"The Traveler" Glendale Community College Literary Magazine, 1987

              ",,
Spring 1987 Volume 20
GLENDALE COMMUNITY COLLEGE CREATIVE ARTS MAGAZINE
Published annually by G.C.c. English and Art Department 6000 West Olive, Glendale, Arizona 85302
\cl1987 The Traveler, Glendale Community College
Traveler Staff: Literary Co-Editors: Ellen Baker, Jeri Walker; Art Director: Sandra Cesena; Photography
Editor: Ed Cook; Assistant Art Director: Karen Dilgard; Assistant Photography Editor: Carl Collins; Production
Manager: Bonnie Crow; Literary Staff: Marsha Ingram, Jill Walterbach, Richard Catalano, Sharon Myers and
Dan Sabel; Graphic Designers: Meg Treon; Ron DeHart and Joette Jaguish; Cover Photograph: Rhonda Roehm;
Typography: Jeri Walker; Art and Production Advisor: Mirto Hamilton; Literary Advisors: Joy Wingerskyand
Jan Boerner; Photography Advisor: Dean Terasaki; Production: G. C. C. Graphic Art Students; Printing: Runbeck
and Associates.
Table of Contents
THE HIGH TECH CENTER Photojournalism
Story by Jeri Walker
Photography by Ed Cook and Jeri Walker
Education isJust a Byte Away _ _. 16
Non-Fiction:
The Mean and the Mannered - Detores Hmzney 13
The Tour - Virginia Brotherton _. _. _. . 22
Sculptor is Chisler, of Sorts - jeri Walker _. . . 24
Fiction:
Days of the Old, Days of the News - D. john Sabel 2
The Pigeons Tale - Mariana Evans 7
The Rats Tale - Mariana Evans 8
To Ava, Wherever You May Be - Peggy Huling 19
Sunday Visit - Rusty Van Patten ..... _... _. . 26
Poetry:
Cycles - Dana G. Vau/[hn . _. . . . . . . . . . . . . 6
The Vernal Walk - Don Lilly 10
Trouble in the Homeland - Arceejaye 12
Eloquence - Dolores]. jackson _. _. _. _. _. 15
Language Prerequisite Required - jeri Walker 20
How Much - jill Troup . _. __ . _. _. __ .. . 21
Epitaph - Dana Vaughn _. .. __ . _... _. _. _.. _. 31
Natives - Dolores]. jackson _.. __ . __ _. 32
First Car - Don Forrey _. _ _. _ _ 33
Art:
Drawing - Cindee Burton _ 2
Drawing - Marron Ward . _ _. _. _.. _. . . . . . . .. 5
Drawing - Pat Ziegler. _. . _. _. _ _ 10
Watercolor - Cindy Bontrager _ _ _. _. . . . .. 11
Illustration - joe Mc Williams. _. _.. _. . . . . . . . . . 12
Illustration - William Vondehl .. _. 13
Illustration - Ben Raffle . __ . __ . _.. _. 15
Illustration - Pat Ziegler . ....•... __ .. __ . _. 22-23
Illustration - joette jaguish _. _.. __ _. _. _ 32
Illustration - Mike johnson __ _. _ 33
Photography:
Rhonda Roehm _. . . . .. cover
jim Smith _. _.. _ _ inside front cover
Sandra Cesena _ _. . . . . . . . . . . .. 6
Carl Collins _. __ _.. _ _. _. _. _.. 6, 24
Russell Strong .............• _. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 6
Lee Springer _ __ . . . 7,29,31
Ed Cook _. _. _.. . _ 9,16,17,18,26
jeri Walker _.. _. _. _ _ 16,17,18
Denise Rohwedder _. _ _. _. . . .. 20
Momoe Mehta _. _.. _. _ _.....• _. .. 21
Gail Thompson . __ . _.. _ _ 25
* * • * •
The Traverler slaffwould like to thank the G.C.C_ adminis­tration
and faculty for their help and support for this year's
publication. Also, although we were unable to publish every­thing
we wish to thank all of the contributors for the excel­lent,
diverse material we received.
Travelerl2
,-
T he loud knocking sound is
what woke the Colonel from
his not-so-peaceful slumber.
His arthritis was taking control of his
bones, trying to break them, trying
to break him, even in his sleep.
He was a heavy set man and
carried a belly stretched from
seventy-two years' eating experience.
Remarkably, his hair had remained
red, while his friends of old were
either bald or covered with the gray
of their age.
1)----
The sunlight, sneaking in be­tween
the curtains, fiendishly il­luminated
his tired, wrinkled face,
bringing him fully to consciousness.
He rose from his antique rocker and
stretched his arms into the autumn
air. Then he curled his back until it
made a cracking sound.
This had been his mid-day nap
that he took every afternoon at the
same time. He was awake early for
some reason today.
He took a deep breath of the
fresh autumn air. In it he could taste
the essence of the leaves falling from
the trees and the winds that brought
forth the winter. He had been alive
for over seventy years, and the earth
was part of him, just as he soon
would be a part of it.
The Colonel led a sedentary
life-in bed at dusk and out of bed
at dawn, except for the midnight
walks he took when the pain inter­rupted
his sleep. He had no friends
or family to entertain him, not even
a pet. Sure, he had neighbors, but
rarely did they visit him (unless they
wanted to borrow something) and he
never visited anyone. Life was
tedious and there was always that
damned arthritis.
There was that knocking again.
It was coming from the front door.
Someone was responsible for waking
him early, and that someone was
standing where a welcome mat
should have been.
"I'll tell him where to put his
knocking," said the Colonel to
himself as he went to answer the
door. He painfully snapped his
D. John Sabel
overalls covering his red and black
flannel shirt, stuck out his chest that
used to be admired by women, and
made some faces until he found the
perfect one to frighten his visitor. He
opened the door fully, letting his
company (if you could call him that)
see what kind of man he was dealing
with.
"Yes?" he yelled impatiently.
There, on the porch of the Col­onel's
Victorian home, stood a man
holding a big black case. The man
was a neatly trimmed character,
perfectly outfitted in a brown three­piece
suit. Gold-rimmed glasses sat
distinctly on his nose, and looked as
if they were part of his face. Without
them he would appear incomplete. The
only thing unusual about the man
might be the mole that thrived on his
left cheek, out of which grew a single
hair that was almost an inch long.
"Sir, do you own a carpet?"
asked the man, who looked as if he
already knew the answer.
"Of course I do. Who doesn't?"
asked the Colonel in a sarcastic tone.
"Are you one of them census takers
I heard about? If you are, I don't
want my census taken. I'm seventy­two-
years-old and don't have much
sense, but what sense I do have, I
need!" he gruffed. He tried to slam
the door, only to find a shined shoe
blocking the way.
Salesmen just don't know when
to give up. Bet he has a sore foot
now.
"Sir, I am not one who is ac­customed
to taking a census," spoke
the intruder with a well educated
tongue. "In this black case I have
for you a vacuum cleaner that is a
technological breakthrough. It will
pick up any dirt, any spill and is
economical enough to fit the budget
of a normal, middle-classed citizen,
and most of all, it doesn't take up
the whole closet."
"Young man, a vacuum is a
piece of technology, and I am per­sonally
against technology. I do
things the old way, the best way-I
sweep. Even if I wanted to have a
look at it, to find out why it's such a
breakthrough, I don't have the elec­tricity
to run it. I'm sorry." He kicked
the salesman's foot away from the
entrance and slammed the door, not
bothering to notice the disappoint­ment
on the salesman's face. As a
gesture of finality he latched the
lock.
He was surprised that he had
been so polite, at least by his stand­ards.
But he let his politeness pass,
and soon he was back to his gloomy,
miserable self.
How he hated technology. He
could only tolerate it to a certain
point. Why build ships to go to the
moon when we can't even live there?
Why build electronic games to enter­tain
the children when a good book
could not only do the same but also
educate them? He tried but could not
understand people.
His home had always been
without electricity. The only modern
equipment he had allowed in his
house was plumbing for running
water. There wasn't a well or lake
nearby, so he had had no choice in
Traveler/3
Oh, how he hated technology!
The only modern equipment
he had allowed in his house was
plumbing for running water. His
house looked average-had it still
been the nineteenth- century.
the matter. His house looked
average-had it still been the
nineteenth-century.
All of his clothes were washed
by his hand on a washboard. There
was no dishwasher and no vacuum.
Why should he buy one now and
ruin his almost perfect record?
Whenever the neighbors came
over, they found it fascinating that a
person could exist without television,
stereo, refrigerator, air conditioning,
and telephone. Or contrarily, they
found it fascinating that he existed
with only a fireplace, a woodburning
stove, lanterns, and a cellar used as a
refrigerator.
The truth is he distrusted
technology. People with electric lights
had to dig up candles when the lights
went out during a storm. But people
like the Colonel never had to worry
about a blackout when a kerosene
lamp was kept close by. With
kerosene lamps, he knew where he
stood. Electricity left people
guessing.
One misfit of technology that
the Colonel had noticed was a traffic
light that operated on the corner of
Pierce and Third. It seemed to him
that whenever he took a nightly
walk, the light was on the fritz.
When he started to cross the street,
the lights blinked on and off, from
color to color, from "Don't walk"
to "Walk." Then, when he finally
got to the other side, the lights went
back to their normal routine. There
never seemed to be anyone around
when this happened, except an old
brown owl who silently observed the
nightly ritual from his perch in a tall
pine tree. It was said that many ac­cidents
occurred at the corner of Pierce
and Third. What was wrong with stop
Traveler/4
signs? Oh, how he distrusted
technology.
He also didn't like people to ex­press
their opinions to him about how
technology could do him some good
and how staying locked up in the past
could cause some harm. He didn't lec­ture
to them, so he expected them to
be equally kind, but some weren't. He
managed his way, and they managed
their way, so no way could be wrong,
right? Wrong! Like any other bull­headed
American, his way was the
right way the old-fashioned way.
He sat in his hand-carved rocker,
reading something by Herman Melville,
but he didn't know what. After every
fifteen minutes or so, he paused, trying
to remember who had been at the front
door, and he wondered if there had
been a knocking at all. With senility,
people start forgetting. Later, they
forget, but they know they're forget­ting.
Then they grow older and forget
everything.
He licked his finger before turning
the page a habit he had had from
childhood, and then the telephone in
the kitchen rang.
Without thinking, the Colonel put
down the book, losing his place and
went to answer the phone. He picked
up the receiver and said "Hello."
There was only the steady drone of the
dial tone. He didn't own a phone. But
there it was in his hand, and he had
heard it ring.
He took the receiver away from
his ear and stared at it hard and long
in horror and disgust. Why weren't his
lungs moving? Why was his bladder
being tempted? Why was his hand that
held the receiver shaking?
"Who the hell is responsible for
this?" he yelled through gritted teeth
into the house, half expecting an an-swer.
He tore the receiver off of the
phone and flung it across the kitchen.
It landed it in the empty sink. Forget­ting
his arthritis, he ripped the phone
off the wall and threw it to the floor
with enough strength to shatter it.
Dumbfounded and puzzled, he
looked at the remains of the phone and
then back to where it had been on the
wall. He couldn't remember having a
phone on that wall, let alone anywhere
in the house.
He turned around to inspect the
house for practical jokers. He looked
around the kitchen.
An electric range stood where the
woodburning stove had been. His
cabinets were now of modern design
and at least three times bigger than his
old ones. Underneath the counter next
to the sink was a dishwasher, and on
the other counters were a microwave, a
toaster, a mixer, and a coffee maker
among other miscellaneous items. But
the most terrible thing was the
linoleum. That was the shocker. It hid
the beauty of the colonial wooden
floor. He stared at the patterns in the
floor covering, shaking his head in
disbelief.
If he had looked in a mirror, he
would have been stunned to watch his
hair changing from red to gray. If
those changes weren't enough to
whiten his hair, then the music he
heard blasting from the living room
would surely have done the job.
Fear and anger propelled him
towards the throbbing beat of the
music which matched the pounding of
his heart.
What was going on? He'd get to
the bottom of this now! The first thing
he was going to do was turn off that
trash and then get the police.
Covering his ears, he searched for
the source of the head-splitting noise.
It came from the latest in stereo equip­ment
that sat on the far side of the
room. He examined it and discovered
that everything was digital or push­button.
Where the heck was a switch
to turn it off? Unable to find one, he
looked about and yanked the cord
from the outlet. He took a deep breath
while the room filled with quiet.
He wasn't in his own house.
Somehow he must have ended up in a
stranger's home. Except for the basic
floor plan, this edifice didn't resemble
his home at all. The walls were freshly
painted, and the precious wooden floor
was now carpeted from wall to wall.
The room was lighted by weirdly
shaped electric lamps. They sat on end
tables next to chairs that looked like
sofas and sofas that looked like chairs.
Nothing was the same. It couldn't
be his house, yet by the window sat his
hand-carved rocking chair.
He noticed the rocker first. It was
the center of attraction. It looked like
a minority in a majority. Compared
to the surrounding furniture, it stuck
out like a eye-sore, but he went to it
anyway.
He sat down in it, feeling
peaceful and secure. This was his
home, and he was sure of it. Now he
remembered who had been at his
door earlier. He had opened the door
to technology. Technology had
beaten him, but not completely.
Despite its harshness and its mer-cilessness,
it had not been able to
take over his cherished rocking chair.
He sat there rocking, not angry
and confused as he should have
been, but content that he still had his
rocker. He saw, without seeing, the
carpet that ran up the stairs and onto
the next level where it was probably
under an electrically heated waterbed.
Yep, technology had a way of
bringing in the new and disposing of
the old.
He rocked until his bones could
no longer feel pain while he listened
to the soft hum of electricity running
through the walls of what had once
been his home.
Then he smiled the bittersweet
smile of defeat and never rocked
agam.
The police report said that it was
Mrs. Mcgrad who found the Col­onel's
body when she went over to
borrow some sugar. She got her
sugar, made sure nothing in the
house was disturbed, then called the
police.
There had been a shiny new vac­cuum
sitting behind the rocking
chair, her statement continued; and
earlier, she swore she had heard loud
music blasting from the Colonel's liv­ing
room.
Call it supernatural or call it a
dream. Call it reality or call it fan­tasy.
But somewhere in this world a
salesman is knocking on the door of
an old lady who refuses to change
with the times. He is trying to sell
her an innovation in electric
toothbrushes. Meanwhile, on the cor­ner
of Pierce and Third the enigmatic
traffic light relects the changing col­ors
of technology in the eyes of the
old brown owl. 0
Drawing by Marron Ward, Honorable Mention Fine Art
Traveler/5
Photos by
Sandra Cesena
Carl Col/ins
Russrl/ Strong
Traveler/6
She was just a young girl.
Her life was before her.
A young man came along,
Told her folks he adored her.
They got married and lived
Just as close as two can.
Then their kids came along,
And the cycle began.
You were a young girl,
Your dreams barely known.
Then a man with four kids
Took your heart for his own.
Not your parents' first choice,
But you knew they were wrong.
You had three kids together
Before very long.
I was a young girl,
My life just begun.
But like you two before me,
My love a man won.
We married and started
Our own little world.
We had four precious babies­Two
boys and two girls.
They are just little girls,
Not even in school.
They like dollies and dresses
And splashing in pools.
They'll grow up too soon,
And there will be men,
And their dad's and my wishes
Won't mean much to them then.
Grandma, how did it feel
To watch them all grow?
Mom, you've always been there
To help us, and you know
How I'm going to feel
When my time comes to show
My daughters the strength
That it takes to let go.
Dana G. Vaughn
Third Place Fiction
Once upon a time
there were many of us,
thousands and thou­sands
living here in
Berlin, capital of the
new, the third, the
thousand-year Reich.
We were every­where.
Some people
complained about us.
"Pigeons are dirty
animals and carry
diseases," they
grumbled.
But most Berliners
loved us and ignored
those old stick-in-the­muds.
Many of us lived
by the water, on the
banks of the Spree
and the Havel or the
Wannsee, prime loca­tions
all of them. The
only drawback was
that here we had to
contend with others,
gulls mainly, and share
the booty. This was
not always pleasant,
especially since they always lorded it
over us.
So I, for one, moved to the
Tiergarten. Ah, what a place! Sun­day
afternoons were the best. Bread­crumbs
were everywhere, scattered
about by visitors to the park-Ma
and Pa and the kids, all decked out
in their Sunday finery, out for a
stroll. What a sight! They were so
generous! At the outdoor cafe's, too,
the women never finished their cake,
and children always spilled
something.
The sun was always shining in
those days, and the bands played
waltzes mainly, and polkas and
Rhinelanders so that couples could
dance. Everyone was smiling, joking,
laughing, and singing, and the
children were chasing us through the
grass. Of course, they could never
catch us, and it was a small enough
price to pay. Better than gulls,
anyway.
Then, one day, the Reichstag
burned. I could see it from my bench
in the Tiergarten. Soon after the fire
the bands began to
play more and more
marching music, and
the men put on
uniforms and stepped
high through the
Brandenburg Gate,
saluting and singing.
But they were no
longer smiling. They
kissed their women
and children good-bye
and marched away.
Now all the smiles
faded, and the
laughter sounded brit­tle.
The sun was still
shining but not as
brightly, and the music
still played, but the
women now danced
with each other, with
sad eyes, and they
cried often. But the
children still chased us
through the grass, and
people still scattered
plenty of breadcrumbs
for us.
Then the world
became dark and dirty and dusty.
There was debris everywhere, not on­ly
in the Tiergarten. I had it from
reliable sources that this was happen­ing
everywhere throughout the city.
Down by the Spree, the old palaces
were bombed to pieces. Why, I don't
know. Across the park they were
pounding the Chancellery where that
man with the funny little mustache
had always stood and shouted and
waved his arms. But no more. He, as
all the others, must have been cower­ing
underground now, scared, hiding.
Traveler/?
I often wished that I could leave
the city now. It was dangerous to re­main.
You should've seen the bomb
craters right here in the Tiergarten!
Pigeons were killed every day! It was
awful! And the rats came, carrying
disease as they devoured the remains.
Over there in the zoo, there was
mayhem too. Elephants trumpeted in
agony, and lions roared in rage and
pain, too, I dare say. The birds in
the aviaries screeched, trapped. But
then, we were all trapped. It was
terrible.
Needless to say, there were not
many crumbs scattered about for us
now. Well, I can't blame the people.
They were plenty hungry themselves
with nothing to spare for anyone.
The cafes were closed, too.
Oh yes, it was a tough time all
right, but the worst was yet to come.
I hate to even think about it much
less talk about it-but since you ask­ed:
Can you believe that people
now-actually-trapped-and caught
animals? Dogs and cats-and birds,
including pigeons? They cooked them
and ate them! It's true! I lost my
best friend that way. Horrible! To
this day the memory haunts me. But
I understand-they were so hungry,
the people of Berlin. 0
Traveler/8
Hello there! I'm Myrray!
The Rat!
Don't listen to that
whiny pigeon! He's always complain­ing!
If he went hungry during those
years and some of his friends died of
starvation-or worse-well, let me
tell you! That was their own damn
fault. Stupid! Nothing but stupid!
They probably had weak stomachs.
Or worse-scruples!
Just like some people. So
foolish. You get it where you can,
when you can. Right?
So let me set the record straight!
Those were the best years of my life.
Could've been theirs too. But like I
said, scruples! Ha! Such nonsense!
Before the war me and my fami­ly
lived down there by the river
Spree. I was a skinny little rat then
with fleas in my fur and fear stalking
me as I dug through the garbage
down there by the river. For the big
black cat was always after me. He
must've had it in for me. But believe
me, he got his in the end. Just like
that stupid pigeon.
Anyway, I made up my mind
early that I would leave that crummy
neighborhood one day. Move
uptown!
And so I did. I lived right there
on the Tauentzien near the Zoo
where all the big-wigs lived. No, not
those loud-mouthed ones that strut­ted
around in tall shiny boots, dressed
up in uniforms, behung with medals,
shouting orders. No, not them. They
were little fish really who only
thought they were important.
What I mean is that the really
big ones are these quiet men with
dead eyes, who wear dark suits and
white shirts, smoke large, good-smelling
cigars, and speak in polite
whispers-words that carry death and
destruction.
Oh, how I admired those guys!
They had no squeamishness and no
scruples! Believe me, I learned a lot
from them.
And the garbage they threw out
was fit for a king even during the
war! What a life! Sometimes I had
to fight some snot-nosed, skinny lit­tle
runt kids for the food.
1) uring the last few months of
the war, I moved again all the
way across town to Wedding,
the poor people's district. Sound
stupid? Well, believe me, it wasn't. I
had my reasons. I knew what I was
doing.
Let me explain.
There wasn't enough carnage in
my neighborhood.
Why?
Because there weren't enough
bombings.
Why not?
I guess it isn't kosher to bomb
industrialists-or their industries. So
that's why there wasn't enough car­nage
here! And after a while there
wasn't any more good garbage either
because the big-wigs all moved away
to Bavaria or to America. Even
without the bombs, they knew the
end was near.
And so I moved to Wedding,
where the factories stood-and stand
to this day-because they were never
hit. Ah, but the apartment houses
nearby were hit, the tenements where
the factory workers lived. Every day
they got bombed! Every night! Talk
about death and destruction. It was
great! And so easy. Bombs mean
bodies and thus plenty of food for
us. A feast every day!
Ah, how I filled out during
those days. I was strong and healthy
then and my fur shiny sleek.
Everybody said I was the best look­ing
rat on the block. I certainly was
the biggest one.
Of course, there were dangers
lurking for us too, us rats, but I had
learned enough to avoid most of
them, and I taught the others. I was
the big-wig now.
What kind of dangers?
Well-for one, bombs can kill
rats, too, you know. And then there
was the falling debris, and the fire
and smoke and all that. But worse
than that were the people. They went
crazy when they caught us gnawing
on their loved ones. For heaven's
sake! What the hell! They were dead,
weren't they? Dead bodies were no
good anymore for anything and
anyone-but us. They were just right
for us. That's what nature intended,
didn't it? But explain that to one of
those crazed crying ones. so they came after us with sticks
and shovels. They set traps!
Talk about an ugly death! What
did they do with us then? You guessed
it! But only those with a strong
stomach could do it. The others
would rather have died of starvation
or typhus. And guess who was blamed
for that? Right!
The "authorities" came after us.
All of a sudden they wanted to save
those that had survived their bombs
and guns. Crazy! Still, that was a
tough time for us. But I survived.
Rats like me always do just as some
people do.
I'm doing all right, even now in
myoid age. But I will always
remember those days of the war-the
best days of my life. 0
Photograph by Ed Cook
Traveler/9
Traveler/ I0
Watercolor by Cindy Bontrager. First Place Fine Art
Traveler 11
Quiet in the House
Jungle in the Street
Hear every sound
Feel every beat.
Quiet in the House
There's a Riot in the Street
Too strong to fight
Always defeat.
Quiet in the House
Rebel in the Street
Looking our way
Stay in your seat.
Traveler/12
Trouble
in the Homeland
Illustration by Joseph Me Williams
First Place Illustration
Quiet in the House
There's Death in the Street
One wrong move
Killed by the elite.
Quiet in the House
Passing in the Street
Suspicion gone
New day we'll meet.
Arcee Jaye
E
E
N
H T A here and now in a stylish, literate
fashion. But while the English escort
one on a leisurely stroll through
stately quirkiness, the Americans
tend to draw one into a world of
steamy wickedness.
Reading a mystery by the
English is a little like reading P.G.
Wodehouse-not quite a comedy of
manners, but in the same neighbor­hood.
They are a joyful wallow in
overblown understatement and tickle
the senses with a veritable orgy of
graceful language and elegant man­ners
that occasionally slip into the
delightfully inflated.
Multiple homicides notwithstand­ing,
no one really seems to get hurt
in English mysteries. The crimes are
bloodless and unaffecting, serving
purely as plot devices to signal the
beginning of the festivities or to fur­ther
fuel the confusion. At the same
time, and of equal importance, the
detective is afforded an excuse to
parade his cleverness. The sleuths, as
H
o E
A N
M
T
MANNERED
By Delores Hanney Second Place Non-Fiction
I love a mystery! It's not the
puzzle that is the pleasure, for
to tell the truth, it's my habit
to read just enough to get a
handle on the cast of characters, then
flip to the end and find out
"whodunit" before I really settle in­to
the thing. No, what I most enjoy
is the hugely satisfying occasion they
present for a lavish frolic in am­biance
and mood.
In my mind, the genre is divided
into two rigidly distinct sub-genres:
what I read and consider "classic"
detective fiction and "all the other
stuff"-which I promptly dismiss.
"Classic" detective fiction, as I
define it, comes in two flavors:
English, set forth in the work of
Dorothy Sayers and Agatha Christie;
and American, manifested in the
writings of Dashiell Hammett and
Raymond Chandler. The authors of
both varieties are well educated, ar­ticulate
craftsmen, each skillfully
adept at transporting one from the
E
u
5
--:::-'"::-''':­~-==.._'..:.......
lIIustration by William Vondehl
Traveler/13
often as not, are talented amateurs
who, with imagination and percep­tion,
dabble in crime as a hobby.
Scotland Yard, usually in a bit of a
muddle, welcomes the help-be it
from twittery old busybodies, like
Jane Marple; cultivated gentry, like
Lord Peter Wimsey; or retired and
enormously aged Belgian police of­ficers
who speak eloquently in one
sentence and barely comprehensibly
in the next, like Hercule Poirot.
Introducing the suspects provides
seldom missed opportunities to
dark, rain slickened streets, shadowy
bars, bluesy chantresses, flashing
neon lights and grim violence.
The turbulent habitat is home to
a full spectrum of predators:
mobsters and thugs, shysters and
gambling czars, blackmailers and
crooked cops, drunks and dopers.
Even the distressed damsel is usually
spoiled and unsavory.
The star predator is the detectvie
himself, a licensed private in­vestigator,
who is a hard-boiled,
cynical loner and springs from the
life or mingle with a more genteel
gathering, these authors fulfill their
potential in classy thrillers that offer
first-rate entertainment. As Joe Bob
Briggs, the erudite critic of drive-in
movie fare, might suggest: "Check
'em out". 0
A seamy look a life's under­belly,
evoking highly
atmospheric images of dark, rain
slickened streets, shadowy bars, bluesy
chantresses, flashing neon lights and
grim violence.
assemble an exotic array of refined
eccentrics. The nominees (for murder
in question) are made up of lords
and ladies, artists and actors, doctors
and dowagers, learned vicars or their
orphaned daughters, teeming hordes
of retired army officers, and the ser­vants
for all of the above. Some are
as broke as a sailor at the end of
shore leave; others are wealthy. But,
though it may seem slightly sentimen­tal
from a 1980's point of view, each
one is neatly nested on whatever rung
their class was assigned on the ladder
of life-which is not to say,
necessarily, "The butler did it!"
The world through which the
English detective moves is traditional
and cultured, a world where even the
stuffy are colorful and the murderers
are concerned about honor. The
American detective moves in dif­ferent
circles.
There is a seductive fascination
about American mysteries that is not
altogether comfortable. This fascina­tion
irresistibly lures one into a sultry
web that feels deadly dangerous. This
fiction is the film nair of print: a
seamy look at life's harsh underbelly,
evoking highly atmospheric images of
Traveler/14
lurid environment as naturally as
Aphrodite from the sea.
The Sam Spades and Philip
Marlowes of fiction are tough and
sometimes brutal, as familiar with
being the stompee as the stomper.
They are full of wise-guy wit and
their own form of ethics, and they
move like a cat through a banquet of
tight, tense drama.
"Classic" detective fiction is like
popcorn-once started hard to
quit-but though it may not be
gourmet, it certainly is not the
equivalent of nourishment-empty,
junk food either. In a more serious
mode, one might argue persuasively
that Chandler, Hammett, Christie
and Sayers are effective cultural
historians, each vividly documenting
a particular society at a particular
time.
Even when they are considered
in their purely frivolous function, the
situations are well, even inventively
conceived, the landscapes masterfully
drawn, and the characters richly
developed and explored in terms of
crime's effect on them. Whether the
approach is macho or suave, whether
one prefers to grovel with the low
Traveler/15
1
JIlus/ro/ion by Ben Raffle
Third Place illustration
--
TwentY-five Ye
I' ars h
ve heard th '. aVe passed
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ve lived With h'
lived 1'1'1 and
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IS lOve a
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care if '
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heavYon th OnIon.s'
Who COUld he onIons. "
that love wave knoWn
°Uld begin?
When I ,.
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I dIdn't Walk '
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I didn't h I n't sht'ne, ,
ear th b'
I Wasn't eVen i e trd Singl'ng,
Instead Of n seventh heaven,
t retreating
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we Watched h/~eaway,
fro'1'1 the fron~sdrtve-in-'1'1Ovie_
Who COUld eat.
that lOVe W have knOwn
as forever?
Traveler/16
---=Non-Fiction
Third plac~ Wallier
-Wallier. Ii and Jert
stot)' by Je~t by Ed CoO
PhotOgraP y
To,,: "PIT", or Perfert Instructional Terrain, of the Hil(h Tech e'l111 r. B.
Chu.k West, coordinator offacully and staffcomputer literacy: /'isitll/K Ca
Bottom center le/t: Mark Montanus, coordinator ofinstructional .omputil
a Macintosh lesson. Bottom right: Students at u'ork in thl' "Pit"
Iflom left: Illfl 10 ri{!h/I Phil Randolph. dean %cclIpa/iol/alldllcalion: Shirley Pc/ras.
•/ Haydel/ HiKh School sludcn/: Dr. Larry Christial/sen. dean ofadl11inis/ra/il'c sen'ire.
Ig. Boltom ce"ter rilfJrt: Ron Biller/i assis/in/{ /huol11pu/a-aidcd /{raphicar/ class 1I'i/h
Four years ago perceptive faculty and
administrators started a campuswide com­puterization
program-it was indeed, an idea
whose time had come.
Now the High Technology Center, a
milestone in that program, has an "army of
assistance" to help students put the byte on
education at Glendale Community College.
"This project reflects an innovative
delivery of instruction," said Dr. Larry
Christiansen, dean of administrative services.
The basic premise involves people using
technology to cross-cut disciplines, to im­prove
instruction, to get maximum use of
equipment, and to provide students max­imum
access.
"It's like leaning over a ship's
railing, only there's an ocean of
people using technology-and
that's exciting."
-Dr. Jim Jacob
Mark Montanus' "open entry-open exit"
teaching concept won him the title of In­novator
of the Year in 1984-5 from the
Maricopa County College District.
"We wanted an intensive lab situation
where people could start classes at anytime­not
just twice a year," said Montanus. Then
they could work at their own pace during
hours that were convenient for them.
Glorifying that basic philosophy, the
muted whisper of computer keys drifts
through this span-free building, 109 hours a
week.
In the center, and dominating the fully­carpeted
building, is a pit, approximately
two-thirds the size of a football field.
Twenty-eight workstations arranged like
three-petaled flowers are designed to give 336
students access to terminals.
While not all the equipment has been
purchased, current plans include an overall
equipment commitment in excess of $2
million. The approximately 250 pieces already
in place-VAX terminals, Apple lIe's,
Macintoshes, and IBM compatible micro's­make
an awsome display.
Students of many disciplines work in this
lush, well-lighted interior landscape. A
business major and a nursing major, or an
English major and an art major can work
side-by-side on a variety of computer
programs.
They interact with teachers, lab
assistants, technicians, and with each other,
creating an invigorating educational
camaraderie.
Traveler/17
Doris Velasco, manager of instructional
operations, oversees activities in the sunken
laboratory. She jokingly says PIT is an
acronym for Perfect Instructional Terrain.
Velasco began her first day at GCC ap­proximately
four years ago as a microcom­puter
technician in an empty lab.
The Apples (Apple II computers) were
delivered about 9 a.m. Frantically, Velasco
and the lab assistant began unpacking and
assembling the electronic components.
As they finished one row (3 or 4 com­puters)
Montanus marched in with a class
and gave his first orientation.
Velasco is now affectionately known as
the "pit boss" to the "army" of over 100
people she supervises.
All of these people, teachers, lab
assistants, and technicians, are willing to
help. "Students can raise their hands, holler,
or tackle them," Velasco said.
A six-foot wall, constructed of oak and
brick, surrounds this computer pit and forms
a three-foot railing for the upper-level con­course,
which could double as an indoor jog­ging
track.
Glass walls separate the pit from the
VAX area (Digital Equipment Company's
name for this particular series of computer
mainframe equipment), offices, a
teleconference room, and a television studio
on the north side of the building. On the
south side are the English writing lab, the
word processing lab, the computer aided
drafting (CAD) lab, and the software library.
"It's like looking over a ship's railing,
only there's an ocean of people using
technology-and that's exciting," said Dr.
Jim Jacob, coordinator of administrative
computing.
The HTC will be the core of the cam­puswide
computerization and Jacob is
responsible for eventually electronically link-
Traveler/18
Top left: G. C. C. Jazz ensemble perfarms at the Hif{h Tech Center f{roundbreaking ceremony.
Cellter: Georf{e Renner. mayor of Glendale, speaking at grounding breakillf{ ceremony. Top
right: Mayor George Renner; Dr. John Cordova, N. E. Provost; Chancellor Paul Elsner;
G. C. C. President John R. Waltrip; Dr. Roy Amrein dif{ in at the f{rolmdbreakinf{ ceremony.
Bottom: Architectural rendering of the Hif{h Tech Center exterior elevation.
ing every island in the HTC, every office,
and every classroom on campus.
Power for this networking comes from
the "big guys, "the giant computer brains,
secured and maintained under the direction
of Chris Zagar, programming coordinator.
"Just over a year ago, we installed a
new Digital Equipment Company 8600
VAX," said Zagar. "That system is now us­ed
only for administrative computing."
The new DEC 8700 VAX, nearly twice
as fast as the 8600, acts as the academic
computer.
The software library will handle the pro­curement,
copying, and development of com­puter
programs, explained Chuck West, coor­dinator
of faculty and staff computer
literacy.
In addition, the facility will act as a
training center where faculty can examine
new programs or hold workshops.
"This computerization project has been
approached from every angle," said West.
"We're fortunate to have people like Mon­tanus
and Jacob and, of course, Larry
Christiansen-he put all of the pieces
together and made them fit."
~
REVER YOU MAY BO~
o
Second Place Fiction
By Peggy Huling
Ah, Ava. I can never for­get
you, and I can never
forget our romance.
I remember my first impression
of you. Your figure was full and
ripe. Your skin was healthy and
green and sensuously textured with a
uniform bumpiness. A deep purple
blush was just beginning to show,
and your aroma was a faint but
maddening invitation to partake of
you. Soon you would be begging to
be undressed and experienced. I longed
to lie beside you. I dreamed of being
blended as one. I lusted for you, Ava
Cado.
We met in a produce bin at
Smitty's. You were up high, and I
was below. I watched you through
the mirror for hours. Finally you
noticed me, and even from that great
distance, a bond grew between us.
In addition to your outward
beauty, you had a delicious sense of
humor.
"Will our love never come to
fruition?" I would mourn.
Solemnly, you would reply,
"Dear, life is a pit." Laughter eased
our longing for a moment as our
twittering caused small avalanches of
fellow bin mates.
And you were loyal. You ig­nored
the flirtings of Rudy Baga.
When Russet had his eyes on you,
you assured me that you thought of
him as a mere potato head. Even
Top Banana could not slip you away.
I, too, was true green.
We knew that we were meant
to be together; therefore,
it came as no surprise when
a photographer picked both of us to
be in a photo layout.
In the grocery bag, we relished
the frenzy of vibrations that arose as
we were thrust against each other
during the jolting ride.
In the studio, the photographer
placed a chef's hat on me and a
dainty, white, lace-trimmed apron on
you. It was all very ludicrous;
however, our thoughts were not on
these costumes.
I watched you under the bright
lights. Your profusion of luscious
greens shone in splendor. Miniscule
shadows emphasized the hundreds of
tiny, erotic protrusions that covered
you. Your brown stem end graced
you like a crown.
I marvelled at your rough beauty.
Then you watched me, and I perceived
an anxiousness in you.
This was a moment of glory for
us, and yet we knew that it could not
compare with that for which we
hoped.
The session ended. The cost umes
were removed. The photo­grapher
picked up a knife and
held it above us. Was this the end?
No! A part of us would live forever.
This was, in fact, the moment we
had craved.
The hungry photographer con­summated
our fantasies.
He peeled you; he peeled me. He
sliced us and diced us, and we
tumbled rapturously together in a
bowl. His fork came down and
mashed and mashed and mashed. In
ecstasy we were joined together in
the ultimate blending of our
existence.
We were, at long last,
guacamole! 0
Traveler/19
There's nothing to it, a snap they all said,
Computer technology, naught to dread.
Naively I sign up and pay the fee-for
B P C 135 A D.
Feeling archaic (my future at risk),
I purchase a book and one floppy disk
For lab (where I sit at a little t.v.),
Hearing a language that's foriegn to me.
Both warm and cold boots, but no shoes in sight,
Boilerplates, buffers-it's word process, not write.
There are wares: hard and soft, defaults and commands,
I string parameters, avoid double-bands.
Call me a user; and it's keyboard, not type.
There's no food-yet a menu, wafer, and byte?
Chips-no potatoes; no runners-a track,
Widows, orphans, now one maniac.
I execute, quad, configure, and merge,
Peripheriate, paginate, pitch, and purge.
I block, scroll, wrap, justify, and append,
Then lose the file as class comes to an end.
language
prerequisite
required
Poem by Jeri Walker, Second Place Poetry
Photography by Denise Rohwedder
Traveler/20
A faded picture
diSCovered in a desk drawer
hidden beneath some crumpled papers_
Tattered and torn,
it seems Worthless
and saved for no reason.
But oh,
the sweet love of a child
keeping his absent father's picture.
~
o
I
Second Place
Photography
Momoe Mehta
Poem by
Jill Troup
Travelerl2l
, -
I Story by Virginia Brotherton First Place Non-Fiction
t's the spring of 1960, fi fteen "Auschwitz." The name, even
years after the end of World whispered, creates a sudden dramatic
War II. The early morning change in the atmosphere. The air
drive through the majestic Bavarian becomes heavy and eerie.
forest is breathtaking. The serenity Entering the gates is like going
and peacefulness have a calming ef- through a time warp. The total
feet on the traveler. Many varieties absence of color contrasts with the
of wildlife abound in the almost drive here. The entrance has a well-virginal
woods. The stately tree trodden path which separates and
trunks are crowned with every hue of diverges in numerous directions.
green. It's truly a picturesque setting. Veering off to the right are the
One hundred yards ahead, nestled wooded barracks-huge, numbered,
away, guarded and protected by the and dingy. Their walls are rotted,
mammoth trees, lies the camp. A decayed and permeated with a musty
closed approach reveals the camp smell. The mind is boggled by the
isn't guarded, but hidden, in an at- numbers of people once housed
tempt to deny its existence. Actually, within these walls.
it's no longer a camp; it's a museum, To the left of the barracks, 300
a museum containing all the physical yards away, is the medical facility.
evidence of atrocities and The darkness inside the rooms re-inhumanities.
quires a visual adjustment. The quiet
Traveler/22
within these thick walls is deafening
because their pores are sealed with
the agony of human cries and
screams. Table slabs, once supporting
human experiments, are now empty
except for the equipment/relics lying
on them. Sharp pointed instruments,
used for examining, probing and tor­turing
lie in view. The macabre tools
cause physical immobilization to the
visitor. These items create unending
imaginative horrors. The chains used
to restrain human guinea pigs are
still attached to the walls. This
building bombards the senses of
visitors with disgust.
On departing, one notices that
the areas between the di f­ferent
sections of the com­plex
are very sprawling. Yet the
specific quarters themselves are
., .
t,.f
cramped and claustrophobic.
Behind the medical facility, 500
yards, is an enormous building, the
showers/crematorium. The ominous
smokestacks atop the building are
threatening. Once puking forth the
stench of their vile usage, they now
sit-resting and symbolic. The area
for undressing and preparation for
de-licing is directly inside the door. A
few bits of clothing, scraps of worn
toys-these are reminders that the
process of extermination started here.
Beyond, the threatening door to the
crematorium is open. There is an in­viting
horror coupled with the feeling
that entering this room will desecrate
the memory of those who died here.
The erroded shower heads are grotes­que.
Fingernail marks are engraved
in the walls. They are etched, credi-
;
.,'"
~ -~.
ble signs of what happened within.
There is not one audible sound in the
marble tomb, the human wails, gasps
and cries continue to emanate from
the walls. The buildings are in­animate,
yet they are viable entities
in themselves.
Ahundred yards behind the
crematorium, lies a huge
unexcavated pit: the unmarked
burial site of hordes of bodies­bodies
of men, women, and children.
Departure from the camp totally
conflicts with the arrival. This place
both offends and humbles. One last
look back catches the entrance sign:
"Let no man think himself, or his
race, superior: Auschwitz."
Illustration
Pat Ziegler
Traveler/23
Sculptor is chislerI of sorts
Traveler/24
Photography by Carl Collins
Honorable Mention
Story by Jeri Walker
With a master's hand, Jerome
Smiley uses chisels to caress marble,
alabaster, and wood until they yield
three-dimensional, award-winning
forms.
Smiley, a member of the
Arizona Artists' Guild, has been a
part-time student at Glendale Com­munity
College since 1972.
Brian Quinn, his instructor since
1981, gets the credit for Smiley's suc­cess
as a sculptor. "He has a great
eye," said Smiley, "and can tell
when I need some direction."
Fine art fills the Smiley home
from the front door to the workroom
at the back of the house. There are
wall to wall paintings-light, warm
watercolors, lively acrylics, and
vibrant oils.
But it's the sculpture that com­mands
attention-a massive marble
horse, a bronze elephant, clay dogs
and deer, a bas-relief of nimble
mountain sheep, alabaster figurines,
and wood carvings, both abstract
and traditional.
In his clean, light-filled studio,
surrounded by art, photographs of
family and friends, and a chart of
beef cuts (because he likes to cook),
Smiley used a wet sponge to moisten
the piece of sculpture he is currently
working on for the spring student art
show.
As he wiped the powdery,
alabaster dust from the embracing
figures of Adam and Eve, a deep
rose color marbled through the
stone-like veins and arteries pump­ing
blood-bringing the sculpture
life.
"Patience," Smiley concluded,
"it just takes patience."
First Place Photography by Gail Thompson
Traveler/25
By Rusty Van Patten First Place Fiction
Photograph by Ed Cook
Stray threads from the
willow tree drift over the
windshield as I pull the
car into the circular drive leading
to the rear entrance of my
parents' home.
I set the brake, take a deep breath and
open the door.
As I have done every Sunday after­noon
for the past several years, I bring out
the smile that I wear only on these
repetitive visits and attach it to my. face
with a pinched resolve. I can't let hlm­or
her- see my anger, my pity, my fear.
The screen door opens and he's there
in the half-shadow, looking at me blankly,
his lusterless eyes as stagnant as the old
rain water in the half-clogged drain pipes.
"Hi, Dad!" I say too cheerfully and
too loudly, "what've you been up to to­day?"
"Mama's in the kitchen," he
mumbles, searching my face.
"Let's see what she's doing," I sug­gest,
gently turning him in the right
direction.
As we round the corner into the once
bright blue and white kitchen, Mom turns
to greet me. "Hi, Honey," she says ex­cwitheadtlyth,
e"stehafrnekeshfoourrscommeianng.toYomue.k"now
"I know Mom. Ready to go?"
"Yes. Ph'ylis will be here any minute
now. We're going to lunch and then to see
a comedy at the shopping center theatre."
"Sounds like fun. Don't worry about
anything. I'll take care of things here. Any
special instructions this time?"
"No, nothing special. Just see that he
takes his three o'clock pill, that's all."
Strain shows through the excitement
of her face and voice. She is tired. She is
always tired these days, and she's thinner,
less vital.
The books and the doctors say to ex­pect
this, but it surprise~ an~ up.sets me to
see it happening. Knowing It will happen
does not ease my concern.
At the sound of Phylis' car, Mom
gathers her things, blows me a kiss and
disappears into the hallway. The screen
door slams loosely.
"Have fun!" I call after her. And
then the house is quiet. I am alone with
my father.
He can recite Lincoln's Gettysburg
Address from beginning to end without
flaw, yet he does not know my name-or
his own. Alzheimer's disease has
decimated most of his mind. There is lit­tle
left of the once strong, witty,
authoritative man who raised me and who
once handled, by personal appointment of
the governor, an entire tax division for the
state of California. He loved it and was
damned good at it. .
I look now into his sweetly bemgn
face and suggest a game of pool. His eyes
widen. He enjoys our weekly game, but
when I have left he cannot recall that we
have played or that I have been there.
"You take the solid colors, Dad. I'll
take the striped balls, OK?" This is the on­ly
"rule" we follow. Scores mean nothing
to him.
"Mmmmmm," he agrees, stepping
up to the table.
I rack the balls and break.
"OK, Dad, sock it to 'em!"
"Wh-what?" He stares at me,
his mouth drooping. Spit slides off his lip
and glues itself to his chin. Spit? I didn't
notice any spit last week.
"Try this one over here, Dad," I sug­gest.
"No stripes on this baby!"
"Oh!" he blurts, suddenly jerking
out of his dark emptiness. "That's right,
isn't it? I'm solid." He chalks his cue,
lines up and smacks the ball. .
I hate this! I hate these Sundays with
their meaningless chatter and senseless oc­cupation.
I hate this life-shattering disease
that entombs the brain and leaves the body
bullied and beaten.
I want my father back, the father of
my childhood and young ad~lthood. I
want his opinion on South Afnca; I want
to hear again about his last trip to Europe
with Mom and ask if he's seen today's
stock averages. I want to up-end the damn
pool table.
Instead, I choke out a cheery, "Great
shot, Dad!" as his solid yellow ball
careens around the green felt tabletop and
drops by accident into a side pocket.
He grins at me crazily and aims at
another ball, struggling to concentrate,
loses the thought and looks at me for he~p.
"Solid, Dad. You're solid." He tnes
again and shoots.
I watch the terrible effort and feel the
sadness begin.
Dad, how could this have happened
to you? Will it happen to me? The thought
terrifies me, and I push it away quickly as
I snatch up a square of blue chalk and
twist it vigorously over the tip of my cue.
I walk around the table pretending to
study the possibilities, line up on a striped
ball and pop it into a corner pocket. Dad
nods and steps up to the table. It's not his
turn but I say nothing.
'''They'' say Alzheimer's disease isn't
necessarily hereditary, that a certain
percentage of the population will get it
whether it's in the family or not. That
means most people won't get it, I remind
myself. The thought should comfo:t m~,
but it doesn't. I forgot my best fnend s
birthday last week. What does that mean?
Does it mean anything?
ow did it start with Dad? H Was it that day about 12
years ago when he became lost
in the new shopping center? But then,
anyone could have beco~e diso.rie~ted in
that gigantic, round labynnth wlt.h Its t~o
levels, three escalators and SIX main
entrances.
Traveler/27
Still, what was it the security guard had
said? He'd seen this elderly gentleman
wandering aimlessly in and out of the
shops on the second level, talking to
himself. "Couldn't figure out how to get
to the right parking area," the guy had
said. He had helped Dad locate the car and
had later called the house to see if he'd
made it home all right. "The old man had
seemed 'out of it,' " he'd said.
What did "out of it" mean anyway?
Confused? Sick? Or simply lost?
That night at dinner Mom and I had
teased Dad about it.
"Memory playing tricks on you,
Dad?"
"As long as I don't forget when it's
suppertime, that's the main thing," he had
laughed.
Or maybe the first real sign
was at the church picnic about
a year later, when Dad suddenly
started telling everyone that his father,
who had been dead for 42 years, had built
the swimming pool at our newly erected
junior high school, just down the street.
Mom had exchanged puzzled looks
with her best friend, Phylis, and
whispered, "What's wrong with him?
Why is he saying those things?"
"Kyle," she said over breakfast the
next morning, "are you feeling all right?
Maybe I should call and see if I can get
an earlier appointment for our annual
check-up this year."
"What for?" he asked, "I'm fine.
You feeling sick? You OK, Honey?"
"Oh yes, I'm fine."
"Well, then, no sense putting
ourselves through all that poking and
sticking any sooner that we have to." He
picked up a biscuit. "How about some
more of that strawberry jam? And that
reminds me, we're late getting the plants
in. Going to have to hurry and do that,
or it'll be too late in the season."
D ad suddenly
started telling
everyone that his father,
who had been dead for
42 years, had built the
swimming pool at our
newly errected junior
high school.
"What plants, Kyle? We've had the
strawberry plants in for weeks. Do you
want to buy something else? Some herbs,
maybe? I've always wanted to try grow-ing
my own thyme and oregano "
Traveler/28
"No!" he shouted, jumping up from
the table, "I mean the strawberry plants!
We have to get them in! What's wrong
with you, anyway?"
Stunned, Mom held back her tears
and called me at work at the first
opportunity.
"Something's very wrong with your
father. He's acting so strangely. Come as
soon as you can, dear. I'm terribly wor­ried.
"
Within the hour, I had joined
Dad in the back yard,
where he stood peacefully
trimming the hedge around the lemon tree.
"Well!" he beamed when he saw me.
"What're you doing here this time of day?
They close down the business or are you
just playing hookey today?"
"Need some help here?" I asked.
"I'll get this stuff into a pile for you."
"No, Honey, you just find a seat
somewhere and keep me company. I need
the exercise. A man my age has to keep
in shape. 'Stay physically active' as they
say in all those senior citizen magazines."
"Right, Dad," I agreed. "And the
yard always looks so great. The way you
keep this place up, it's the envy of the
whole neighborhood. You can come over
to my house, when you're through here,
and work on my yard, too. You'd be a
Jack La Lanne look-alike in no time."
"Fat chance!" he laughed, "only
Mama's yard gets this kind of service,
muscles or no muscles."
"Gee, Dad," I teased, "you mean
Carl and I have to do it all by ourselves,
huh?"
"Well, I might trim your roses for
you, once in a while," he chuckled.
I had stayed all afternoon and had
seen none of the "strangeness" Mom had
mentioned. Dad was as alert and respon­sive
as any 73-year-old person I could
think of. What was there to be concerned
about? And besides, didn't all older peo­ple
act "strangely" once in while? Until
the incident of the audit, I had given the
subject no further thought. And I failed
to notice how quiet Mom was becoming.
But the church audit settled the mat­ter.
The memory of that night still slides,
churning, into my dreams until I am liv­ing
again that terrible moment when we­Mom
and I-knew without a doubt that
Dad's mind was abandoning him. And us.
Dad had been treasurer of our church
for over twenty years, ever since John
Simmons had announced his resignation.
It was becoming too complicated, John
had said, what with the way the church
was growing and all. Those long columns
of figures and stacks of invoices and
receipts and such had become "too much
to handle," he said, blaming his failing
eyesight and slight palsy.
Dad couldn't volunteer fast
enough. Although he was head­ing
up a major tax division for
the state, he assured Mom that the added
responsibility would not be a burden.
"In a few years, I'll be retiring," he
said, "It'll be good for me. Keep me
sharp. 'Use it or lose it,' you know!"
So, every other Wednesday night for
two decades and more, Dad spent two
hours at the church making his entries in
the big green ledgers-going over invoices,
paying bills, writing checks- balancing
things up.
And once a year, on a Saturday after­noon,
along with Frank Cox, the assistant
treasurer, he'd load the whole lot into
large gray boxes and big brown envelopes
and cart it all to our house where they'd
go to work on the audit.
They'd sit down with a large pot of
coffee and a big plate of Mom's persim­mon
cookies and spend the whole day bent
over the kitchen table. By dinner time,
they'd be finished.
"Anybody for pizza?" Dad would yell
through the house, leaning back in his
chair and flinging his arms into a long
slow stretch. "This is Saturday night and
Frank and I don't have a thing to do!"
Dad doesn't remember that last
Saturday afternoon when he and Frank sat
down with the ledgers and the coffee and
the cookies. But Mom and I will never
forget it.
They'd been at it for several hours
when Frank suddenly appeared at the door
of the den where Mom and I sat folding
laundry.
"How's it going, Frank?" Mom
asked, looking up from a pile of fluffy
washcloths, "anything I can get you
boys?"
Frank just stood there. Not
answering.
"Frank? What's wrong?"
"It's Kyle, he .... "
"Frank, what's wrong?" Mom
leaped from her chair and flung herself
past Frank, half-skidding on a small throw
rug as she rounded the door jamb.
"Kyle!" she screamed, "Kyle!"
I caught up with her in the hall, and
we burst into the kitchen together.
Dad sat on his straight-backed kit­chen
chair with his head bowed like a
disobedient child, arms swaying like
slender sausages at his sides.
Mom knelt on the floor beside him.
"Kyle, what is it? Are you sick?"
"I don't know," he mumbled.
"Are you in pain? What is it?"
"No, I'm not in pain. I-I ... what is
all this stuff?" He waved his hand weakly
in the direction of the crowded table.
"You mean all this audit stuff,
Dad?" I asked, kneeling beside Mom.
"Kyle," Frank interrupted, "I'm not
feeling so great myself. What d'ya say we
do this later on some time?"
Third Place Photography by Lee Springer
w
"Do what?" Dad asked, his eyes
fearful and unfocused.
"It's OK, Kyle," Frank soothed, just
let me get this junk out of your way here."
His big hand swept across the table top,
bulldozing everything, even the adding
machine, into one of the big gray boxes.
He looked at me across Mom's shoulder
and motioned me toward the door with his
head. Tears slipped under his glasses and
disappeared into the fissures that ran
straight down his cheeks like the deep
scores in Dad's old leather briefcase.
"Thanks, Frank," Mom whispered
as she quietly cradled Dad in her arms,
rocking him, soothing him, patting his
back.
We walked in silence to the
back door and stopped.
"What happened to Dad,
Frank?" I asked, pulling a tissue from my
skirt pocket.
He shifted the gray box to his hip and
said, shaking his head slowly, "He just
stopped working. I asked him what was
wrong, and he pointed to the ledgers and
said, 'What're all these numbers?' I ask­ed
what he meant and he said, 'All these
numbers-what are they for?' I told him,
'for the audit, Kyle, what d'ya think
they're for? God, Vanessa, I thought he
was just kidding around. You know how
he is. But he looked at me, blank like, and
said, 'What are you doing here, Frank?'
It was his eyes. They looked so .... I don't
know, so hollow".
The white cue ball crashes hard
against a solid red one, splitting my
thoughts away from the memory.
I'm back to our make-believe com­petition
and it's Sunday afternoon and
nothing has changed.
"Where's Mama," Dad asks, sud­denly
forgetting the game.
"She and Phylis have gone out for a
little while. They'll be back soon, Dad."
"Gone out," he repeats, turning
toward the kitchen.
The pool game is over. Now I must
somehow fill the afternoon. I replace our
cue sticks in the wall rack and follow him
out of the room.
"How about some lunch, Dad?"
"Gone out," he says.
If I can get him to eat lunch, he'll
become sleepy and settle down for a nap.
He will sleep exactly 25 minutes.
"How about it, Dad? Are you
hungry?"
He nods and heads for the toaster. He
has not forgotten, yet, how to operate the
old toaster so Mom has toast for lunch
every day-one way or another. It's one
of the ways she helps him hang onto his
dignity.
Dad's dignity is important. For him
and for Mom. She cannot shame him,
even vicariously, by any treatment less
than he deserves. So she keeps money in
his pocket, lays out clean, freshly pressed
ith senility
people start
forgetting. Later, they
forget, but they know
they're forgetting. Then
they grow older and
forget everything.
clothes every morning, sees that he is pro­perly
buttoned and zipped.
U ntil last month, Dad could
dress himself. Now he cannot
understand the complications
of buttons and zippers or shoelaces. He
does not comprehend the "rightness" and
"Ieftness" of shoes. He must be dressed
as he dressed me as a child, and when he
is clothed, he says, like a child, "all
through!" and waits for Mom's kiss on
the forehead.
"How's the toast coming, Dad? The
soup's about ready," I say brightly.
"Where's the butter?" he asks, look­ing
over the counter. He seems almost
himself as I turn and tell him, "top shelf
of the fridge. I'll set the table."
A loud crash jerks me around, and
I look down to see hundreds of small green
peas and tiny glass fragments spinning and
sliding over the blue and white floor like
buckshot and shattered ice.
"Darn!" he says clearly.
"No problem, Dad. We'll have it up
in no time. You can help me, OK?"
"OK. "
"I'll get the broom-you get some
paper towels."
"What's wrong with me?" he says
suddenly.
"What, Dad?"
"What's wrong with me? I can't do
anything. I can't remember things."
A lucid moment. I didn't expect this.
How do I handle it?
"Dad, you've been having some trou­ble
with your memory. It's hard for you
to recall recent events, but you can
remember things that happened long
before I was born."
"That's exactly right," he nods.
"What're those things on the floor?"
The moment has passed. I reach for
the broom.
After lunch, I suggest a walk to
the corner where we often buy
ice cream. He loves to go there
and still remembers the way well enough
to make the stroll alone several times a
week.
The sound of three brass bells over
the door announces us as we push through
to the bright pink and brown interior of
the Baskin-Robbins' 31 Flavors ice cream
parlor.
"Hi!" Dad calls to an unfamiliar
young girl behind the counter.
"Hi!" she returns, "may I help
you?"
"Got any peach ice cream today?"
"Gee," she apologizes, "I don't
know. I just got here and I'm only a part­time
person."
"Only a part-time person?" Dad
teases, "What are you the rest of the
time?"
An elderly couple sitting at one of the
small tables laughs out loud and so do I.
Dad grins at me, pleased with himself.
I'm pleased, too, and proud of him.
He has made a small joke, and he knows
it. He has made someone laugh. This,
along with his moment of clarity before
lunch, is a dear and unexpected gift-one
that I may have to hold onto for a long
time. For a little while I have forgotten the
truth. The brief relief is wonderfully
welcome.
The pink and brown clock reminds
me that in just 30 minutes Dad will be
ready for his nap. It's important not to
break his schedule, so I let him pay for the
Traveler/29
ice cream and watch as he collects the cor­rect
change. We turn and push through the
glass doors.
"When you're through with your
nap, we can watch the 3 o'clock news and
have a nice bowl of ice cream, how's that
sound, Dad?"
T he aWfu~ thought
creeps mto my
brain again, as it has with
more and more frequency
lately: For the sake of
everyone, I wish Dad
would hurry up and die.
"Where's Mama?" he says, looking
back over his shoulder.
"She didn't come with us this time,
Dad. She and Phylis are doing a little
shopping, but they'll be home soon. Are
you feeling a little tired? Ready for your
nap?"
"Mmmmm," he mumbles. We walk
in silence. I'm tired. Painfully bored. I
wish Mom would hurry, but because that
is the arrangement, and because this is the
Traveler/30
only real help I can offer her, she will use
every minute of her afternoon until the sun
has gone down and I must leave for my
own home and my own family.
I will read for the 25 minutes
that Dad sleeps, and then I will
search again for ways to fill up the
hours. There is no way to settle him into
an activity even if I stay close at hand. We
must keep moving. Keep busy-busy at
some spiritless game or one-way conver­sation.
We'll watch the news, eat the ice
cream, play another game of pool, take
another walk.
The awful thought creeps into my
brain again, as it has with more and more
frequency lately: For the sake of everyone,
I wish Dad would hurry up and die. And,
as it always does, shame burns my cheeks.
How can I have such thoughts about my
own father? I know my feelings are
natural and unselfish, but I'm ashamed of
them, nevertheless. God, I wish this would
end.
Somehow, the crippled hours creak
by, and the sound of Phylis' car in the
driveway fills me with a relief that embar­rasses
me.
"Who's there?" Dad questions. "Is
someone there?"
"Yes, Dad, it's Mom. She's home."
"Mama's home," he says, a little-boy
smile spreading over his face.
It is dark when I open the car door
and slide wearily into the bucket seat. I
take a deep breath and flip on the
headlights. The stray threads from the
willow tree remind me of spider webs,
dark and wispy, as they claw over the
windshield.
"See you next Sunday, dear," Mom
calls from the doorway.
I nod, smiling, my hands clenching
the steering wheel.
"Right, Mom. Next Sunday."
I ease the car out of the driveway, slip
into the flow of late evening traffic and
turn toward the freeway. In less than 20
minutes I'm home.
"Hi, Hon!" Carl calls from the kit­chen
as I open my own front door. "Hope
you're hungry. Dinner's almost ready."
"How's Grandpa?" askes my ten­year-
old, looking up from a stack of play
money tucked neatly under the edge of a
Monopoly board.
"Who's winning?" I ask.
"I am! I am!" shouts his eight-year­old
sister. "Look at all the money I've
got! "
"Yeah, but I have two houses on
Park Place, so I'm richer than you are!"
The contagious enthusiasm of my
children infects me quickly and the strain
of the Sunday visit is put behind me. For
now, I'll concentrate on them and on my
husband, who has spaghetti and garlic
bread waiting in the kitchen.
Later, I may even have a second help­ing
of his famous chocolate pudding while
I soak in a long, hot bath. 0
I, the fruit of her womb's issue,
can find so solace in the soft
murmurings of those who loved her
not as well.
The silken thread that held us joined
as finest lace upon the spike has
been rent asunder, hopeless to
be mended,
never again to be summoned
by the matriarch of OUr clan
to discuss trivialities
of the day.
We have lost the bridge that linked us
to our history, memories
of life irreplaceable to
those left here.
Pristine, the new generation
will not .ever be complete, their
loss not realized; they are too
YOung to know
the benefits derived from one
whose life has been perpetual
observance, for eightY-one Years,
every day.
Poems and accolades do not
SUffice; tears exhausted, there is
no Way to mourn the loss of my
Grandmother.
Photograph by Lee Springer
Poem by Dana Vaughn
Traveler/3l
NATIVES
First Place Poetry
Dolores J. Jackson
Roadway signs warned
of mountain sheep.
But if they were there,
hidden
by inky darkness,
they went unseen by the car's passengers
as it snaked its way north
along the hairpin highway.
On returning
the hazy dawn softly highlighted
the place where they stood
in shadow,
alert,
dwarfed by the immense, sheer canyons.
Undaunted,
wearing shaggy cafe' au lait coats,
the bighorn and his mate grazed
Traveler/32
I/Iuslralion by Joelle Jaguish
on spiky desert fodder,
clinging
tenaciously to the hillside.
The male boasted ridged horns which curled
.to the inside
like Danish rolls.
While the female was less dramatic,
only budding,
carrying her unborn.
Undaunted
by cautious cars and curious onlookers
dissecting
an engineered marvel
surrounded by precipices awesomely
plunging
to a placid river,
the pair stared out of disdainful eyes,
continuing to claim their meal.
The engine that became
an extension of my own power,
violently transformed
into an oil-stained derelict
waiting to be rousted.
Memories, or sweet obscenities
nibbled in a tender ear
while trying to free my foot
from the glovebox,
held firmly there
by a jealous mistress.
She lies in a tangled heap,
her rakish bumper
twisted, like a chrome pretzel
gleaming in the sun.
Driver and car together as one
have run their last race,
two tons of glass and steel
I never can replace.
Don Forrey
Third Place Poetry
The noble skeleton
that protected me
from another's drunken wrath
lies in state
on a bed of diamonds
and tail light rubies.
'.
,\{st ca{
·,I"
I
!
l/Iustration by Michael Johnson
Second Place l/Iustration