G.C.C. CREATIVE ARTS MAGAZINE
Spring 1985 Volume 18 G.C.C. Creative Arts Magazine
EDITORIAL STAFF: Jeri Walker, Karen Schanbeck, Diane Morey, Joanne Des Aillel; ART
DIRECTOR: Dorolhy M. Barney; PRODUCTION MANAGER: Shelly Hearn; COVER PHOTO:
Charles Brown; COVER DESIGN: Shelly Hearn; GRAPHIC DESIGN STAFF: SlIzie Lazzara,
B. Keilh Sewell; PHOTOGRAPHIC EDITOR: Ednabelle Ganser; STAFF PHOTOGRAPHERS:
Mark Zemnick, Karen Allender, Eric Shawl; TYPOGRAPHY: Cheryl Taylor, Jeri Walker, Karen
Schanbeck; PRODUCTION: G.c.c. Adverlising Al'l Sludenls; LITERARY ADVISOR: Conrad
S. Bayley; ART AND PRODUCTION ADVISOR: Mirla HamillOn; PRINTING: Runbeck and
Associates.
ART
Chris DiDomizio 1, 8
Juan Fernandez Cover 3
Maxwell Kaye 24
Jon Lindsay 25
Joe McWilliams 5
Sally Schmitt 11
ILLUSTRATION
Dorothy Barney 12
Shelly Hearn 2, 3
Suzie Lazzara 9, 10, 30, 31
B. Keith Sewell 21
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PHOTOGRAPHY
Karen Altender 20, 26
Teri Bliss 15
Ednabelle Ganser 28, 29
Kelly Holcomb 7, 14, 29
Jay A. Rice, Sr. Cover 2
Martha Schindler 23
Dr. Lee Springer 16, 17, 18, 19
Mark Zemnick 12, 13
PROSE
Christopher Fahrlander 9
Jerry Harper 6
Joy Marsh 2
Diane Morey 26
Karen Schanbeck 15
Jeri Walker 22
POETRY
Janet Davis 1
Jan Harrison 8
Sharon Hrebicek 21
E. A. Jones 21
Diane Morey Cover 3
Karen Schanbeck 14, 20
Bernita Stark 5, II, 19, 25, 28
Jonathan Sullivan 24, 28, 29
NON-FICTION
Michael Dwyer 30
Jeri Walker 16
Mark Zemnick 13
Published annually by G.C.C. English and Art Departments,
6000 West Olive, Glendale, Arizona 85302
©1985 The Traveler, Glendale Community College
OF OZ AND RAINBOWS
When the time arrives,
As it is sure to in everyone's life,
Will you recognize it for what it is?
The chance to throw caution and
Solitude away.
Far beyond the place where
The east wind blows,
Past Oz and the rainbow's end.
Will you give yourself
To the free and easy feeling of
Loving just for the sake of loving?
Maybe even welcoming the chance
To hurt.
Because to hurt means being
Alive once more,
The pain of love being sweet.
Will you notice the sunrise
Or the scent of the rose after
A soothing summer shower has passed?
The delicate color and shape
Of one petal
Means so much, and yet
Is not truly complete
Without the rest of the flower.
The winter of your dreams
Is fast coming to a close,
Can you see the spring around the corner?
Where tomorrow can be found
Fresh and alive.
It lies beyond the place
Where the east wind blows,
Past Oz and the rainbow's end.
Janet Davis
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Traveler/l
By Joy Marsh
Third Place Prose
The whole thing started so innocently.
We didn't know as we were
dropping our shoes and books all
over the house, and preparing to demand
rides all over town, that the
Mom we'd sent off to college and her
hospital volunteer work in the morning
was not the Mom we were getting
back at 6:30 in the evening.
Now, don't get me wrong, we've
got a pretty OK Mom, even if she is
an "individual:' That's Mom's word.
It means she does things that real cool
Moms don't do-like she's going to
college for real. The cool Moms go
to college and take Chinese cooking
or rug-weaving. Cool Moms don't insist
on curfews and junk like that.
Our mom ("our" being my two
brothers and me-I'm Kevin and I'm
11) is studying to be a nurse. She takes
these classes where she has to cut
things up. I guess we should have expected
her to go bonkers with all her
other strange ideas.
Anyway, we were going along
doing our thing while Mom was
meeting an old man who was a real
trouble-maker. This old man (Mom
explained all this when she got over
being bonkers) was brought to the
hospital cause he hadn't been eating
since his wife died. He told Mom that
his wife had taken care of everything
all their lives, and he didn't know how
to cook for himself.
So Mom gets home and Bobby
starts hollering for supper, and I need
a ride to basketball practice, and Gary
is dropping his shoes and stuff all
over the house right after Mom's just
picked his junk up. Mom is grum-
Travelerl2
bling as she picks up books and stuff,
gets a casserole out of the refrigerator,
and tells me to quit jumping around
and go get in the car so she can get
back by the time the casserole is done.
She is still grumbling when we are
waiting for the light at the corner.
I personally saw THE moment
when our Mom went bonkers. She
was sitting there, waiting and muttering
to herself, "Seems like I do
everything:'
It was like she'd been moving forward
full-speed and hit an invisible
wall. She got this strange look on her
face and started repeating, "Do
everything, I do everything" real soft
and spooky-like.
Well, that's when the trouble
started. The problem didn't show up
right away. It was about three days
before we began to suspect something
was haywire in our world. The daily
newspaper started staying on the
floor. Mom quit picking up our junk,
and we came in one day to find Dad
doing a sinkful of dishes.
We had a conference in my room
and decided to ask Mom if she was
sick or something. I was elected to ask
the question because I keep my room
the cleanest. (This was real important
and we didn't want her getting sidetracked.)
I went to Mom where she
was working at her desk and stood
real quiet where she could see me out
of the corner of her eye. I had to wait
about two minutes before her brain
came up for air.
"Yeh, Kev, what can I do for
you?" Mom says stretching.
"Well;' I say, "the other guys and
me-I were wondering if you're OK.
Like, you're not studying too hard or
you don't have a bug or something,
do you?"
Mom gives me a puzzled look
and says, "No, I'm not sick, Kevin.
You can report back that I'm just fine.
Is there some reason why you're asking?"
I kinda hemmed around a little
and finally mumbled, "Well, you're
just not doing things-around the
house-like you usually do~'
She gets this look on her face like
she just thought of a joke and says,
"I'm just fine, Kevin. If that's all, I've
got studying to do. Bye~' She winks
and waggles her fingers at me. I go
back and tell the other two guys that
Mom isn't sick. Now we don't know
what to think.
A couple of days later (by now
the weird stuff had been going on for
a week), we had another conference.
We were getting a little scared because
nobody had come into our room and
dug out our dirty laundry, the
newspapers were three inches deep in
the living-room, and there was a constant
supply of dirty dishes in the kitchen.
Mom was still feeding us but we
were getting worried.
Bobby found this article on the
front page of the newspaper about a
mom in Iowa who went on strike. She
told the paper she was tired of being
a household appliance. I didn't
understand that because Mom calls
things like the washing machine and
the crockpot appliances. We talked
about this for a while and the next
thing I know I got suckered into goin'
and askin' Mom if she's on strike.
She's at her desk again, typing
this time, so I have to tap her on the
shoulder so she knows I'm there. (I'm
smart. I wait till she has to stop for
a new sheet of paper.) Mom is smart
too because when she saw me she
said, "Oh, hi, Kevin. How are
things?" She had that funny smile on
her face again.
I decided to be direct. "Mom, are
you on strike?"
First, she bit her lip like I do
when I'm trying not to laugh in class.
Then she got this serious, thoughtful
expression and shook her head slowly.
"No, I don't think I'm on strike,
Kevin. What makes you ask?"
"Well-well, stuff around the
house isn't getting done, and there's
this story in the paper about a mom
who went on strike because she didn't
want to be a household appliance~'
Mom patted my arm. "I saw that
article. I guess she quit doing
everything. Right?"
"Right;' I said.
"Well, see;' she said, "I can't be
on strike. I washed my clothes, I
picked up my junk, I did a day's
worth of dishes, I picked up two day's
worth of newspapers, and, of course,
I fix supper every night. Obviously,
anyone who does all that can't be on
strike. Right? Got to get back to
work, Kev, bye~' And she goes back
to her typing-just like that.
Now, I'm completely stumped. I
told the guys what Mom said, and
Gary's response was he didn't know
what he was going to do if she didn't
do some of his laundry pretty soon.
He shouldna' asked because next day
when he started growlin' around
about "no clean clothes;' Mom offered
to give him lessons in the operation
of the washer and dryer. Gary
was absolutely floored. He was yelling
about how he couldn't run those
dumb machines, and that's when we
began to suspect how bad things were.
Mom HAD to be bonkers, cause
she says, real cheerful-like, "Well, kiddo,
I have an English paper to write,
so I guess you'll have to wear dirty
Traveler/3
clothes~' She had definitely gone
bonkers. And off she goes to her
desk.
We did not believe our ears.
Mom-Mr. Clean's hatchet mansaying,
"Wear dirty clothes~' She had
definitely gone bonkers.
The situation got worse-in a
hurry. Next night, Bobby does his
thing again--hollering for supper the
minute Mom walks in the door.
Mom looks at him very calmly
and says, "I'm actually not hungry.
I had supper with some of my friends
at the hospital. I guess you folks will
have to fend for yourselves~'
Away she walked and left three
starving sons with their mouths open.
The worst had finally happened-she
wasn't going to feed us. We were talking
about this in hushed, frightened
tones when Dad walked in.
"What's wrong fellows?" he
asked.
We all stared jabbering at once
that Mom was going to let us go
hungry. Maybe if we told, he'd make
her see reason.
"Now, calm down. Did she actually
say, 'Go hungry?' " He was being
awfully calm about it, seeing as
she wasn't going to feed him, either.
"Dad!" I wailed. "She's gone
bonkers-she said we'd have to fend
for ourselves~'
"Oh;' said Dad, sounding real
wise, 'fend for yourselves doesn't
mean the same as go hungry, does
it?"
We all quieted down to think on
that. Dad let us think for a couple of
minutes, then said, "Did any of you
guys check what's available in the
refrigerator?"
To tell the truth, it had never
crossed our minds. Dad led the way,
opened the door and we all stood
around checking out what there was
to prevent starvation. It wasn't as bad
as it could have been. There was
enough left-over stew for each of us
and baloney and some cheese.
"Well;' Dad said cheerfully, "this
looks pretty promising. Let's see what
else we can find~'
We checked the cupboards and
there was bread and some left-over
Traveler/4
biscuits in a plastic bag. The bread
was OK, but the biscuits were from
before Mom went bonkers, and they
were green. We got out the bread and
stew and lunch-meat, and by the time
everything was ready, including some
tomato soup for Bobby who won't eat
stew (he says he isn't eating anything
with little green and orange things
floating around in it), it looked
like we had overcome this crisis. The
only rough spot was Dad insisted we
clean up our own dishes. Do you suppose
bonkers is catching?
Next night we were all in a panic,
but a regular supper showed up on
the table, so we all breathed a sigh of
relief. Besides, I had a secret. Mom
can't pull that stunt on us any more
because now we know what to do. She
isn't so smart. As a matter of fact, I
was thinking about asking her to
show me some simple stuff in case
she's not hungry some· night when
there's no left-overs. I'm pretty slick,
I am.
Things went along and now were
coming up on two whole weeks of
craziness. As if craziness wasn't bad
enough, Gary had been wearing the
same socks for two weeks plus, and
we couldn't stand the smell anymore.
I mean it was worse than a rainy week
at Boy Scout camp and the locker
room at school combined.
Finally, Bobby and I had to do
something to save our noses so we
ganged up on Gary and begged him
to go ask Mom for those washer and
dryer lessons. He agreed. I don't think
it's because we asked him though. I
think it's because some girls at the bus
stop were holding their noses and
pointing at him. He went to Mom
quiet and shy-like. He was afraid she
might have changed her mind. He
needn't have worried. She was really
nice and friendly. She told him about
keeping blue things and white things
apart, and how much soap to use, and
all that stuff. I hung around while she
was saying all this stuff in case I ever
needed to know how to do my laundry.
Gary got his stuff washed with
no problems, our noses were safe and
Gary's social life was rescued.
I'd been congratulating myself
that I had escaped the worst of all this
when I asked for a ride to Joey
Lopez's house. Mom said, "Lopez,
Lopez. They live about five blocks
away. Right?"
"Right, Mom;' I say not suspecting
anything was coming. Instead of
going for her keys and purse, she went
to the back door and stood there
looking out. I was watching her and
she was tilting her head first to one
side then to the other. Then she came
in and headed not for her purse, but
for her desk.
"Mom!" I hollered. "What are
you doing? What were you looking
at?"
Mom had her glasses on by now
and she looked at me over the top of
them. "I'm going to study, Kevin.
What does it look like? I was looking
at your bicycle, and it appears
everything is in working order-it is
all in working order isn't it?"
I wasn't sure what she was after,
but I said, "Yes, the bicycle works
fine~' Then suddenly, I caught on. She
wanted me to ride myself over to
Joey's on my bike.
I went out the back door and instead
of taking right off, I sat down
on the back steps. I started thinking
about all the things that had happened
since Mom had gone bonkers.
Do you suppose she was up to
something all this time? We sure had
to learn about doing a lot of stuff for
ourselves. Nothing had really been so
bad. Now you take this idea of hers
that I ride over to Joey's on my bike.
That's a great idea. Now I won't have
to wait till she's done with her
homework or anything. Gee, maybe
I wouldn't even have thought about
that-if Mom hadn't gone bonkers.
I'm pretty slick I am. 0
Glass goblet on the table,
broken by the fall of time.
Pieced together lovingly
with, here and there,
a shard wrongly placed
or a hole
where some splinter went astray.
No longer perfect,
yet more precious for the flaws.
-memory
Bernita Stark
Traveler/5
By Jerry Harper
First Place Prose
Peals of laughter lilted skyward through the thatched
palms as Chang bounced his baby son and gingerly held
his tiny pink hands. His daughter Kim squirmed between
them to bask in her father's love. Children all vie
for their father's attention but much more so when they
know he will be going away.
"Father, I want to go with you this time to kill the
dragon in the south;' said the little girl bravely.
Chang laughed and tousled her ebony hair, teasing
her for such a silly idea. "I will be busy enough without
a child to look after.' He gently cupped her pouting face
in his hand.
"You may get your chance to fight the dragon, my
flower, but when you are older, fifteen years at least. You
are only six! Dragon would puff you away like dandelion
seeds~'
He puffed his breath into her mussed hairl bringing
back her grin. He laughed again but it trailed away as a
glimpse of his wife's anxiety-lined face reminded him of
his impending departure. In an hour he would rejoin his
unit for another combat expedition. Three months, maybe
six, he would be gone into the southern region to deal
death to the foreigners who were sucking his nation's
wealth like a great leech.
Chang hated this war that took him away from his
family. He longed to be a father to his children and a husband
to his wife. But he knew in his heart that as long
as the foreigners remained in his land, his home would
be in jeopardy.
He remembered the voice of Uncle Ho on the radio,
"...we will never lose until we stop fighting.... We will never
stop fighting.... Our enemy will one day realize this and
he will tire:'
All too soon, the temple bell signaled assembly of
the village detail. Chang hugged his son one last time and
bent to kiss his daughter whose tears were coming in torrents.
He held his wife's head in his hands and gazed into
her worried eyes.
"Come back to me, my husband;' she said with
quavering voice. She turned quickly to hide her disgrace.
Only the wife of a dead soldier may cry.
Chang reached for his rifle but had to set it down
again to gently remove his daughter's clutching fingers
from his trousers.
Traveler/6
"Take care of your brother, my flower,' he said to her.
"I'll come back to you soon~' Kim buried her tear-streaked
face in her mother's skirt.
Chang took a few steps up the road, then turned for
a last look at his family. How much his daughter looked
like her mother as they stood clinging to each other in
the doorway. Kim raised her hand from her eye to wave
good-by. His son sat on the dirt floor gawking up toward
the women with a puzzled look, then out to his father.
Chang shouldered his rifle and turned painfully toward
his duty.
Minutes later, the countryside was filled with men's
voices in patriotic song as the column of soldiers marched
out from the village. Ten minutes of rice and bamboo
brought them to the top of the hill that would put the
village out of their view.
Chang glanced back for one last look at the peaceful
village nestled between the rice paddies and the levies of
the great river. Eight miles up the river, the smoke was
rising lazily from the factories in Hanoi. Above the dusty
brown of the city, the sky was clear blue except for some
thin streaks of high white clouds.
He turned back to his march, then suddenly stopped
and spun around to stare wide-eyed at the high clouds.
The disrupted column of soldiers looked to see the object
of Chang's awful gaze.
The white clouds were creeping over them like the
fingers of a huge skeleton hand. Bright spots of yellow
light were blossoming distant on the river. Thunder arrived
from the city as the B-52's fluffy white trails passed
straight overhead.
The booming fireballs were stomping up the river
toward them like an angry giant. The terrified soldiers
looked on in horror as the last 2,OOO-pound bomb
intended for the dikes on the Red River slammed into the
helpless village.
Chang's scream was drowned by the deafening blast
as the shock wave knocked the men to the quaking
ground. As the rumble died away, earth and stones
showered around them.
A giant ball of smoke raced skyward from where the
village had been. Fragments of their fragile world floated
lightly earthward like the seeds of a dandelion blown by
a child. 0
Travelerl7
Second Place Drawing by Chris DiDomizio
Traveler/8
Jan Harrison
<fl~T fDWft@
By Christopher Fahrlander
!/Ius/ra/ion by Suzie La~zara
"Death would be wonderful right noW:' Abbot Edward
thought dreamily as he watched the sky. "It offers so
many good rewards;' he thought, "and since I've lived a
full, honest, and clean life, it seems only fair that I should
be laid .to rest. It would be a gift for good conduct, so
to speak. He would take me by the hand and lead me to
Heaven's gate. Death would be such a blessing now... ~'
Then, a terrible thought occurred to him. "What if
I should go to Hell? It is possible, if only because of my
temper.' He looked out his courtyard window and saw
several of his fellow monks out weeding their vegetable
garden. "Brother ZacharY,' he thought silently. "I had no
right to get angry with him. He wasn't shirking any
of his responsibilities, and I knew it. The rain has
prevented any gardening. That is why the
weeds are so tall now. So many other
misunderstandings, and I can never
manage to say I'm sorry"
The Crucifix, which was hung lovingly
on the otherwise bare wall, was
one of two adornments to this
room. The other decoration was a
pot of geraniums Edward had
brought with him when he'd
entered the Monastery some
twenty-odd years ago. The
morning's sunlight sprayed across the geraniums, across
the bare, wooden floor, and onto the single cot pressed
up against the wall. The cot was covered by an old, battered
brown blanket that had been used for many years.
All in all, it was exactly what it should have been, a poor
brother's room.
The motion of his favorite tree, its bare arms rippling
in the breeze, awoke him from his reverie, and Edward
watched it, with love in his eyes. That old tree had
lasted every year, flowering pink blossoms and spreading
its secret fragrance across the courtyard to Edward's window,
every year since Edward had been here. The tree had
never had a disease and had never suffered drought, due
to Edward's careful ministrations. Now it was a fullfledged
tree, well beyond its expected age, and Edward was
sure that it would survive him easily.
The sound of a knock came from the door, and Edward
conceded permission to enter. When Edward noticed
Brother Zachary's frame, he smiled and said, "Come in,
Brother ZacharY.'
Zachary smiled. "I see that you're finally up;' he said.
"The Deacon will be pleased. Do you feel well? Can I
get you anything?"
Zachary looked worried and tired. It showed only
slightly in his eyes, but Edward caught it. "What a
thoughtful felloW:' he thought graciously.
"Of course I'm okay. Did you think I would be in
mortal danger? I sleep well and deep, and have never been
known to fall out of my cot, you knoW:' said Edward
facetiously. Zachary flinched, and then turned his head
to the window.
"What's the matter, Zachary?" said Edward. "Are
you worried that I might yell at you again?" Edward rubbed
his hands across his face in a downward motion. "I
want to apologize about that. I had no right to yell at you
for something that you can't help. It was my temper flaring
over. Will you forgive me?" Zachary looked at
Edward, his face registering confusion and his eyes
uncertainty. "Hmmm..:' thought Edward, "I thought that
I had a bad memory"
"Forgive me, Abbot, but I don't quite remember what
you're talking about. Does your head hurt?"
Edward spoke. "Why are you worried
about my head, Zachary? What are you
hiding?"
Zachary turned, and a moment later
turned back to Edward. "You were involved
in an accident. Don't you
remember?"
Traveler/9
Edward thought back, and remembered that he'd Later that afternoon, Brother Zachary was at the Ab-been
walking down the courtyard when a tenor voice bot's desk, sitting in the wooden chair and working on
called out, "Look out!" A sharp pain at the back of the some papers that would send Abbot Edward to Bermuda.
head was the last thing he remembered. He reached up One of the yonger brothers, named Bartholomew, entered.
into his brownish-gray hair and felt a slight bump on his He walked up to the desk.
head, a few inches from his left ear. "Brother Zachary, we have a problem. It's the Abbot~'
"How long?" he muttered, still rubbing his scalp. "Oh! I almost forgot the old geezer,' said the tenor
"Three days, four hours, so far,' said Zachary quietly. voice of the ex-officio Abbot. "I'm sorry, BarC' Zachary
A winter wind blew through the flowering tree into the got up and started for the door, but Bart caught his arm.
room, and Zachary prepared to close the shutters. He looked into Bart's face and saw a tear forming in his
"Wait:' said Edward quickly. He looked out and saw left eye, which was grey, like a dreary day.
the tree flowering as it had all summer. "That's impos- "He's dead;' whispered Bart. The tears broke, and
sible:' he thought, as he closed the shutters himself. "It's Zachary held him closely.
the middle of winter.' "It wasn't your fault, Bart:' consoled Zachary's light
When he turned around, Zachary had lowered his tenor voice, a half-understanding, half regretful smile tug-head,
schooling his expression to one of complacency. "I'll ging insistently on his lips. He looked out the door, and
want to take my usual walk today. Will you accompany saw the tree outside, waving its bare arms in the cold
me?" Zachary nodded, closing the door as he took his November breeze. The thousands of paper blossoms had
leave of the room. blown off the tree, and Zachary smiled harder. He
Edward went to the cot and lay down. "Three days?" remembered the weight of the brick and the height of the
he thought, his arms folded under his head. A shadow roof as he moved his gaze from the tree to the cobblestone
crossed the window, and Edward looked up. In a still, walkway. "It's going to snow soon:' he thought as the
silent moment, he gave his last breath, and then passed clouds encroached overhead. "We'd better harvest the
on, his eyes peacefully closed. crops soon~'
His spirit glowed from inside itself. He looked back Zachary failed to notice the last, brown, shrivelled
and saw his body, lying on the bed, arms under his head, blossom, which had finally dropped off and left the dy-and
he smiled. He and the angel passed the tree, covered ing tree to the cold day.D
with the pink blossoms that Edward had loved so well. \~/. ~ (1, ~ ~~ ~ e
~~O~~ ~~~~~ ~ ~
~ \ ~ ~
~(V
Traveler/10
SHADOWPLAY
I
."",. Resolute, he hunches there
within the encroaching brush., .
Weapon grasped firmly in grimy hand~
he sights his victim; his enemy.
A solitary bead of sweat fends its way\
slowly to his eyes. ,
II
She is unaware of him
as her thoughts are more tuned
to the rose bed she weeds.
BANG!
She whirls and sees it all ~gain
in myriad visions of
terror and gore;
twisted minds
twisting bones I
and death stacked up like h~y.
III
She breaks apart the tree branch gun
and shakes
and shakes
and shakes her son.'
Then weeps,
because she cannot break
ALL
the branches in the world.
Bernita Stark
First Place Poetry
Traveler/II
Traveler/12
CERAMICS
Photographs and story by
Mark Zemnick
"Ceramics certainly helps to
humanize people:' claims Robert Lundeen,
who has taught the subject at
G.c.c. for twenty years.
Lundeen says that he advises
first-semester students not to have
unrealistically high expectations of
themselves and their rate of progress.
"It can be a very frustrating experience
for some people, especially
for the perfectionists;' according to
Lundeen. But for those who have or
who learn patience, ceramics can be
a totally satisfying experience. Taking
simple clay, forming a vision, and
then molding it into a finished product
can be a rewarding, fulfilling
activity.
Coordination of the mind, the
eye, and the hand into an individual
creation, which is an expression of the
Self, makes ceramics a uniquely
humanistic experience for students of
all ages.
Traveler/ I3
A WOMAN'S RIGHT
A little child-like fetus
Lay on a table of white
A quiver. ..
A jerk...
And then he died.
The knife is so brutal
The cut is too deep
A sorrow...
A tear. ..
Then forever the guilt.
Would he have been famous
Like Shakespeare or Dante
Or Pasteur...
Or Salk...
Or just an ordinary man?
These questions keep coming to mind
Wondering and wishing that I
Were stronger...
Were wiser...
And had that babe in my arms.
Karen Schanbeck
Third Place Photography by Kelly Holcomb
Traveler/14
\
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\
Traveler/IS
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Photo by Teri Bliss
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. •• "
• • By Karen Schanbeck • •
The bedroom was softly bathed in a
pallid light as the moon shimmered
through the sheer curtains, casting
eerie shapes against the wall. The woman lay
listening to the gentle rustling of the leaves as a quiet
breeze slipped through the trees. She felt the easy
breathing of her husband sleeping peacefully beside her.
She heard the faint click of the front door when it
opened. Quietly she slipped the covers from her and slid
out of bed. Walking silently she crept to the head of a
large circular staircase, listening carefully but hearing
nothing. The thick green carpet felt rich and silky under
her feet as she started slowly down the stairs, scanning,
seeking any movement. Halfway down she saw it. At the
end of the curved staircase was the red end of a cigarette,
its owner lost in the gloom of the night. She stood
transfixed while the intruder inhaled his cigarette, the glow
slightly outlining his thin, tight lips. Her legs trembled
and took root as her heart hammered against her ribs.
She knew he was there to hurt her. The dryness in her
mouth made sound of any kind from her impossible. She
saw him come slowly to the bottom of the stairs and look
up at her. Terror filled her soul as well as her body. Silent
screams shrieked through her mind.
As the intruder started up the stairs, motion returned,
she could move again. She screamed and fled to the sanctuary
of her bedroom.
"Honey! Honey! Wake up! You were dreaming. Wake
up, dear.' Strong arms wrapped around her, stilling the
terror. He gently rocked her, crooning small words of love
and comfort until the sobs subsided.
"Are you OK now?" She nodded and wiped the tears
away with the back of her hand. "Go back to sleep, dear.
It was only a nightmare:'
She lay looking at the ceiling trying to overcome the
backwash of panic that had gripped and dominated her
soul. The only sound, the muted ticking of the clock as
it echoed her slowing heart beat, and then she heard itthe
faint click of the front door opening.D
A silhouette oj loneliness.
No generation gap here as they share
a mug oj beer.
Traveler/16
J~~g
Life on the Seine
Photos by Dr. Lee Springer
Written by Jeri Walker
First Place Photojournalism
Stroll along the Seine, wander the
narrow alleys or boulevards of this
elegant city, and you absorb the vitality
of an "incredible societY,' reflects
Dr. Lee Springer, psychology instructor
at Glendale Community College.
Springer recently spent 15
months studying French psychology
care. He worked with hospitalized
leukemia patients to learn about communications
with the terminally ill.
During his stay, he combined two
avocations and took"a thousand pictures"
relating to the use and abuse
of alcohol. He is extremely interested
in the causes of alcoholism.
As his photo collection expanded,
so did his love for Paris and its
people-the ancient structure of
Notre Dame, the graceful Eiffel
Tower, the famous Pompidou Center,
the brilliant gardens, but most of all
the people.
In the Parisians he found "great
conversationalists:" warm, friendly
people who inconvenienced themselves
to be helpful; lively, vibrant,
social people, who were extraordinarily
kind and patient with
their children.
"I want to go back;' Dr. Springer
concluded. "I just like to walk the
streets. There is so much history, so
much atmosphere:'
His only friend. (above)
As seen from the Elffel Tower, a sister to the Statue of
Liberty, serves as a beacon on the Seine. _ ..........iwml!!!ll!!!itf'
Art nouveau lattice creates a three-dimensional effect.
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An invitation to Sunday afternoon
tea and readings, in the "inner sanctum,
" is a rare prize from this world
famous bookstore. (above)
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This majestic, spur adorned gargoyle
guards a castle north oj Paris.
/1 I, , IA
I I r I J I
I f I', It
t' I
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N\o
My mother and I
Are the very best friends.
We love each other dearly
And that always lends
A remarkable feeling
That's hard to define.
It's an affection that's sealing
One of a kind.
Never, not once, not ever
Has she condemned or shamedAlways
just helpful and loving
She was there minus the blame.
No amount of words can repay
For the making of my life.
She taught me to live my own way
To overcome strife.
The strangest thing of all
Is she thinks she has failedThis
loving and good woman
Whom her children have hailed
As the very best of mothers.
A mother's greatness does not begin
With the achievements that her children win
But when as parents they become her twin.
Traveler120
Poem by Karen Schanbeck
o
BUT NOT AT DAWN!
I am not a morning person;
And I am here to say,
"Alarm clocks would be outlawed
If I but had my way!"
Then-
Every rooster e'er did crow;
Mind, 'tis but a thoughtWould
be very neatly lined up
And ceremoniously shot. ..
But not at dawn!
E. A. Jones
Third Place Poetry
Dancers can lose physique
Artists may lose steadiness of hand
And they say, "How unfortunate!"
But if a writer loses his mind0
They say that he is great.
Sharon Hrebicek
o
Traveler121
~------------------------------------------- - ----
BY JERI WALKER
The rain mingled with Kevin's tears, streaking
his face, as it ran in muddy, little rivulets
off his chin. The Dirt Hills, once
his favorite haunt, were deserted and still. Laced
with bicycle trails, they normally echoed with the
exuberant yells of adventurous boys and girls as they raced
around the magnificent playground.
The once junk-cluttered land had been the sore spot
of the neighborhood for quite some time when Kevin and
his dad had discovered it, four years ago on his sixth
birthday while looking for someplace safe from the traffic
and softer than the asphalt. Within six months, kids
of all ages had pitched in to clean up the entire three acres.
With the owner's permission, the help of the older boys,
and a small tractor, his dad had even constructed a motocross
track and customized some of the hills. Best of all
was "Headquarters;' a special place at the back corner,
along the irrigation canal where the property touched Mr.
Henderson's pasture. At sentry, stood a giant cottonwood
tree that had been offering shade from the Arizona sun
for at least one hundred fifty years.
A loud clap of thunder from the March shower didn't
faze Kevin as he stared bleakly at the shiny, new motocross
bicycle he straddled. He inhaled sharply as he slid off the
seat and began to peddle furiously around the track; faster
and faster, jumping and sliding until he and the bike were
both covered with mud.
"You lied, you lied, you lied;' he sobbed with only
the steady, desolate cadence of the rain to answer him.
The wind began to gust and the rain intensified, stinging
his skin, as his small drenched body shivered. Kevin, lost
in his anguish, was not oblivious to the elements, but
somehow, he welcomed the discomfort. He slowed as he
approached the final hill, the steepest and most
treacherous. He nearly stopped but suddenly shook his
head and pumped the bicycle wildly up the slimy incline
to The Peak.
From the lofty peak he could see the entire area, including
Headquarters, at the opposite end. He knew the
view well, for sometimes alone, but more often with his
dad, he had walked up here, watched, and pretended. Now,
the fact that he had ridden up here alone, in the mud and
rain, barely registered. "We'll save The Peak until you're
ten;' his dad had always cautioned, "then we'll do it
together.'
"That's how we did everything, together, and now
Traveler/22
this;' Kevin muttered bitterly. "Well, who needs you
anyway,' Kevin screamed, then thrust himself forward,
down the steep, twisting track. As he gained momentum,
the back tire slipped around and Kevin slid, out of control.
"Kevin? Kevin boy, wake up. Are you all right?"
Kevin's head was roaring and his body trembled with
cold and pain, as he forced his eyes open. "Dad? Oh Dad,
you're here. You're really, really here~'
"And just where else should I be on my son's tenth
birthday?"
"They said you wouldn't be here. Did you see me,
Dad? I made it up The Peak by myself and, well, I sort
of made it down:'
"I was watching, Kevin, you did just fine. Take it easy,
Son, we'll get out of this rain:' Effortlessly, he lifted Kevin
and cradled him to his chest, while his body shielded the
boy from the rain. His long legs quickly carried them to
the shelter of the ancient cottonwood. The knoll under
the spreading branches was dry, and the man wrapped him
in his large, warm jacket, holding him close. He gently
cleaned the large gash on his head. "How do you feel,
Son?"
"Better, Dad, really, I feel fine. Where have you been?
I've missed you so much and Mom told me you would
never be back~'
"I had to leave, Boy. 1 didn't want to and I missed
you, too, but it couldn't be helped. Please believe I love
you, Kevin~'
"I love you too, Dad~'
They sat and talked in their special place for what
seemed several hours, laughing over old adventures and
remembering wonderful days they had shared, many in
this very spot. The sun finally peeked out from the clouds,
late in the afternoon, warming the air and encouraging
a brilliant display of rainbows. And as the stars began
to dance, Kevin decided that it had been, in spite of his
mishap, a wonderful tenth birthday.
Finally, squeezing him close and brushing a quick
kiss on Kevin's forehead, the man stood. "Well, Son, it's
getting pretty late, and I'm certain I heard your mother
calling you. I had better get going, too~'
"Dad, why do you have to go? Please stay with me.
You promised we'd always be together.'
"And we will, Kevin, you are always with me. Just
remember and I will be with you. I hear your mother
again, Kevin. You hurry home now. I love you~'
Honorable Men/ion Photography by Martha Schindler
"Dad, don't leave me. Please, I need you. Dad! Dad!
Dad!"
"Kevin, wake up, Son. Please, God, I can't lose him.
Kevin, can you hear me? Kevin, please wake up:'
"Mom? Mom, why are you crying? Where are we?"
"Oh, Kevin, thank God;' his mother sobbed as she
frantically rang for the nurse. "I've been so worried about
you. You had a bad fall from the cottonwood tree:'
Kevin could only shake his head. A gentle smile
slowly came to his lips.
"Just remember.....and I will be with you:'D
Traveler/23
Mon amour dort. ..
La fenetre me donne sa belle
S'epaule doux et blanche.
Traveler/24
My love sleeps ...
The window gives me her beauty...
Her soft white shoulder.
] onathon Sullivan
i
I
I have found a field of stones.
And upon each stone
a face there lies,
so well crafted
as to seem-alive...
I have found an empty stone.
And upon the stone
devoid of lies
I carve a face
devoid of
eyes ...
I shall not leave the field of stones.
And within my stone
my soul will lie
so well hidden
as to never
die...
Bernita Stark
Traveler/25
Traveler/26
Story by Diane Morey
Judd Brown isn't a large manactually
rather small among his peers.
His dusty chaps cling to bowed legs
as he stands beside the campfire.
Sparks fly while he and the others use
the flames for a spittoon. Spurs clank
I
and the coffee dregs slosh in tin cups
as the men trade stories of the day's
ride.
Only Judd is silent. His sooty
eyes look skyward watching the moon
slowly traverse the starlit pathway.
Judd Brown has seen many a night
just like this, only tonight seems different.
The stars are brighter, the
moon closer, even the owl's hoot is
louder. Maybe-he thinks-he's just
getting too old. Maybe there's
something more than chasing bawling
calves.
"Hey. Judd;' Lance slaps him on
the back, "cat got your tongue?"
Judd takes a slow sip of the
lukewarm coffee, careful to put his
snuff to one side of his mouth.
"Lance, if you ain't got nothin' good
to say, then you best keep your mouth
shut:' Judd deliberately pushes the
younger man aside as he throws the
remainder of the black liquid into the
fire. "And I ain't got nothin' good to
sai'
The younger man shrugs his
shoulders and sinks into the shadows.
The old cow-boss's temper is up, and
the others know now is not the time
to test it. They've heard stories of his
younger days, and even though his
reflexes are slower, they're not about
to challenge him.
The wrinkled cowboy meanders
over to the picket line and slips his
Appy a sugar cube. "Time for us to
retire, Crackerjack. These old bones
ain't gonna take much more:' The old
horse nickers in agreement as Judd
stuffs a fresh wad of chew in his cheek
and leans against the gnarled oak
used as an anchor for the picket. He
turns his head toward the muffled
voices flowing through the pine
boughs. "Listen to those young'uns
over there-they've got a lot to learn:'
The old man spits on the dry earth.
They're nothin' but young colts
kickin' up their heels. Think the
whole world's just one big pasturetheirs
for the takin' :' He slips the
stallion another treat. "We know better,
don't we?" He pats the spotted
rump of his loyal companion and
removes his bedroll from the saddle.
"They'll learn-but I just ain't got the
patience anymore:'
The old man throws his bedroll
on the cold ground and eases his
reluctant body onto it. Another night
under the stars-used to be a
pleasure, used to be a feeling of
freedom, but now it's just another
night for Judd Brown to endure. The
cool night air nipping at his painful
joints gives him no peace, but finally
sleep helps the pain to fade.
He begins to dream. He dreams
of two mischievous boys riding their
ponies across the plains. Of a young
man returning from war with his
brother in a pine box. He dreams of
a pristine-white chapel filled with
happy faces. Of a young woman's
frame stained with the blood of a
stillborn child. Of a flaming inferno
consuming everything in its path. Of
three marble statues-one larger than
the others. Then he dreams no more.
As dawn arrives sending ribbons
of violet and pink upward, the others
turn the old man's horse out to
graze.D
Traveler/27
Traveler/28
Grey clouds thwart the moon
with softness ... then release her.
The night is twice blessed.
Jonathon Sullivan
Second Place Poetry
To touch the stars,
the body must fly.
To know true love,
the heart must cry.
To conquer fear,
the will must try.
To escape from pain,
the soul must die.
-proverb
Bernita Stark
By Michael Dwyer
Second Place Prose
She came of age in 1916-the
embodiment of contradiction.
She moved with a grace and
elegance that reflected her love ofthe
sea and sky. Hers was the life of a
sailor andfor hundreds ofsailors she
was their life.
She would call them family
and many a boy would become a
man underneath her watchful eye.
To them she would offer both
the adventure of survival and the
nightmare of death. Death authored
by the 12 demons she could unleash
at will. Death that was the basis of
her very creation.
She was both death and life. She
was a ship. The battleship USS
ARIZONA.
OAHU, Hawaii-On Dec. 7,
1984, under a moon of yellowed ivory,
our military van slowly stopped
beside the gatehouse. The guard, a
young Marine in yellow rain gear,
hastily saluted and waved us on.
After parking within the fenced
compound, we unloaded. Checking
and rechecking our uniforms, we
Traveler/30
prepared to assemble. Our formation
was quick and mechanical.
Once again we were reminded of
our duty as officers and our purpose
for being here.
We were representatives of our
country and our home state. We were
the Arizona Delegation.
On Dec. 7, 1941, the atmosphere
of Pearl Harbor was one of peace.
For the men of the USS ARIZONA
it was also a time of celebration.
Their ship band had won second
place in a naval competition held the
night before. For this, the members
were given the privilege of sleeping
late.
The rest of the ship was at onequarter
alert.
Hatches, covered by storm
tarps, lay open. The ammunition
lockers were bolted. Only one boiler
was in operation. Afterall, there were
no plans to get underway.
Not on Sunday.
The patchwork of clouds
overhead slowly melded into a
flawless gray blanket cloaking the
harbor in an eternal twilight. As we
marched in formation to the shore,
our standard snapped and popped in
the wind rising off the sea.
We stopped on a small finger of
land, covered with grass and dotted
with palm trees that thrust into the
harbor. A silence born of sorrow and
pride held the eight of us in its arms.
It was 6 a.m.
Some 275 miles north of Pearl
Harbor, six Japanese aircraft carriers
steamed forward, primed for action.
Their flight decks were filled with
readied fighters and attack planes.
The flying crews anxiously
awaited orders in the briefing room.
As the task force closed within 230
miles of their objective, the order to
launch was given.
Like birds released from some
aviary, planes began to leap skyward
from the carriers. A total of 183
planes would be in the first assault.
It was 6 a.m.
As we passed the gull splattered
rocks that lined the mouth of the
small inlet from which our launch
departed, an air of awe fell over the
passengers.
The harbor was filled with the
hulking gray behemoths of naval
ships. To all sides of us were those
things characteristic of a military harbor.
With such surroundings, it was
not hard to imagine what the harbor
was like 43 years ago. But the destruction
that was wrought on that day
could never be recreated.
Never, except in the minds of
those men who had survived.
At 7:55 a.m., just as Pearl Harbor
was coming alive for a quiet Sunday
morning, the Japanese assault
began. Within 30 minutes the power
ofthe U.S. Pacific Fleet was, with the
exception of its aircraft carriers,
destroyed.
And within thefirstfew minutes
of the attack, 1,176 men were entombed
forever within the steel-lined
bowels of the USS Arizona. An aerial
bomb had penetrated and detonated
her forward magazine.
Most of the men died before
they even knew whom they were
fighting.
A ship's bell rang. It was 7:55
a.m., the same time that the Japanese
attack began 43 years ago.
A guided missle frigate slowly
sailed past the USS Arizona
memorial. Its crew, clad in white
uniforms, lined the deck. When it was
directly beside the memorial, they all
rendered a hand salute.
Overhead three jet fighters flew
past in a "missing man" formation.
This was their own way of recognizing
and honoring the dead.
Many wept openly as they stood
over the deck of the Arizona.
For two days after the attack,
the USS Arizona burned. When it
couldfinally be boarded, it was considered
a total loss. It was decided
recovery operations would be too
dangerous, so the men who lay below
were left undisturbed.
In time the superstructure was
cut away and a memorial was built
over the hull. She was, contrary to
popular belief, decommissioned.
However, in respect for the
dead, she was allowed to forever
moref/y the Americanf/ag. In tribute
to her, no other ship will be named
Arizona.
Our delegation snapped to attention.
As we stood over the deck of the
USS Arizona, our hearts were filled
with pride. For us she represented
more than a tragedy. The marble plaque
bearing the names of the dead
was more than a list to be mourned.
She was the confirmation of the
American spirit. She was the sacrifice
and the pride of our people.
As the senior ranking officer in
our group walked to the rail of the
memorial, the crowd became silent.
He dropped a single flower into
the water, which was covered by rainbow
patches of oil which still leak
from the Arizona. We then rendered
a salute and moved on quietly.
When we were back on shore,
one of the spectators asked me what
we had saluted on the memorial. Was
it the ship, or the men?
1 answered, with a new found
pride, "I saluted America." 0
First Place JIIustration by Suzie Lazzara
Traveler/31
OUR 1985
Special thanks from the staff go to Journalism Instructor
Ms. Gerri Fiedler and English Department Chairperson Ms. Jan
Boerner for their guidance and support; to Conrad S. Bayley,
Dr. Robert Johannsen, Dr. Marjorie Kyle, and Joy Wingersky
for judging literature; to Willis Peterson for judging
photography; and to Richard Hamilton for judging art and
illustration and for typography assistance.
Jeri Walker, editorial staff, attends
G.c.c. part-time studying journalism.
She is editor of the company
newsletter at Horizon Moving
Systems where she works in sales and
public relations. Jeri found working
on this year's Traveler, especially
typesetting, a rewarding experience.
Karen Schanbeck, editorial staff, is
a frame attendant for Mountain Bell.
A member of Phi Theta Kappa, she
is a part-time student interested in
creative writing. Her goal is to
become a published author.
Diane Morey, editorial staff, is a full
time wife and mother, while a parttime
student at G.C.C. She hopes to
exchange her career as a free-lance
legal secretary for that of free-lance
writer.
Joanne Des Autel, editorial staff, is
a second semester student pursuing a
career in journalism. Sports Editor,
last year, for the Greenway Demon
Dispatch, she hopes to work on
G.c.c.'s The Voice in the fall. She
speaks Russian and would enjoy being
a foreign correspondent.
Although unable to publish everything, we wish to thank all
of the contributors for the excellent, diverse material we
received.
Traveler/32
Dorothy Barney, Art Director, is a
second year student pursuing an A.A.
in Graphic Design. A designer on last
year's magazine, Dorothy worked
with great diligence and dedication to
make this year's Traveler a success.
Shelley Hearn, Production Manager,
is a third semester student at G.c.c.
who will be transferring to Arizona
State University this fall. She will be
working on a B.A. in Graphic
Design.
Ednabelle Ganser, Photography
Editor, is taking her fifth semester of
photography at G.c.c. Past president
of The Photo Club and photo
editor of last year's Traveler, she is
now taking graphic design and production.
Ednabelle is a horse trainer
who has taught riding for 20 years.
Suzie Lazzara, designer, is a parttime
student at G.c.c. whose goal is
a career in the field of commercial
art. She has taken classes in drawing
and graphic design and shared that
expertise on this year's Traveler.
B. Keith Sewell, designer, is a third
semester student majoring in
Graphics. He plans a career in
art/advertising and already has a
strong production background. Keith
also plays footba]] for Glendale Community
College.
Cheryl Taylor is a third semester student
pursuing her A.A.S. in Commercial
Art with a strong interest in
graphic design and typography. She
deserves special thanks for her
dedication and perseverance in
typesetting the Traveler because
without her it would not have been
accomplished on campus.
-------------------
DAWN
Each morn pink ribbons wrap the face of Earth,
a splendid time of half day, half night.
A phenomenon that never failsand
we sometimes wonder why.
Some claim it is God-given;
Others give credit to gravity.
But the pity isthat
most
question it not
at all.
Diane Morey
