deftly reached his hand down into the top of
his boot and pulled out a worn piece of paper.
The professor slowly unfolded the paper and read the
bold-print title.
THE MERCENARY STUDENT'S OATH OF ETHICS
After scanning the paper for a few seconds the profes­sor
looked up sternly. "What's this? 'The professor is
always right!?' 'I, the Mercenary Student, will always,
without regard to personal comfort or social conven­ience,
support the professor's stand on any issue foreign
or domestic.' "What if the professor is obviously wrong?
What would you do then?"
"Well sir, of course your question is strictly a theoreti­cal
one, since to my recollection it has never happened
before. Assuming it could happen though, and I'm not
implying that it could. Well, I believe sir, the best course
of action would be for me to simply keep quiet."
"What if," the professor pressed his slim advantage,
"what if, one of the other students noticed the error and
verbalized his disagreement?"
"I would immediately counter-act with a supportive
argument, clouded with ambiguities, in hope that you
could re-group your faculties sufficiently to resolve the
matter." "Then again," he quipped, "I could always fake a
heart-attack."
"Why fake one? Don't you people have pills or injec­tions
or that sort of thing that can produce the actual
result?"
"Another Joke sir?" The young man questioned
carefully.
"No joke." The professor replied quietly. "It was no
joke." 0
The gatherers remain, doing so in His name.
Gilded shafts of summer solstice penetrate
The willow branches, casting shade-lace on
They who stand in acknowledgement of the
Union.
Alice Burt
SILENCE
Traveler/IS
Karen Green
MIDNIGHT
Velvet arms and zephyr lips
lured my love away.
Now I walk the moonless night
and dread the sunless day.
Silence is a child;
deep in slumber, sound asleep.
Silence is a snowflake;
on a mountain peak.
Silence is a flower;
on an open plain.
Silence is a spider;
on a window pain.
Silence is an hourglass;
with its sand so white.
Silence is a dove;
somewhere in the night.
Floor-length lace touches tailored linen
Mid the taking of a vow.
SUMMER WEDDING
Words of life, death and promises spoken
Fall softly private between the binding
of human fiber.
A deception cannot withstand the
Texture of a dream.
The summer light-dance brilliantly
Clarifies the scene.
The purple, scent-laden lilac nods 'neath
Its aromatic burden, keeping the marmalade
Cat who peers out curiously unimpressed
And resentful of the invasion.
She is fair. He is strong. It will be
Enough - for now.
Summer is the Promise Kept.
Spring is the Hope Eternal.
Sharon Hallman
Traveler/16
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John Henry McGill
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Imagination's Reality
Third Place Prose Award
The highway was long, dark and
lonesome. There was no sign of life
for miles around. It was so peaceful,
quiet, and empty, until a pair of head­lights
emerged from out of the
darkness.
Behind the wheel of the 79 Ford
Mustang was a very tired Jacob
Jacobi. It must have been close to
twenty-four hours since he last slept
and he could feel how the lack of
sleep was starting to take its toll on
his tired body. Jake was what many
people would call an adventurer, and
on many occasions, he had gone as
long as three days without any sleep
and never even realized it. Jake
simply hoped that he could make it
to the next city before he fell asleep.
Jake's tired mind was on every­thing
but the endless void of nothing­ness
that was in front of him. His
mind raced back to the time he was
in San Francisco. What was that cra­zy
beatnik's philosophy about life?
Oh, yes. "Life is like a fictional story
and we are just figments of some­one's
imagination." It's funny how
the mind can think about the
strangest things when it's tired. He
glanced in his rear view mirror and
saw that the darkness had swallowed
up the road behind him.
He wondered how far it was to the
next town? No sooner did the
thought cross his mind when he
passed a billboard that told him that
Phoenix was just ten miles away.
Jake breathed a sigh of relief, for he
knew that he could stay awake for
another ten miles.
Unfortunately for Jake, he only
managed to get three more miles
before his eyes started to close. His
vision started to become more and
more blurry. He could feel himself
slipping into unconsciousness. And
before he could do anything about it,
Jake had fallen sound asleep.
He didn't realize that he was
asleep. He couldn't feel his car drift
over the yellow line. He couldn't hear
the horn of the semi-truck that was
coming the other way. He didn't see
that his car was about to run off the
road until it was too late.
When Jake woke up, he was no
longer in his car. He was lying on a
couch in somebody's study. He
made a quick survey of the room. It
was fairly large. It had no windows
and the only light came from an over­hanging
lamp in the middle of the
ceiling. To the left of the couch was a
desk with a typewriter on top of it.
Evidently someone had been doing
some typing because there was a
stack of papers next to it, and a piece
of paper still in the machine. There
was a tape recorder on the other side
To the right side of the desk there
was a small bookcase loaded full of
books. Above the desk, to Jake's
surprise, was a large colorful sketch
of himself. Jake noticed that there
was only one door in the room.
"I would hate to be trapped in this
place if a fire ever breaks out," Jake
thought. He started walking toward
the desk when he heard the door to
the study open. He drifted back into
the shadows, and his face was com­pletely
covered by the darkness.
"I think I will join you for break­fast,"
the young man said. "I just
want to turn off the light in my
study."
Arthur Duncan didn't notice Jake
when he first opened the door
because he was busy trying to wipe
Traveler/17
the sleep from his eyes. He had been
working late on his new book, and
after spending three consecutive
nights at his typewriter, Arthur had
finally given way to sleep. Now, five
hours later, his brain was cleared,
and it was now time for him to get
back to work, and although he had
promised his housekeeper that he
would have breakfast with her, he
knew that he could get at least five
pages typed before she came back to
drag him upstairs.
The sight of a stranger startled the
young writer. He stood motionless in
the doorway for what seemed like an
eternity.
"How did you get in here?" he
finally said.
"I'm still trying to figure that one
out," Jake answered. "I don't even
know where here is."
"Well, who are you?"
"My name is Jacob Jacobi."
"What is this, some kind of joke?"
Arthur said a little annoyed.
"I don't understand," Jake said,
thoroughly confused. He took a step
into the light.
"Don't give me that ... " Arthur
took about four steps into the room
and then he suddenly froze in his
tracks. He couldn't believe his eyes.
He thought it must be because he
had been working late for the last
couple nights. That has got to be the
reason why this man looks so much
like his most outstanding creation.
After all, your mind can play tricks
on you when you are tired.
"You can't be Jacob Jacobi.
That's impossible."
"Would you like to see my driver's
license?" Jake said with a bit of
sarcasm.
"No that won't be necessary,"
Arthur said as he walked over to his
desk. He opened the center drawer
and produced his eye glasses. There
was only one thing that would con­vince
Arthur that this guy was indeed
Jacob Jacobi.
"Let me see your right hand."
At first, Jake was a little hesitant,
but until he could find out what was
going on, he would do what the
young writer wanted him to do. He
held out his hand and Arthur quickly
Traveler/I8
took his index finger.
With his eye glasses on, Arthur
could clearly see the two small
tatooed "J's" that were there.
"No, it can't be," Arthur said as he
took a closer look at Jake's face.
"Hey, what's going on here?" Jake
said, getting impatient. "Where am I?
And who are you?"
Arthur didn't say a word as he
drifted back to the bookcase. He
took a book from the bookcase and
tossed it to him. Jake read the cover.
The Further Adventures ojJacob
Jacobi. The San Francisco Connec­tion
by Arthur Duncan.
Jake stared at the young writer for
a moment. Then he finally said, "I
assume that you are Arthur Dun­can."
Jake walked over to the book­case
and began reading the covers of
some of the other books that were
there. He was surprised to see that
some of his most memorable adven­tures
were all down in print.
Arthur told Jake that ever since he
was fifteen years old he always
wanted to be an Olympic Marathon
runner, but he had asthma and it
prevented him from making the
school's track team. One of Arthur's
English teachers liked the way he
had written his English compositions
and suggested that he joined the
school's newspaper staff. At first,
Arthur rejected the idea because he
thought that all writers were nothing
but square-headed bookworms, but
after giving it a little thought he liked
the idea. For the next two years he
covered all the track and field events
and became the number one repor­ter
on the staff. That's how his writ­ing
career began.
After graduating from high school,
he went to college to major in jour­nalism.
He joined the college news­paper
staff, but he got bored with
newspaper writing. He wanted to be
more creative with his work. He took
numerous classes in creative writing
before graduating with his degree in
journalism. He then became a free­lance
writer.
He wrote articles and short stories
for different magazines and made
just enough money to pay the rent. It
was at that time that Arthur decided
to create a fictional character and his
own fictional series. After all, Sir
Arthur Conan Coyle made millions
off his Sherlock Holmes' character;
and Ian Fleming made millions off
James Bond. Why couldn't he do the
same? And so with a stroke of a pen
and a touch of imagination, Arthur
Duncan created Jacob Jacobi 'Thrill­seeker.'
"Now do you see why you can't be
Jacob Jacobi?" Arthur said finishing
up his story. "He is just a figment of
my imagination."
"But I am Jacob Jacobi." Jake's
voice started to rise.
"I know that now. Your tattoos
proved to me who you are, and that's
the weird part," Arthur said as he
began to pace.
"By the way, how do you know
about that?"
"Hasn't it sunk in yet?" Arthur said
irritated. "I know everything about
you because I created you. I could
tell you every detail of your past or I
could just let you read about your­self.
In fact, I was just working on
your latest adventure." Arthur
yanked the piece of paper out of the
typewriter and handed it to Jake.
"That's why it's impossible for you to
be here."
Terror Dressed in White. Jake
couldn't believe what he was read­ing.
The story was exactly what had
just happened to him.
"Well, what do you say now?"
"I don't know what to say," Jake
said confused.
"Maybe you need further convinc­ing,"
Arthur said as he pushed the
play button on the tape recorder.
The sound of Arthur's voice filled the
room.
"When Jake awakens he doesn't
remember the ambulance ride or the
conversation he had with the intern .
.. He meets Dr. Ambrose, the funky
black doctor, who tells him that he
was at Good Samaritan Hospital."
Arthur stopped the tape.
"Now do you believe me, or would
you like to hear some more?"
"No," Jake said with a grin.
"Although what I read did happen to
me, what I heard didn't. You see I
have never been to the Good Samar-
itan Hospital and I haven't had any
conversations with a black doctor.
So what do you say to that?"
For the first time since meeting
Jake, Arthur was totally speechless.
He was stumped.
"If what I'm saying is not true, then
it would be impossible for me to
know that you got your tattoos on
your finger when you were
seventeen."
Jake's grin faded from his face.
"You had them put there in
remembrance of your best friend
Jack and your girlfriend Jenny."
Arthur continued, "You called your
tattoo your beauty mark because it
reminded you of your two closest
friends. But your tattoo turned into a
scar when they were killed in an acci­dent
twenty-three years ago. It's a
secret you never shared with another
living soul."
Jake just stood there and looked
at the writer. He was baffled at what
he just heard. He wondered how
Arthur knew about his tattoo. He
was right, Jake never told anyone
about them. "Who are you and how
do you know so much about me?"
"I told you before. You, your life,
your adventures and everything
about you happened because I made
it happen."
"No, I don't believe you."
"Just think. You are my way of
saying to the world, 'Hey, Arthur
Duncan was here!' My way of
becoming immortal."
"I don't want to hear anymore!"
Jake shouted as terror started to
build up in him. He didn't know who
this guy was or why he was saying
the things he was·saying, but what he
did know was that he had to get out
of there. He had to get away from
this crazy man.
Jake started to rush for the door,
but Arthur had worked his way over
and was now blocking the only exit in
the room.
"Where do you think you are
going?"
"Anywhere as long as it is far away
from you," Jake said as he felt his
body startig to tense up. He didn't
want to fight the young man because
he knew that he was much more
experienced and the writer would be
at a great disadvantage.
"I'm afraid I can't allow you to
leave just yet," Arthur insisted.
Jake knew then that he would not
be able to leave this place without
confronting the young writer.
"I'll try to make this as quick and
as painless as possible," Jake said
with a smirk on his face.
Arthur didn't understand, but he
soon found out as Jake slammed his
fist into the young man's midsection.
It was followed by a devastating blow
to the back of the neck. And as
quickly as it began, the fight was
over. Jake moved Arthur's uncon­scious
body away from the door.
Jake moved into the next room and
closed the door behind him. It
appeared to be a small bedroom.
There was a small bed off to the right
corner, and to the left there was a
small watercloset.
Jake had worked his way over to
the other side of the bedroom. He
tried the door that he knew must
have led to the rest of the house, and
it was locked. He heard a clicking
sound coming from the study door.
"Oh no," Jake gasped as he bolted
back to the other side of the room.
The young writer had locked him
into the bedroom. He was surprised
at how quickly Arthur had reco­vered.
Jake began to pound wildly on
the study door. He tried to break the
door in, but it was built too solid.
There was a moment of silence
before Jake heard the sound of
Arthur's typewriter.
He glanced over and saw the bed
in the corner. He suddenly remem­bered
how tired he was. He slid down
to the floor. The sound of the typew­riter
was so soothing and relaxing
that it was lulling him to sleep. Jake
could feel his eyes start to get heavier
and heavier. He tried to fight it, but in
the end, he fell sound asleep.
When Jake woke up, there was a
loud ringing in his ears. His vision
was blurry and his head was spin­ning.
He could tell he was no longer
in the writer's study, and as his vision
cleared, he could also tell that he was
in an ambulance. The ringing in his
ears was the sound of the siren.
"Welcome back to the land of the
living," the curly haired attendant
said. "For a minute there, we
thought we lost you."
"How did I get here?" Jake's mind
was still a little fuzzy.
"You had quite a bad spill on the
highway," the attendant explained.
"But lucky for you, a truck driver
saw you go off the road. He radioed
for help and stayed with you until we
got there."
Jake's head had a huge bandage
on it and his leg was in some kind of
balloon to keep it immobilized.
Jake now realized that every­thing
that had happened at the
writer's house was nothing but a
dream. The laugh started way down
in the bottom of his stomach, and
by the time it had reached his mouth
it was totally out of control.
"What's so funny?" the attendant
asked, wanting to get in on the joke.
"You wouldn't understand it. It's
private."
"Okay. We'll leave it at that."
Jake felt something scratch against
his chest. He dug into the breast
pocket of his shirt and produced a
folded piece of paper and imme­diately
started to unfold it.
Terror Dressed in White.
The words seemed to leap out and
slap him in the face. His smile had
faded away and he broke out in a
cold sweat. His mouth hung open
and his face turned as white as a
ghost.
"What hospital are you taking me
to?" Jake asked almost afraid of the
answer."
"Good Samaritan."
"Tell me about the doctors."
"The docs there are great," the
attendant said. "But just between
you and me, personally I like Dr.
Ambrose better than Dr. Stewart.
Ambrose has a better bedside
manner. You know one time he told
one patient that he got his doctor's
degree from a witchdoctor in Africa
Jake didn't hear anything else that
the young attendant said or the blar­ing
sound of the ambulance siren. All
Jacob Jacobi could hear was the
sound of Arthur Duncan's typewriter. 0
Traveler/19
Traveler/20
LOVE'S
SONG
Ginger Griggs
~/ Illustration by Bill Swapp:
First Place Illustration Award
I liken him to the sun or to the clouds, forces which awaken in me
such awe, such overwhelming gratitude for life itself. I am alive!
Sometimes, a grown woman, I feel the urge to burst forth into a new
day with a leap and a triumphant yelp, a bounding Irish setter. You,
World, are so astoundingly beautiful!
Warm rays seep slowly into glowing flesh and splash my c1osed­eyed
world with orange fire. Warmth is real- it is tangible! Hypno­tized,
immobilized, I lie belly-up, a child who wants to squeal with
sheer delight. Impish grin escapes adult decorum, silent giggles tickle
from within - I am in love with the sun!
Clouds are nature's playthings. With unskilled hands she molds a
thousand million frothy lumps and sends them out across the sky.
Clouds are my parade, and I alone can change their form at will. Or is it
clouds who change my mind and laugh and run away! Iam in love with
clouds!
I like him to the sun or to the clouds, forces which awaken in me
such awe, such overwhelming gratitude for life itself. Oh, World, what
joy to wake and know that they exist! I am in love with what I feel!
Possess his soul? I would as vainly try to draw a cloud to earth or
hug the sun.
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((QUID PRO QUO"
1,2,3, TO 10
(or who counts for you?)
Bradley J. Witt
Third Place Poetry Award
The papers read in headline type,
PISTOL DUEL HELD TONIGHT
In bold print the story read,
FAITH AND REASON, TO THE DEATH!
Buy your tickets at the door, I continued on to read.
I tossed the paper, donned my coat, and started off to see.
Imagine! I exulted, as I raced down in my car,
Great thinkers, orators and wonderers gathered from afar.
Would Faith, a slightly fellow, aim low trembling at the knees?
Or would Reason in his bigness, too large a target be?
Traueler/21
T raveler/22
Might Reason suddenly cower at Faith's finding strength,
Or Faith wilt and crumble in a duel of any length?
The outcome wasn't certain, any fool could see.
My mind rushed and wondered, "Who might it be?"
With ticket in hand and a pint of beer, I shuffled to my seat.
Still a half hour before the show, the crowd stood on its feet.
Through the smoke I spied a boisterous man, off and to my left.
"Reason'lI get him the first shot, how much you want to bet?"
"Well I'm not a betting man," the other shyly said,
"But I know well within my heart, Faith'lI see him dead."
A little boy in a striped shirt sold programs from a sack.
I passed a bill out to the edge, he passed a program back.
"It says right here on twenty-three, great minds support this fight.
There they sit all prim and pris' in the box seats to the right."
"The judge they chose is pictured here just as he stands out there.
Dark black suit, oh so crisp, and that stern blank cruel stare."
"Says here he's been behind the scene directly from the start,
Poured in a lot of money and worked with all his heart."
"These two, Faith and Reason, I'm quoting now from Him,
Are and always will be, enemies to the end."
"I've set this match between them, for all the world to see,
One man, Faith or Reason, must the victor be!"
A loud crackling started and a "testing, two, three, four."
Then a cheer welling from the crowd turned to a mighty roar.
Faith stepped out from one side, pistol in his hand,
Reason from the other, a large and husky man.
They stopped at twenty paces and turned their backs to each.
Strength gripped their faces as they heard the judge's speech.
"Ladies and all the rest, you're welcome here tonight,
I'll be your judge and monitor for this audacious fight."
"As you can plainly see folks, we're ready to begin.
The fight's between two strong men, I'm sure the best'll win."
The judge turned 'round quickly, and walked closer to the men,
Stopping a few paces away from both of them.
"Now I'll do all the counting, erne two three to ten,
You two boys then turn and aim and do each other in!"
"READY NOW," he raised his voice, though the place was hushed and still.
He started counting, "One, two ... five, six ..." their hearts were iron will.
"Seven, eight ..." The judge's voice slipped closer to his mark_
I saw their muscles twitching, even from afar.
The judge's face was glowing, he smiled, almost pronounced the word,
The crowd sucked in and gasped out loud at what was then unfurled!
Both men turned, before the ten, as if on one cogwheel,
Their pistols and smiles wide, and eyes of piercing steel.
Faith and Reason on one accord aimed respective right and left,
Then slowly pulled the triggers and shot the judge right through the head!
The two then rushed together and shook each other's hands,
Then stepping o'er the body, they took the P.A. stand.
"You ask us why we did it, our replies will be the same,
We've been good friends all along, and we tired of his games."
ANNIVERSARY
C. O. Lamp
First Place Prose Award
Twenty-five years had passed
since the founders incorporated
Ridgeway, and the town had cele­brated
with banners, fireworks and
speeches. A parade that lasted more
than two hours included buggies,
carriages, flower decorated floats,
wagons filled with musicians, and
every shiny new 1925 automobile in
town: a Packard, an Essex, two
Studebakers, a Buick, and five
assorted Fords. As elaborate as the
celebration had been, everyone in
town knew it wouldn't compare with
the gala planned when the Ridgeway
House celebrated its own silver anni­versary
in two months.
Folks said Joshua Crump would
certainly be invited but Banker
Crump knew he hadn't received an
invitation to Lillie Hopkins's extrava­ganza.
Folks said Martin Overlord
had received an invitation, but the
lawyer knew he wasn't among the
twenty-five chosen invitees. He was
single and would have considered it
an honor to have walked out with
Lillie any time.
Born the same year as the town,
Lillie could remember with clarity
incidents as far back as 1903, most of
which happened in the hotel. In 1910,
Ridgeway House had added a
theater marquee, in 1912, the
carpets. Gold framed paintings had
Traveler/24
been added shortly before the war.
Lillie closed her eyes when she
thought of the war and remembered
her mother had died that year, dur­ing
the terrible flu epidemic. Without
a wife, her father had no will to live.
He'd sat about, listless and depressed,
drowning his sorrows in liquor until
his liver failed him.
Any thoughts seventeen year old
Lillie had of going off to Drake Uni­versity
in Des Moines were dashed.
She'd had no choice other than man­aging
Ridgeway House. Her father
had seen the end coming, and he,
too, appreciated Lillie's natural flair
for business. According to provision
of his will, as long as she was able to
payoff the mortgage, Lillie could run
the hotel without the banker's super­vision.
Of course she'd done that.
For weeks the town had been agog
with speculation: who were the
twenty-five who would receive the
coveted invitations? Half in exasper­ation,
half in jest, Lillie said to her
head waitress, "I think I'll invite
twenty-five mannequins."
An ugly rumor began to circulate.
"They won't be from town. Lillie's
going to invite the twenty-five guys
she's shacked up with."
"Twenty-five? At her age? That's
an awful lot."
"Not so many, really," gloated
Homer Laidlaw. "Four a year since
she was eighteen would be twenty­eight.
Four times seven is twenty­eight.
You know how she's been
seen coming out of guys' rooms."
Of course she had ... the stories
were legend. If a man wanted to talk
she would sit on the edge of the bed
and listen, a sympathetic expression
on her clean, well scrubbed face. If a
traveling salesman needed a back
rub, there would be Lillie in her
starchy black and white uniform giv­ing
him a back rub. Several of the
salesmen had described her as a
beautiful nun.
There were traveling men who
attempted to get amorous with Lillie
but she warned, "Hands off, or I'll
pull my derringer."
An obstreperous fellow had not
been deterred. He rudely pulled her
toward him, saying, "It would be
worth it being drilled by your little
pop gun."
Lillie reached out, grabbed the
heavy earthenware pitcher and
bashed the man's head. Her scream
in the open doorway brought friends.
The salesman had been packed
up, his money refunded - except for
the cost of the broken pitcher - and
he'd been immediately banished.
Not a bad guy, really, he'd kept put­ting
out feelers to come back and
...
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three months later, after he knelt on
both knees in the lobby and begged
forgiveness, he'd been allowed to
return. Later that evening Lillie
swept into his room asking a favor.
"Would you hook the top button
on my dress?"
After the man had fumbled the
hook into the tiny eye, Lillie smiled a
"Thank you," and left.
The business had been built with
salesmen, providing for their com­forts.
Many of them would leave the
state capital on Monday morning,
stopping at towns that dotted the
prairie every eight or ten miles, and it
became a practice to end Monday
night at Ridgeway House. Others
made it Tuesday night or Wednes­day.
Afew of the men wanted to play
cards. Lillie set up a table in the
kitchen.
One night, Jake Simms, half of
Ridgeway's police force stalked in
and asked Lillie if there was a game.
Lillie led the way to the kitchen
and said, "Sam. Deal me a hand."
She put down a dollar and turned to
Jake. "If you arrest my guests, you'll
have to arrest me. As soon as we get
out of jail, I'm going to swear out a
warrant against every card game in
town, including some of the ladies
from the church who play on Wed­nesday
night."
While Jake swallowed, Lillie looked
at her cards. "Not bad, I think. Here,
Jake. I really don't know anything
about poker. I think you ought to
play this. I know you have to make
the rounds, but you'll have time for
just one hand. Remember, if you win,
you owe me a dollar."
A few minutes later Jake stopped
at the counter and repaid the dollar,
pocketing four, which was more
money than he made all day policing.
"My boys are never any trouble,"
Lillie said firmly.
She returned to the table. "Did
you boys fold?"
"We thought that's what you
wanted."
According to legend, that was the
night the house started taking a small
cut of the action. Through the years
one table had grown to two ... and
sometimes three.
The day Lillie put in the restau­rant,
townspeople shook their heads.
"It'll never work."
They didn't know salesmen had
expense accounts and before long
there were two dining rooms, and
Lillie brought in an out-of-town chef.
If salesmen wanted a New York
steak, they'd get it. Some of the regu­lars
began to order desserts they'd
"run across in New Orleans."
The original mortgage had been
paid off long before Lillie reached her
majority. By that time the town had
become grudgingly divided. When
Lillie learned the Greek man who ran
the ice cream parlor was having
problems, she announced, "No des­serts
tonight, boys. How would you
like to take me out for ice cream?"
They'd packed the ice cream par­lor
and left generous tips. Sometimes
Lillie would lead her troop to the
town's only movie house. On occa­sions
they all visited the dance hall.
Some of the young ladies who
clerked in the grocery stores had
gone stag, and when a couple of the
town's young men complained, Lillie
laughed. "If you can't beat the time of
these old duffers, you don't amount
to much."
A couple of her old duffers wore
tailormade suits and drove new
Packards, and had years to go before
they reached thirty.
Lillie knew if a problem ever pre­sented
itself it would surely arise
under her own roof. Using her pass
key she marched into a bedroom
where a salesman and a waitress
cavorted on the bed.
"Are you satisfied with the hotel's
service?" Lillie asked as the couple
scrambled to pull the sheet over
them. While the red-faced pair splut­tered,
Lillie went on, "I'm sure this
isn't a hotel service or I'd be required
to add two thousand dollars to your
bill. I'll place a do not disturb sign on
your door. I know you have things to
discuss ... politics, religion ... the
date for the wedding ... which part of
Traueler/25
our town you wish to live in. Of
course, we'll have the wedding
reception here ..."
At the reception the giddy sales­man
admitted, "You know what, we
did talk about religion and politics!"
If no one had thought of having a
wedding reception in the hotel
before, they certainly did after the
big affair that cost the local hard­wareman
plenty. He acknowledged
his neVI son-in-law was about as good
as his daughter could have acquired
around town ... and after all they
were living nearby. "And he has a
fine car."
"History," Lillie murmured as she
regarded herself in the mirror. "All
history." Is that what her life would
amount to? By 1950 when cars and
washing machines and radios would
all have newer models, she'd be
older. She'd be fifty. Life was passing
her by. In a way the hotel had
become an excuse. When eligible
young men around town asked her
to walk out, she'd pleaded her four
A.M. to midnight duties gave her no
time for fun. A lame excuse, she
knew. She'd had fun ...
She'd had fun, she told herself.
Her community sings with the boys
crowding around the piano were fun,
but there had to be more to life. More
for her. Perhaps it was time she took
'l vacation, drove her new Buick.
Time, she reflected - what it was
time for was to send the messengers
out with the invitations.
If you wish to spend a pleasant
evening with Lillie Hopkins, the
cost is an outrageous five
hundred dollars, but you will
walk away from the banquet
with a happy heart and as an
owner of Ridgeway House.
Kindly convey your reply to the
messenger.
There'd been a couple refusals.
After all, five hundred dollars
amounted to six months' wages for
cream can slingers and egg candlers,
but the heightened suspense of
receiving notes the morning of the
banquet only made the invitation
more attractive.
Traveler/26
Twenty-five men, attired in their
finest suits, sat around the big ban­quet
table. Lillie was charming. She
sang a couple songs. They drank fine
wine and dined on elegant steaks and
before dessert Lillie announced, "It
may be rude to interject business
into such a joyful occasion but Ihave
in my hand the deed to Ridgeway
House. I am no longer the owner.
You are. If you choose to drop your
names in a hat and draw a winner,
that is up to you. If you choose to be
partners, that is your choice. Excuse
me now, I must look after dessert."
Lillie stopped in the kitchen.
"Andre. I think the gentlemen will be
occupied for at least a half hour."
Lillie walked down the back stairs
without a backward glance. She
started the Buick into which she'd
already placed her bags. She flung
her purse on the seat beside her, a
purse containing $12,500 - at least
$5,000 more than Ridgeway House
would have netted at auction ­enough
for a new life, a fresh start
somewhere else.
She thought about it again and
again, and when she crossed the
border leaving the state, she knew
her life wouldn't change when she
reached San Francisco. There'd be
another hotel. The $12,500, along
with the money she had in the bank
would easily make a down payment.
There'd be a mortgage, and sales­men,
and conventions, and wed­dings
- but it would be a place
where not only a small segment of
the population met. This hotel would
be a meeting place for the nation.
No, for the world. It would be a really
splendid hotel. Maybe it would mean
buying a second rate hotel, then a
larger hotel, but she would do it.
When she had a truly elegant hotel
she knew what name it would bear.
She'd name it after her father who'd
taught her everything she knew.
Well, not everything, but he'd taught
her how to think for herself. Yes,
she'd name it for her father. She'd
call it the Mark Hopkins. 0
A POOR REQUITAL*
The letter came
with no return address
but in your hand
promising forgiveness
or at least understanding.
Now I keep it in my purse
with what I need
away from home.
It reminds me that
certainty and doubt
are Janus-faced
and punishes me
for forgetting fragility.
When the package came
I laid it on the table
wanting not to know
it held the gift I gave you.
Now I've taken it to someone else
to give away again.
I gave it to you, with love,
and could not keep
so concrete
a symbol of rejection.
* a compensation for a thing lost
or wanted - Hawthorne
Karen Edelstein
IN AMHERST
I hear you talk with Vinnie
outside the Door I've closed ­you
try to learn my secret,
and read my tangled verse -
I do not write of master
in the love I have with Him
for fear you'll understand my voice,
pass judgement on my sin -
I'll stay secluded here until
my time to Die -
but even then I'll pattern Truth,
and let you question why
I hide these years away from you,
and keep my white disguise -
I cannot let you see
what lights my Eyes.
Polly Harris
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fton~\utt
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Traveler/27
T raveler/28
GRANDPA
He was always around, he'd try to act gruff,
But his face would break in -a grin.
He delighted in teasing all of us kids,
Rubbing our faces with his chin.
His whiskers would tickle, we'd giggle and run,
Grandma would tell him to quit.
He liked to keep moving, couldn't sit still,
He was as ornery as one Grandpa can get.
In seventy odd years, he had full life,
Touched so many lives on the way,
Had a fine family, made them all proud,
Brought brightness to many a day.
But how I wish it could happen, if only once,
Just like I remember it, when ...
He'd give me one of those great big hugs,
And tickle my face with his chin.
Jeri Walker
THE WILLOW
The weeping willow sags sweeping at its past
Shifting its roots for something to last.
It takes all that nature gives
Yet it still weeps as it lives.
Robert A. Davidson
T raveler/29
Photography by Ednabelle Ganser
Layout by Brian Galvin
Written by Julie Goldstein
Traveler/3D
THE SPORT OF KINGS
The noble horse-man has trained,
worked and loved horses for over 5,000
years. It is originally a native of Cen­tral
Asia. The earliest records we have
of horses are stone tablets dated about
1400 B.c. These tablets show that the
Hittites, the dominant people of Asia
Minor from 1900 to 1200 B.c., trained
horses for sport as well as war. In about
800 B.C. the Assyrians used horses to
draw chariots for their lion hunts. The
early Persians used horses to playa
type of polo. By 400 B.C. the Greeks,
who were expert horsemen, wrote the
principles of horsemenship that we still
use today. In fact, from the ninth cen­tury
through the nineteenth century
horses had been an integral part ofour
social and ecological, daily lives.
Today, horses primarily remain for
sport. Horse racing, once the "sport of
kings" is now a multi-million dollar
competition that thrills the high roller
and the non-betting person alike.
There are basically two styles of
riding, English and Western. Both may
be found in Arizona. The easiest
distinction between the two is by
clothing and saddle. Western style
riders often wear "chaps", which are
seatless leather trousers that fit over
regular trousers. Chaps are designed to
protect the riders' legs from being
scratched by such things as shrubbery.
English style riders may be seen wear­ing
"jodphurs" which are long, tight­fitting
breeches that are designed for
comfort as well as protection.
The western saddle is distinguished
by a horn and "double girth" (two sad­dle
straps). The English saddle is more
padded, lighter and flatter. Jockeys,
jumpers and exhibitionists generally
use this type of saddle.
The horse is truly a diverse and
graceful animal and although for most
of us daily contact with him is limited,
man's love affair with the horse re­mains
as constant as it was 5,000 years
ago.
Traveler/31
Acreatiye arts magazineis animportant outlet
and often a first step. first time opportunitY for
artists to display their work. Inthis edition ofthe
Traveler, asinthe past. our staffstop prioritY was
to publishthe finest quality of poetry. prose. art-woWrki,
tahnindtphheoptOaggeraspohfYt.his magazine are the ef-forts
of the many different people enrolled at
Glendalecommunity College. from recent high
school graduates to those who haye returned to
formal education after yearsintheworld of work
and1 whoams pelmeaaskeidnwg.ith the amount and quality of
the submissions we receiyed this year. Unfor­tunately
risingproduction costs necessarily limit
the amountof space ayailableto publish more ar­tists.
1haye aimed at a balance of stylesandtypes
of SmpaetceiraialtlhsarnepkrsegsoenttoeMd.s. Fischer; Ms. Balogh;
Dr. HerlihY; Mr. Bayley. literarY adyis
or
; Ms.
Hamilton. art adYisor; andMr. Peterson. photo-gra1pwhYoualddvliiksoert.
o encourage studentsto participate
in next yea
r
'
s
production of the Trawler. It has
been a yaluable educational experience for me. 1
hope yoU enjoy reading it as much as 1 haye en-joyed
bringing it to you.