"The Traveler" Glendale Community College Literary Magazine, 1990

              THETRAVELER
Spring 1990 Volume 23
Contents
In Recognition of GCC's Silver Anniversary
with special thanks to Dr. John Waltrip for his
continual support.
Non-Fiction:
The Wren's Song
Barbara Anne Gray 2
Diagnosis: Diabetes
Betty Dils 7
ESLISpanish Peer Tutoring
Betty Dils 16, 17
Fear and Remorse
Joy Shepston 20
Michael-In a World of His Own
Rainey Holloway 24
Fiction:
The Old Lady
Da~y Hansen 11
This I s My Home
Flora Hoyt Johnson 14
Night Drive
Richard Liljegren 30
Poetry:
I Have A Vivid Imagination
Sharon Hrebicek Burleson . ... 1
In the Superstitions
Jil/ Wa/terbach 4
I Ambushed Tomorrow
Krist! Smith 5
45 Years
~uriel Gray 6
A Mother and Son
Jeremy Spears 9
Dear Diary
Daisy Hansen 19
Genius of the Streets
Amy Fletcher 22
A Child's Insight
LaVonne ~arie Napier 23
War
Kim ~al/ey 26
Sage Advice
Richard Liljegren 27
Strawberries Growing in Her Hair
Jeremy Spears 28
The Last Message
E. Richard Gomez 32
Art:
Painting:
Helen Le Bas 8
Barbara Woolston 14, 15
Anita Steele 18
Drawing:
Brett Davis 19
Tyrone Duwyene 20, 21
~ichael Serpe 24, 25
Annettte Wyckoff. 26
Karen Holland 27
IlIustration:
Amy ~i//er 2, 3
Brenda Steves 9
Brian Higgins 30, 31
~arc de Cel/e Back Cover
Three-Dimensional Art:
~arie ~allack 1, 4
J. Holl~ter Newlin 10
Theresa Durbin 32
Photography:
Victoria Chemirs 5, 28
Tina Ehlert 6, 23
Jean Bihn 6, 12, 13
~ichael Blackledge 22
Greg Streich 22
Bil/ Patterson 29
Photo Essay Photography:
Peter AI/essie 16, 17
Wanda Pippet 16, 17
LITERARY EDITOR: Betty Dils; ART DIRECTOR: Brenda Steves; ASST. ART DIRECTOR: Amy Miller;
GRAPHIC DESIGNERS: Brian Higgins, Karen Holland, Misty Munari; PHOTOGRAPHIC EDITOR:
Terry Mills; COVER ART: Brian Higgins; EDITORIAL STAFF: Shirley Bryan, Enrico Gomez, Jay Potts;
TYPOGRAPHY: Carolyn Huffman, Robbie Sherwood; ART AND PRODUCTION ADVISOR: Mirta
Hamilton; LITERARY ADVISORS: Joy Wingersky, Jan Boerner; PRINTING: BierI.
Special thanks to art and literary judges: Len Johanson, V. Halonen, C. Bayley, M. Combel, M. Fischer, D. Grant,
P. Haas, B. Hufford, K. Schwalm, C. Stilwell. Special thanks to Willis Peterson for photography assistance. The Traveler
staff also thanks the GCC administration and faculty for their help and support for this year's publication. And although
we were unable to to publish everything submitted, we wish to thank all of the contributors for the excellent, diverse
material we received.
Published annually by GCC
English and Art Departments,
6000 W. Olive, Glendale, AZ 85302
©1990 The Traveler, Glendale Community College
I have a vivid imagination
Except when it comes
To reality
Traveler/)
My people, the Mohawk Indians,
are one of the Six Nations or more
commonly known as the Iroquois. Our
reservation, the St. Regis Indian
Reservation, is located in upstate New
York and Canada.
The purpose of the legend of story
telling is to pass along traditions from
the elders to the young people. The
legends may contain an array of
knowledge-traditional customs,
thoughts, feelings-and most
importantly, the legends teach
solutions to many problems.
My grandmother was a great
storyteller. She was quite clever and
very wise. Through legends she would
direct me to a solution to my
problems without telling me what she
felt I should do. My grandmother's
method of teaching taught me to
become independent and to be able to
find solutions to my problems. The
"Wren's Song" was my grandmother's
favorite legend. She would tell me
different versions of the legend
depending on the message she was
trying to convey. I remember one day
in autumn when I was eight years old
I had just come home from school,
and I was feeling depressed. The big
kids wouldn't let me play with them
because I was too small. My grand­mother
sat me down and began telling
me the legend of "The Wren's Song."
I eagerly listened to my grandmother,
and this is the version she told me that
day.
NATIVE
ERICAN
LEGEND
e n 's
Song
A
A M
Illustrated By Amy Miller
Non-Fiction by Barbara Anne Gray
Travelerl2
e
e
e
e
songs. The Hummingbird, being the
fastest, thought he might be able to
accomplish the task. But
Hummingbird's wings beat so fast, he
was out of energy before he was even
halfway there. Eagle was the biggest
and strongest bird. All of the birds
felt that surely he could reach the
entrance to the sky world. So Eagle
began his journey; he soared higher
and higher until he couldn't be seen
from the ground. Eagle looked up and
could see the entrance to the sky
world, but he was too exhausted to fly
any farther. As Eagle began to fall
back to earth, little Winter Wren, who
had been hiding all this time beneath
the feathers on Eagle's back, flew
straight through the entrance and into
the sky world. Once there, Winter
Wren was given the best song.
After my grandmother had finished
telling me a legend, we would remain
silent and look into each other's eyes.
She would patiently wait for me as I
decoded the message. Then we would
share a laugh, and my problems would
be solved, or they would seem not as
important as I had once thought them
to be. My grandmother taught me
through the use of her legends many
valuable lessons. But the most
important gift she gave to me was
aiding me to become a seeker of
knowledge, a gift that I will always
cherish. I hope I'll be able to pass on
her special ways through legends to
others.
A long time ago, the Creator sat
back and looked over all he had
created. He realized that the world
was too silent, so he decided to give
the birds different songs. The birds'
melodious songs would fill up the
silence and give pleasure to the
Creator. All of the birds were
instructed to meet the next morning at
Cornwall Island (the island on the St.
Regis Indian Reservation where my
grandmother was born). Once there,
the Creator announced that he was
going to hold a contest. The bird who
could fly through the entrance way
into the sky world would win the best
song. All of the birds were eager to
try, but the Blue Jay could not
patiently wait, nor could he control
himself. He was so obnoxious that the
Creator punished the Blue Jay by
giving him a song right then and there
to fit his actions. To this day, if you
see the Blue Jay jumping around on
the ground or in a tree, all he can sing
is a high-pitched squawk. Red-winged
Blackbird was the first to try. He
began his journey to the sky world,
but he became tired and realized he
couldn't make it. So he soared back to
the Creator and told of his flight in
such detail that he impressed the
Creator. The Creator gave him a song
and made him protector of the swamp
lands.
Many birds tried to reach the sky
world entrance but couldn't. The birds
were all rewarded for their efforts with
Traveler!3
'1Thbeerceo1mae1tl\bwehrOailnebOagWaino·ver ,be mountain,
In harmony with cool moist breezes,
Wild, free as red-tailed hawk,
Gen,le and fragran' as ,be vellow desert daisv·
1llaomw aclaln11"VtieeWll.yOU what 1 see'?
'These "Visions deep within me
Are greater than my words.
1 hear life-gl."Ving rain,
Feel saguaro groW,
con"Verse with the Dutchman.
1 am the superstitions;
And the Lady_in-the-Moon
smiles her appro"Val.
B)' Jill wauerbacb
In the
Traveler/4
Traveler/5
By Kristl Smith
1 ambushed tomorrow: lunging recklessly 1 screamed-
"I'm irate with yOU, Tomorrow! You're perve<se of what yOU seemed.
Fantasizing, 1 envisioned you'd be gloriouS and grand-
My disappointed ascertation is: you'" boring, bunk, and biand.
People said yOU had potential, yOU conld grant the greatest prize,
You could make the wimp a winner and the simple-minded wise.
1 was told twO simple rules: Number One: It must be fair
(wishes can't infdnge on othe")' Number Two: yOU must prepare.
So I thought of you_Tomorrow! I conside<ed yOU my friend!
Then 1 gathered pen and paper, and decided to begin.
Well, my mind went on a rampage, as I scrawted my lengthY list.
1 included every whimsy, not a trifle was dismissed.
With my list tOO large to carry, 1 collapsed with sheer fatigue.
But-no problem-l remembered 1 had listed "ENERGY,"
Double-checked those silly rule" Number One: It mnst be fair
(wishes can't infringe on othe,,). Number Two: yOU must prepare.
So I knew that yOU were coming-rhough for me, not fast enough!
But, "Tomorrow, you've arrived, and yOU didn't bdng my stum"
When 1 desisted ranting, 1 awaited his reply.
Subsequently, what unfolded left me shocked and stultified.
Tomorrow seemed to vanish; he transformed into today.
Then he glanced toward the twilight, and he slowly walked away.
Now 1 ponder why he failed me, as 1 watch my dreams deflate.
See, 1 made my preparations... 1 prepared to sit and wait.
Ambushed Tomorrow
17 years old
summer spent on reservation
a tractor rounds a bend
my heart pounds before we meet
he touches me it's Love/Marriage
big city he can't adjust can't even read
alcohol!arguments/abuse
till death do us part
LYING
7 years old
my skin lightly tanned
golden hair concealed
under a bird-like cap
performing a man's
Eagle dance happily my feet
never miss a beat
I am one with the drummer
LYING • •
• •
Photo By:t,
Ina Ehlert • •
12 years old
essay asked for
family situation
"a true story" teacher said
diligently I write
Mom's kettle of Indian medicine
Dad's accusation of witch's brew
bold red "D" atop my paper
creativity interpreted
LYING
45 years old
new direction
College
President's list-Honors
Knowledge/Happiness
the cultured pearl
of Lit. now prods My growth
awakened to depend
only upon Me
NO MORE LYING.
•
•
•
•
•
Third Place Poetry
By Muriel Gray
45
YEARS
Traveler/6
e•n•
c
.~
<:J
~
Co
z
The needles were small and sharp,
and yet she still jumped each time they
pierced her unwilling flesh. Since she
wasn't able to give herself the shots, I
did it for her. The syringe contained
insulin, a life-sustaining medication for
diabetics.
Her disease was discovered by acci­dent.
My normally healthy II-year-old
was at the doctor's for treatment of a
cyst on her back, and I mentioned she
had lost weight recently. In typical
doctorly fashion he asked, "How long
has it been since we did any blood
work?" Those words will remain 11 of
the most ominous in my
consciousness.
The early-morning phone call from
the doctor a day after he drew the
blood was my first clue. Doctors never
call first thing in the morning-unless
it's bad news.
"Her blood-sugar test was sky­high,"
he said in an
uncharacteristically excited tone.
"How high is sky-high?" I inquired
stuporously, partly from shock, partly
from the early hour.
"A normal reading should be bet­ween
70 to 120 milligrams percent,"
the doctor explained, "and hers tested
over 500 milligrams percent." Sudden­ly
I felt like he had mainlined straight
caffeine into my veins; the stupor was
gone.
"I think she has severe diabetes,"
he continued somberly. "Let's do a
glucose tolerance on her right away!"
With the sugar test as high as it
was, the doctor didn't understand how
she could possibly appear as well as
she did. And in answer to his probing
questions: Yes, I had noticed she had
increased thirst and increased
frequency of urination. Coupled with
the weight loss, those were important
symptoms of the disease, he said.
The "tolerance," he finally got
around to explaining, is a series of
sugar tests, usually every hour for
several hours, after the patient has in­gested
a measured amount of glucose.
The tests are necessary to see exactly
how high the blood's sugar level peaks
in response to the ingested glucose. It
helps the doctor in his diagnosis and
treatment.
The patient was as cooperative as
could be expected given her age and
the lack of perception of what was
now happening to her. The tolerance
confirmed the diagnosis.
The doctor, who had cared for her
for 11 years, was uncertain about the
insulin dosage for such a small thing
with such critically high blood-sugar
level. It would have to be trial-and­error,
he explained.
He taught me the shot-giving techni­que
and explained the rest of the treat­ment,
namely testing her urine each
morning for sugar content and making
sure she ate just before or right after
the insulin injection. Diabetics, or
those who care for them, soon learn
the terrible consequences of not eating
when they receive their insulin.
Heaped with advice, prescriptions,
start-off samples, and instructions to
call anytime, we were on our own. I
began the dosage of human insulin ac­cording
to the doctor's orders. Based
on the amount of sugar in her a.m.
urine specimen, the insulin dose was
adjusted: increased, decreased, or left
the same. It was a big responsibility
for a novice nurse.
Like a good soldier, I did exactly as
I was told, and each day, according to
her urine sugar, the insulin had to be
increased. A couple weeks passed, and
I guess the doctor expected me to call
him sooner, because he finally called
me-one afternoon. Much to his
alarm, the amount of insulin in her
shots was as much or more than that
of a grown man, he said, and still the
urine test strip was showing 2-plus or
3-plus sugar. Time to see a specialist.
At this point the budget was in for
a major cave-in, but, of course,
medical care takes priority. The
specialist ran his own exhaustive set of
blood and urine tests including
another glucose tolerance. He arrived
at the same diagnosis-severe diabetes.
The treatment was insulin, he said, so
since what we had been using hadn't
worked, he changed to a different
type, which didn't improve the
patient's condition either. More tests
and more money. Ironically, we went
back to the original type of insulin­only
this time, the doctor ordered the
insulin injections two times a day.
Throughout this diabetic ordeal, the
patient was almost a saint. She got
along well with the new doctor and
took everything in stride. She doggedly
endured the shots like a trooper and
tolerated the "to-do" over her first
morning urine specimen.
The patient was a picky eater, and
because of the twice-daily shots,
Travelerl7
mealtimes became a struggle of
wills-hers and mine. I always fixed
her favorite foods; sometimes she even
turned up her nose at those. At times
we went through several menu items
before finding a "special" treat that
piqued her puny appetite.
The shot-times-two routine con­tinued
a couple months with little
improvement.
This is where the story gets difficult
to recount-not because I don't
remember, but because it's painful.
It has been over two years since her
death, and I thought the sorrow was
gone, but it must have been playing
hide-and-seek with me.
My stoic ll-year-old developed a
nasty intestinal virus complicated by
the diabetes. The specialist hospitalized
her, and she died during the
night-alone.
When the shrill ring of the phone
pierced the early morning silence like a
sharp needle-I knew. Doctors never
call first thing in the morning
unless...
I regret I could not be at her side in
the animal hospital to stroke and
soothe her and quietly whisper words
of comfort to her. Before she died, I
would like to have told my small
diabetic dog, Schatzi, what a faithful
and loving friend she had always been
and that she will be missed always. Art By Helen Le Bas
Traveler/8
JL Mother andSon:
Sticky Jlpron Strings
You belong here, in my arms.
I love you. You are mine.
You have no right to the sky.
I am caught in this web of sticky apron strings.
She bites off my head.
I am hers to devour.
Such a good boy. Such a sweet boy.
I'd hate to lose him.
My poor sweet boy, seething so inside,
wanting to set the world alight;
my little fledgling, wavering at the end of that
feeble branch, wanting so badly to take that plunge.
I hold tightly to his back,
keeping him from the emptiness of air.
I can fly. Wings that glisten,
are bright, carry me above the earth.
I can fly. I can rise higher than any sky,
stretching for the sun.
I sing. I stretch my wings.
I can fly. I can reach the sun.
I dream sometimes of fire,
passion, a whiteness suffusing my world,
burning, burning.
I sometimes rise into a pillar of flame
shrieking.
Take heed. Take heed.
Such a sweet boy, I hold him here, loving him.
I raised you, dear boy. You are mine.
You have no right to the sky.
Mother, why?
It calls to me, yearns for me.
My dreams fill me with fire.
Why do you seek to keep me from the fulfillment of air?
You have a hunger in your heart
and it closes around me like a hungry jaw.
Why?
I can fly. I can fly.
No blade can rend from me this flight.
No weight can drag my eyes from the sky.
Sun, you shall be mine.
Mother, I love you, but the wind calls,
yearns to bear me on its back.
Little bird on a limb.
Little bird in his cage.
I've swallowed the key.
It turns inside me, searching for doors to unlock.
Little bird, your song will never end.
Not for me. You shall stay and sing for me
behind this door without a key.
By Jeremy Spears
Traveler/9
Traveler/lO
Second Place Fiction
By Daisy Hansen
he
Old Lady
When the two story Colonial-style
house, nestled among the tall pines on
Elm Street, proved too much for
eighty-year-old Elizabeth Asher, my
friend, Nelda, uh, the new Mrs.
Asher, she's in charge now, moved in
with her two darling children to serve
Elizabeth's needs. Mrs. Asher told
Harry, her husband, in no uncertain
terms, "I'm in charge," because his
mama thought she'd continue to run
the kitchen. Mrs. Asher assured her
she wouldn't have to, because now she
was the lady of the house. She does a
superb job, considering the old lady
does nothing. My friend, graciously
letting Harry's mama stay on, does
everything humanly possible to make
her comfortable and happy, willingly
letting her have the downstairs room
with the big bay window curving
around the polished seat so she can
see her rose bushes.
Oh, I know some say my friend is
sharp-tongued, sounding shallow
occassionally, but generous to a fault.
Her generosity compels her to have
her mother-in-Iaw's best interest at
heart. Like the day we were shopping
in Parker's Department Store and
overstayed. Her teeth clamped, she
said sweetly, "We have to hurry. I
don't want that hag messing in my kit­chen
when Sara's fixing dinner. I
mean really, I can't possibly get along
without a maid."
She's good to the old lady in other
ways too, makes her eat the right
food, picks out her clothes and shoes,
and counsels her about her hair.
Before our last dinner party, she took
her shopping, picking out an expensive
red and black dress all gussied up with
ruffles around the low cut front, and
a big flared skirt with a peplum in
back. The old lady went into a snit
when she had to pay up. Humpf! Did
she expect considerate Mrs. Asher to
foot the bill? Then she took her to the
beauty shop, replacing the old lady's
pulled back bun with a new up-swept
hairdo. She also wanted that
disgraceful white hair tinted, but the
beauty operator stuck her nose in,
saying, "Oh, no, silver is dignified."
Mrs. Asher, especially proud of how
chic the old girl looked in the faded
denim skirt she'd chosen, paid no
attention to the old lady's ungrateful
frown, squealing, "It's so cute with
those gathers around the hips. And
those blue leather huaraches, aren't
they a stitch?"
And my friend respectfully allows
that old lady to eat right at the table
when they have guests in, carefully
seating her at the far end of the table
so she can't bother Harry. That
doesn't always work. Before Memorial
Day, during a dinner party for our
literary friends, smack dab in the
middle of the entree, the old lady
leans forword, hollering down the
table to Harry.
"Do you 'spose we could visit Pap's
grave, come Sunday, Son?"
Mrs. Asher's hand flew to her
throat, her face reddened, and concern
glazed her eyes. I shivered, then sat
upright, not wanting to miss the
unselfish way she got that old lady out
of her pickle.
"Pu'lease!" she said. "This is not
the proper time to talk about dead
people. Get some manners!"
The old lady looked foolish, and
Harry hung his head. You could see
his mama embarrassed him, but not
wanting to hurt her, he kept quiet.
Wouldn't you think an eighty-year-old
would have some manners, and respect
my friend, especially in her own
house?
Traveler/11
Mrs. Asher once told Harry, real
sweet mind you, "Dear, please remove
your elbows from the table. We have
guests. Must you always imitate her?"
Then she smiled adorably until he
removed his arm.
A lot of the old lady's funny talking
friends used to visit. Mrs. Asher said
they were spiteful, getting in her way
like that, but she willingly sacrificed
Sara so she could be there with the
vacuum in case they dropped crumbs.
Funny, they took to spending a lot of
time in that ugly room. They're mostly
dead now, and the old lady sits
around and cries. Mrs. Asher the
crying, patiently saying, "I'll give that
old bat reason to cry."
It's bad enough the that old lady's
room, full of antiques, is such an
embarrassment, but that ugly brown
carpet, and maple rocker with the
yucky yellow cushions makes my
friend's skin crawl. She has to keep
closing the door. Of course there's
that horrible vase. One day her eyes
narrowed and she spit kindly, "I'm
going to sneak in there and throw out
that hideous, old vase when she's not
looking."
She will too. My friend can be
pushed just so far. The last rose,
wilted mind you, in that vase was
before the old man died.
Loving Mrs. Asher turned that old
house into a virtual showroom with all
the most modern, up-to-date furniture
and decorator pieces on the market.
She had almost everything special
made with soft mauves, muted blues,
and just a sprinkle of earth tones.
Even the cord on the iron matches.
She couldn't let the cleaning lady use
an iron with a green cord, so she just
threw it out and bought one.
Every room in the house was
cluttered with stuff Harry's parents
clung to for over fifty years. Even
some from their parents. That's
changed now. My, that old lady
pouted when they took away her
mother's old round oak table and
press-back chairs. Mrs. Asher filled
the big airy kitchen with a modern
glass and brass set, gorgeously
upholstered in blended blues and a
hint of mauve. She went through the
entire house, updating it; even threw
out that old rolltop desk sitting in the
entryway. The old man brought that
hunk of junk from his parents' house,
and it just didn't look right with
Traveler/12
Italian marble tile. The old girl threw
a fit and boo-hooed for days!
The big blow came when my friend
threw out that ugly vase.
That hateful old bat pitched the
worst tizzy, kicking off her huaraches,
hobbling out to the trash, and forcing
my friend to remind that childish old
lady how selfish she was. For a stupid
vase! She didn't want the neighbors to
see her outside, let alone in the trash.
She informed Harry's mama she does
wonders on Harry's construction
business earnings, so they both should
enjoy her home now that she, his
lovely wife, rid it of all the junk he
grew up with, replacing it with plush,
expensive furniture.
She even had the little room off the
back of the house turned into a
shower room, sweetly accommodating
Harry's needs, so he can clean up
before entering the house, and not
tromp across the new carpet. And she
fixed up the den so he doesn't have to
watch T.V. in the living room. Cream
colored carpet soils so easily. Harry
must really enjoy his work, he's rarely
home.
Then Harry Jr. crushed his mama
by marrying a snippy little urchin
named Doris, and having three
squalling brats. She told them nicely
she wasn't to be calledGramma. She's
glad they don't visit anymore, what
with having to contend with Lizbeth.
"This is not the pro­per
time to talk
about dead people.
Get some manners!"
"Attorney!" my friend
said politely. "What
does that old biddy
want with an
attorney?"
Photography By Jean Bihn
Harry insisted on naming her after the
old lady, bragging how she's the
picture of his mama at that age; big
blue eyes, pert little mouth, and long
blond hair. Mrs. Asher doesn't get
along with that sassy one at all.
Lizbeth, always defending and visiting
that old lady, sneaks her treats, and
would you believe, still insists on
calling her Gramma in front of her
mother's educated friends.
At Christmas time my friend
extended her warmth by decorating the
old lady's entire room. She put a
Christmas tree on the marble top
stand, bought a pretty plastic
poinsettia, and pitched that half dead
plant the old lady kept watering. Did
her best to give that spiteful daughter
a little Christmas spirit. She just sat in
that old rocker, crying. Gads!
The clincher came in June at my
friend's birthday party. We said good­bye
to the last guest, and wouldn't
you know! That spiteful old lady takes
ill. Lizbeth, visiting in her room­should
have been with her mother­rushed
out, going directly to the phone
to call Doc Webster. Then made a call
to someone named Jepsen. Mrs. Asher
demanded to know what was going
on. After all, it was her house.
Lizbeth said, "Later, Mother,"
rushing back to that dismal room,
then escorting Doc Webster down the
hall when he arrived. Mr. Jepsen
arrived, introducing himself as the old
lady's attorney.
"Attorney!" my friend said politely.
"What does that old biddy want with
an attorney!"
Before he answered, Lizbeth came
running out, and they went to the old
lady's room. My friend just followed
them. They refused her entrance, so
she stood by the door and listened.
When the attorney said that ugly old
vase was worth a lot of money, she
peered in, paying careful attention as
the attorney handed Lizbeth a piece of
paper, and her vase. She knew she'd
finally been paid for all she'd done for
that thankless old lady. The gurgling
and gasping had to wait so she could
deal with all that money imposed on
her.
Lizbeth came out crying, and Mrs.
Asher, holding her breath, reached for
her priceless vase, saying nicely,
"Thank you, dear, I'll take it now."
So high and mighty, that snip said,
"Thank you, Mother, but it's mine."
Cheeks puffed out, face crimson,
Mrs. Asher again reached for her
valuable vase. Lizbeth flipped her
head, selfishly tucking my friend's
vase under her arm. Well, she did the
only thing a mother could. She
slapped her hard, reminding that self­seeker
this was her house, therefore,
the vase was hers. Lizbeth dangled
that worthless piece of paper in her
mother's face, sassing, "I have to
pack, Mother."
My poor heartbroken friend
watched that hussy walk out the door,
with her vase, stopping under the bay
window for a rose bud, without so
much as a "fare thee well."
The final blow came when Harry
joined his mama in Forest Lawn,
leaving everything to his spoiled brats.
Well! When the two-story Colonial­style
house, nestled among the pines
on Elm Street, proved too much for
Nelda Asher, my friend, Doris, uh,
Mrs. Asher, she's in charge now,
moved in with her three darling
children to serve Nelda's needs. Would
you believe that ungrateful old lady
sits in her room with the brown shag
carpet, rocking in that old maple
rocker with the yucky yellow cushions,
crying. Gads!
Traveler/13
fiis Is ~y .7-fon-z,e
Julie rang the bell, just once, and
reached to open the door. She was
glad to find it locked. "Good for you,
Mom!" Digging the keys from her
bag, she let herself in and headed for
the kitchen, calling "Mom?"
"Oh, Julie!" she sounded relieved.
"I'm in the den, honey." She yawned
and settled back into her nest.
Four months ago the young woman
would have laughed to see her
mother's diminutive form swathed in
the bulk of her father's sweater with
that ratty, old hat plopped on her
head; today, it frightened her.
Ellen read Julie's face and, realizing
how she must look, gently laughed,
"Oh, Julie!" snatching the hat from
her head. "Don't look at me like that!
I haven't flipped or anything. I was
just. ..well ... That are you doing out so
early?"
"I had to drop Kevin off at school.
He missed his bus." She fidgeted with
her bag, avoiding her mother's eyes.
"We really need to talk, Mom."
"Oh?"
"Mom, Phil and I. .. well ... "
Ellen raised her eyebrows then,
seeing Julie's distress, squeezed them
down in a frown. "You and Phil?"
"Oh, no! No, we're fine, Mom."
She took a deep breath. "We want
you to sell the house and move in with
us." She'd spit it out quickly, relieved
to have it done with, and braced
herself for the tirade she was sure
would follow.
"Sell the house," Ellen echoed
flatly, as though unable to grasp the
foreign thought. "No," she said,
shaking her head, "No... I couldn't
leave your father just now. I know
he's dead," she quickly answered the
concern in Julie's widened eyes. "But,
Ellen had risen in the eerie half-light
of early morning and, wrapped in a
long, floppy sweater, traveled slowly
through the house without turning on
a light. It had become a secret ritual,
this traverse of the path she knew so
well.
"Good morning, Jake," she
whispered into the silence of the den.
This had been his domain. Within
these walls, he'd created worlds of
whimsy that delighted young and old
alike. His happy, gentle characters
reflected his own innate humor and
sensitivity. They'd provided well for
their creator and promised continued
comfort for Ellen.
"The welcome intruder"-he had
dubbed her early on, before the days
of the fine oak desk and high-backed,
soft leather chair "fit for a king,
Jake"-crossed the room and opened
the drapes. She squinted as the
wakening sun spilled its golden
warmth into the room.
Her eyes scanned the beloved,
masculine familiarity that surrounded
her; the heavy wall hung with original
illustrations of his storybook family,
the stack of magazines in the corner,
and finally, the massive desk with its
scribbled notes and orderly clutter of
pens, pipes, and reading glasses.
On the doorknob hung Jake's
"lucky," old, felt hat. Impulsively,
Ellen plucked it up. "Where were you
when that truck ran the light?" she
asked aloud, pulling it carelessly onto
her head.
She curled into the comforting sea
of green tweed, tugging at the sloppy
folds of the sweater, pressing her face
into the softness as she did each night,
savoring the smell of Jake, feeling him
close to her.
Traveler/14
he's still here for me. He smiles up at
me each time I enter this room; I
glimpse him as he passes the kitchen
window. Do you know how often I
turn to share a thought with him?"
She drew a deep breath and let it slip
slowly out as she spoke, "God! I still
prepare his coffee once in a while."
She looked down at her hands as an
unwelcome tear splashed against her
wedding band. "Oh, God, I miss him
so!" She drew her sleeve quickly
across her face.
"Mom... if you're going to cry, I'm
going to cry," she choked, "and then
we'll get nowhere." Sniffing back the
tears, she turned away from her
mother for a moment before attacking
again.
"Look, Kevin is more than willing
to use the guest room... he'll be off to
college anyway in less than a year.
You'll have his room and your own
bath. Mom, don't keep shaking your
head! Just listen and think about it
for a minute."
"Julie," she shook her head more
rapidly.
"We'll build rooms above the
garage if you want." She dropped to
her knees by her mother's feet.
"No!" she gasped. "No. I want to
stay here. I have to be where I can
find him when I need him. I can't let
go so quickly, don't you understand?"
she pleaded. "It was just so sudden,
so unexpected," she whispered,
dropping her head, wearily, against
the soft cushion, the tears sliding
freely down her cheeks onto her neck.
"Give me time, Julie," she sighed,
clutching the hand that had slipped
into hers. "Don't worry that I wear
this old sweater," she sniffed. "I
really don't wear the hat, you know."
She grunted a weak little laugh, then
squeezed her lips together.
"But, I do worry, Mom," weeping
openly. "It's so scary having you out
here all alone."
"This is my home. For 37 years.
I'm not scared; you're scared," she
said, loudly. Her face softened with
understanding as she realized the truth
of what she had said. "You're
scared." Pause. "Of what?" she
frowned. "That I'll die and leave you,
too?"
She brushed her hand lightly over
the silky, straight hair and let it rest
there. "I will, you know. Not today;
not for a long time, probably, but
someday." She leaned forward, lifting
the beloved face between her hands.
"Julie, you mustn't ruin the days
we have left by worrying about when
they'll end."
"Mom," she whispered, huskily,
pulling herself into the welcoming
arms, "will you at least get a dog?"
They laughed and cried, together.
First Place Fiction
By Flora Hoyt Johnson
Art by Barbara Woolston
Traveler/I 5
Rosamaria Molina admits to being ner­vous
when she speaks English, but her ef­forts
to learn the language have been
greatly enhanced with a new program at
Glendale Community College.
Molina is a 37-year-old GCC student
taking English as a second language and
participating in a recently developed
teaching program known as ESLISpanish
Conversation Peer Tutoring.
While the idea of peer turoring is not
new, combining classes of Spanish
students studying ESL and English
students taking Spanish conversation is
innovative and helps both groups grasp
the respective language they are learning.
Intern Ann Sindle is the project's
developer. Sindle is under the direction of
Nancy Jordan, administrative assistant to
Dr. Paul A. Elsner, chancellor of the
Maricopa Community Colleges District.
"The main focus is to bring some
awareness to both groups, to recognize
common differences, to build confidence
and build cultural diversity," Sindle said.
She added that the peer, or buddy,
tutoring experience helps dispel isolation
for ESL students who, because of the pro­gram,
have English-speaking students on
campus with whom they can build
rapport.
Tutoring comes in when Spanish con­versation
and ESL students become pro­ficient
by interacting in lesson plans,
reading, writing, and responding in the
respective languages, Sindle said.
Molina, who began studies at GCC in
January 1990, is already putting her
rapidly attained proficiency in English to
use. She works in the GCC Literacy
Center several hours per week helping
other students.
"Work in the Literacy Center is prac­tice
for me," Molina said. "I'm living in
this country; I need to speak English."
Based on observations and open discus­sions
among students and educators
about the ESL/Spanish Conversation
Peer Tutoring concept, the project
receives a good grade in accomplishing its
goals, Sindle said.
"Appropriate learning conditions can
enhance language acquisition while pro­viding
cultural awareness to better ap­preciate
cultural diversity," she said.
In short, interactive cultural exchanges
such as this project promote "better
understanding of people within our com­munity,"
Sindle added.
GCC English teacher Charlotte Howey
said there are many benefits of the com­bined
peer-tutor classes, but the biggest
Traveler/16
Innovative Classes
Help Language
Students' Efforts
Photo Essay By
Peter Allessie
Wanda Pippet
Students Sonsoles Iznart,
Salvadore Guerrero, Graciela
Quintero, Melissa Scheer, Moses
Jimenez; English teacher,
Charlotte Howey; and
ESL/Spanish Peer Tutoring
developer Ann Sindle interact in
combined peer tutoring sessions
on the GCC campus.
one is the confidence it builds when
students see that all adults learning a new
language have to struggle and often deal
with fear.
Classes at GCC currently participating
in the project are: ENG 006-Intensive
English for Speakers of Spanish, taught
by Charlotte Howey; ENG 008AC-Aural
Comprehension for ESL III, taught by
Jane Camp; SPA I02-Elementary
Spanish II, taught by John Griggs; and
SPA l02-Elementary Spanish II, taught
by Ruth Allen.
1irst peace 1ine 5lrt
13y Jtnita SteeCe
Traveler118
DEAR
DIARY
Poem By
Daisy Hansen
I'm writing to you, Dear Diary,
Because I'm so confused.
Mama says I'm a woman now, and
I'm certainly not amused.
I went right to bed last night
My usual time of eight.
Never dreaming Mother Nature
Was about to decide my fate.
What happened to all my plans
Filled with Barbies and Kens,
And my little dimpled hands
My Daddy used to cleanse.
I'm not ready to be a woman.
I'm not finished with my play.
Maybe I'll just ignore them,
And stay in bed today.
But Mama says it's ordinary,
And soon I'll be just fine.
I'm curious, Dear Diary,
Do they know I'm only nine?
Life Drawing By Brett Davis
Traveler/19
I had never felt shame before. I had
never been the enemy before. In my
fantasies, I emerged the heroine. I
would not cower. I had never known
terror. I had never been tested.
But now, as the predawn hush was
broken by rapid bursts of gunfire, fear
gripped my soul. My husband and I
were crouched on the filthy taxi floor,
not out of fear of being shot, but fear
that the cab driver would abandon us.
Our $100 bribe arranged clandestinely
was not worth the consequence to him
of being caught dealing with Yankees.
The infancy of Iran's revolution had
begun with strikes and fires. The
fanatic Moslem poor had aimed their
first civil disobedience at the wester­nized
"rich." There were no services
in this Holy War. Garbage piled up;
gasoline was like gold. Money, under
the table, had bought us a skimpy
ration of fuel oil but no electricity,
phones or transportation. Tehran was
brought to its knees.
As we sped through back streets and
alleys, my mouth was dry, but not my
palms. The airline tickets clutched in
my hand were damp and crushed as I
checked and rechecked our departure
time.
Broadcast morning prayers to Allah
were deafening as we passed the
mosaic mosque on Takete Jamshid
Boulevard, but faded as we raced on.
My mind raced also. Jumbled
thoughts flashed images on my tightly
squeezed eyelids: images of my arrival
a year earlier, excited and anxious for
the adventure of living in the Middle
East; images of the Bazaar, alive and
teeming with sights, sounds, and
smells; images of Islamic women with
heads veiled, draped in long black
chadors that occasionally swung free
allowing brief glimpses of designer
clothes. I saw the short, dark Iranian
men in tight-flared trousers, Italian
shoes, shoving and pushing their way
to the gold shops. I saw the gold; I
had never seen so much gold. And
then I saw the peasants, dirty, in
shabby clothes discarded by the elite,
bartering for their sustenance-a lamb,
to be slain where it stood. I
remembered the Iranians I would soon
miss: warmhearted, childlike, polite,
wanting to please, and I remembered
the abrupt change when pictures of
Khomeini began to appear, when
curfews and martial law reigned. I
Traveler120
EAR AND
REMORSE
relived the shock of seeing "Yankee
Go Home" scrawled on our door. I
remembered the fear that paralyzed
me while being under surveillance by
SAVAK, their version of the Gestapo.
I remembered rocks thrown, cars and
busses overturned and burned, the
stench of rubber burning, everything
burning, the mobs in the streets, the
cold dark days and nights locked in
our apartment.
I remembered BLACK TUESDAY,
and the fear returned.
The cab jolted and stopped and so
did my thoughts. "Mehrebad Air­port!"
said the Agah. Safety, I
thought. But my illusions were shat­tered
when I saw the semi-automatics
poised in the arms of teenaged yet-to­shave
soldiers surrounding the planes.
The government-owned Iran Air was
on strike.
We carried and dragged our luggage
through the marble-walled lobby and
into the warehouse-like ticket area,
where only passengers were allowed.
"At least we have our tickets!" I
said to my husband. Ron nodded and
motioned with his head to the Iberian
Air ticket counter. We got in line and
the wait began; we had an hour until
our 5 a.m. departure. I noticed only
one other ticket counter was open;
signs in English, French, and Farsi
stating all flights cancelled were tacked
over the logos of the rest. Crates,
trunks, cardboard boxes, suitcases and
jammed shopping bags were strewn
about the floor-some deserted, some
with weary dark-eyed women,
consoling crying children, standing
guard. Dogs in cages barked, men
shouted, gestured, and swore. All were
waiting to board planes that would
never depart.
As the two Spanish nuns ahead of
me took their turn at the counter, I let
my breath escape in a sigh of relief.
We were next. I felt lucky, even smug,
at having arranged our flight on one
First Place
Non-Fiction By
Joy Shepston
Art By
Tyrone Duwyene
of the only two airlines operating in
Iran. Our turn. I laid my tickets on
the counter and smiled at the clerk.
"I'm sorry!" she said in a couldn't­care-
less tone. "The Spanish Embassy
is being evacuated today, and the
Ambassador has commandeered the
plane. All other tickets are cancelled.
We will no longer be servicing Iran."
Our itinerary was Iran to Athens on
the Spanish Airline, and Athens to
I licked my
lips, sum­moned
up
my best
Marilyn
Monroe
voice, and
offered him
a cigarette...
London on British Air-the only other
airline operating here. A bell rang. I
had a British Air ticket that could be
rerouted; maybe, just maybe, I had a
chance. I joined the queue under the
red, white and blue BA.
The man behind the standby counter
looked awkward at his chore. I saw
the silver wings on his uniform and
realized he was the pilot just as his co­pilot
announced that for their safety,
the crew and staff had been air­evacuated
to Kuwait, and for the
duration, this would be the last flight
out. The pilot's glance caught my eye,
and then I decided to do it. I smiled,
forced my mouth to look seductive,
and winked.
I don't know what my husband
thought. I didn't care; we had to leave
on that plane. I suggested that Ron go
watch our luggage, the last of our
belongings that hadn't been looted or
burned, and I advanced to the counter
alone.
The pilot, a big homely Irishman,
flushed as I approached, his acne­scarred
face turning as red as his hair
and beard. I could tell he was not
accustomed to advances from women;
and so, I flirted. I licked my lips,
summoned up my best Marilyn
Monroe voice, and offered him a
cigarette, got a light for mine, and lied
about my fetish for pilots. I praised
his courage, his bravery. I even
admired his handwriting. I got us on
the standby list.
Hours passed; noon came and went
with nothing to eat. It was dusk when
the Irishman appeared again to explain
the delay was in obtaining fuel. He
held up the list and began calling
names. Each one was answered. None
had left. There was nowhere to go.
I moved forward out of the circle. I
stood in front of him. I made
promises to God, and looking into the
pilot's eyes, made promises with mine,
knowing I would keep neither.
His voice sounded scratchy when he
said, "This is the last name." The
chattering stopped, and in the quiet I
heard the sound of breath being
sucked in and the gulping noise made
when saliva fills your mouth and you
must swallow. He stood silent, his eyes
scanning the shaking list. An eternity
passed; a baby cried, a woman
sobbed. Without looking up, he called
my name, and I hung my head.
Traveler121
..r:::::.
Cl. ro
"-
OJ o
(5
..r:::::.
CL
c
o~
a>
~
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..c:::::l
~
oco
I
By Michael R. Blackledge
GENIUS
OF THE
STREETS
By Amy Fletcher
Second Place Poetry Award
Traveler/22
The child grew up between cracks in the
sidewalk,
A dodging stalemate of life.
He found himself falling behind the rab­ble
that passed,
Who devoted no time to his
circumstances.
Lonely at the bottom, he found solace in
solitude, yet
The crowd passed on, unseeing.
And in his final days of life,
While still engrossed in trivialities,
They overlooked him-a genius of the
streets-
Whose laughter would have fallen
As a balm to anguished souls.
Photograph By Greg Streich
Photograph By Michael R. Blackledge
Third Place Photograph
By Tina Ehlert
In the eyes of a child...
there is no death,
only life.
In the smile of a child...
there is no pain,
only joy.
In the laugh of a child...
there is no silence,
only sweet music.
In the smell of a child...
there is no stench,
only flowery fragrances.
In the touch of a child...
there is no sorrow,
only comfort.
In the words of a child...
there is no cursing,
only love.
In the eyes of a child.
By LaVOnne Marie Napier
Traveler/23
ichae • naWar daf Hi~ Own
Traveler/24
Clasp your hands over your ears.
Start humming and rocking rapidly,
rock back and forth, blocking out the
rest of the world.
My twin brother frequently does
this. He is autistic.
Michael has the body of a 19-year­old
and the mind of a fourth grader.
He plays with toys, watches Hulk
Hogan, and loves kids' game shows.
His speech is inaudible to most, but
my family and I have become tuned to
his way of communicating.
My mother said when Michael was
four years old he used his blocks to
spell the alphabet backwards and to
write the names of game shows and
soap operas. At age five, Michael
would map out the skyline of Phoenix,
using cans, boxes, and pieces of
cardboard.
At the same age, he read the Yellow
Pages and ran his fingers through the
stock market reports, carefully looking
at each line.
He now attends Gompers
Rehabilitation Center and his behavior
improves every year. He currently has
a job at a hotel, along with other
higher functioning students in his
class. Occasionally he will ask me to
pick up a Wall Street Journal and he
reads it aloud.
Autism is a disorder of communica­tion
that develops before the age of
three. The term refers to the vacant,
withdrawn appearance of those who
are affected, but its connotation of
voluntary detachment is inappropriate.
Researchers once believed autistic
children were in their own world due
to an upsetting experience in early
childhood.
Now researchers believe it is due to
a chemical imbalance in the brain.
Living with an autistic family
member is not easy. Michael's autism
put pressure on my parents' marriage.
It strained our family finances, and
complicated my relationship with my
parents.
It was difficult for my parents to
deal with their "handicapped" son.
I was always reminded how lucky I
was to be able to live a normal life. I
resent this because it makes me feel
guilty about something over which I
have no control.
We are still learning to deal with
Michael's handicap.
In the movie "Rainman," the
character of Charlie Babbitt, portrayed
by Tom Cruise, experienced what all
families go through with autistic
children. In the movie Charlie learns
to deal with his brother Raymond. At
one point in "Rainman," Charlie gets
out of the car and begins screaming in
the middle of the road because
Raymond insists he take him to Ohio
to K-Mart to purchase underwear.
I have screamed many times when
my brother insisted we buy something
at a particular store and nowhere else.
Autistic children have a set routine
and cannot have anything out of
order. I cannot even borrow a
compact disc from Michael because it
upsets him if any of his things are
moved.
I did not understand why it
bothered him until I saw "Rainman."
I realized it frightens autistic children
when their possessions are not in one
place; it is their security blanket.
"Rainman" taught me about Michael.
In another scene Raymond insisted
he watch his favorite television
program, even though they were in the
middle of the country. Eventually
Charlie buys his brother a portable
television. We have done the same for
my brother.
Dealing with autism is an everyday
learning experience.
It was painful for me to watch
"Rainman" because I saw myself in
Charlie's uncompassionate behavior
when he did not understand his
brother and the times when he was so
frustrated he did not want to
understand.
The success of this movie has made
people aware of autism, and a
sensitivity has developed.
It is always hard for me to bring
people to my home because, deep
down, I fear their reactions. People at
the grocery store will stop and stare
when Michael tries to speak or if he
makes an unusual sound.
I remember when kids at school
called my brother a "retard." When I
was younger I got embarrassed. I did
not realize they were the ones who had
a problem.
I am no longer embarrassed by
Michael, but people's reactions can be
difficult to swallow.
I realize now my brother Michael
will always be a grown-up kid.
Art By Michael Serpe
Third Place Non-Fiction
By Rainey Holloway
Traveler/25
The Arab-Israeli conflict will be reso
lved
­But
who will be left to eat the fruit'?
The olive trees survive.
Destruction
Death
Hate
By Kim Malley
The olive trees continue to grow ..
The wars cause hate throughout the Holy Land
Young fighters are determined
Families are destroyed
Peace is abolished
As the olive trees continue to grow.
The guns destroy the Holy Land
People are killed
Loved ones die
Hearts are crushed
As the olive trees continue to grow.
Houses are ruined
Buildings are demolished
Lives are taken
There is fighting throughout the Holy Land
Bombs cause destruction
Guns cause death
Wars cause hate
Traveler126
All men are created equal.
Except for minorities.
Starve a fever, feed a cold.
No; feed a fever, starve a cold.
Fight for what YOU believe in.
Shut up and sit down.
It's a complicated world.
No, it isn't.
There are people starving all over the
wPaoyrldth. e farmers not to grOW crops.
Abortion is murder.
Abortion is freedom of choice.
We have a Bill of Rights.
But don't burn the flag.
The ozone protects us.
Let'S destroy it.
The oceans are beautiful, the trees are
beautiful.
Let's destroy them.
If yOU crosS this line of death we'll kill
yIof uy.oU bomb our country, that's O.K.
We believe in peace, let's kill the Jews.
We believe in peace, let's kill the Arabs.
You can't simultaneouSly prepare for war
aAndgopoedacdee. fense is the best offense.
Absence makes the heart grOW fonder.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Birds of a feather flock together.
Third Place Fiction opposites attract.
By Richard Liljegren
SJ\GE
r'.DV\CE
Traveler127
trawberries Growing
First Place Poetry
B)' Jeremy Spears
Your hands waved
like white paper
fragile, lovely,
waving and waving.
There is a riot in the garden.
An upheaval of earth and sky.
The stems shake angrily,
tossing petals and leaves
from their angry backs
to flutter like guidons in the wind.
Your eyes are closed,
no longer seeing
no longer feeling warmth
radiate from your heart.
The flowers fall.
They have deserted you
But you have nowhere else to turn.
The strawberries you planted
with your thin, pale hands,
resting in the shade of the lemon tree,
are gone.
In your absence we stepped over them
blind as you in your waxy sleep.
White picket and golden wire;
granite angels and alabaster saviors;
they call for their freedom.
The sky howls down,
vomiting rain.
You are beautiful, girl,
but you are flat, sleek as a photograph,
smiling and depthless.
They have made you well.
The battle rages beneath your shocked
china-doll eyes.
Death runs rampant where once only life grew
in neat, even rows.
Your spade split the earth
and blind earthworms crawled into your womb.
The saint is strapped into stone
and he hangs
and hangs and hangs over you
like a bat
and you white and thin.
No gloss can save you
from his smooth granite grin.
Traveler/28
in Her Hoi
Second Place Photograph
By Victoria Chemirs
FIRST PLACE PHOTOGRAPHY
By Bill Patterson
Traveler129
NIGHT
DRIVE
Third Place Fiction
By Richard Liljegren
Art By Bryan Higgins
Traveler/30
I opened my eyes to see Daddy
shaking me.
"C'mon angel, wake up," he said
urgently. I was tired and almost
started to cry. It was still dark and
time to be asleep. He had pulled the
covers away from me and they
gathered softly at the end of the bed.
My "Care-Bear" pajamas were all
mussed up. "Why daddy?" I asked a
little crossly.
We have to go for a little drive,
Honey, and I can't leave you here
alone."
"Where's Mommy?"
He paused for a second. "She's
working late." He clasped my left
hand and pulled me up. With my right
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. He
reached down and picked up my
Snoopy slippers. I pointed my feet
down to help him get them on me.
I grabbed my blanket as he picked
me up. He surrounded me with his
arm, my legs wrapped around his
waist. As we walked through the
kitchen he snatched at his keys, kind
of the way Mommy does when I'm
not being good. He turned on the out­side
light and we were out the door.
He shifted me around to the other
side and unlocked the big car and put
me inside. I snuggled into my blanket
on the cold seat and waited. Daddy
got behind the wheel and turned on
the motor. I stared at the dashboard.
"Buick" it said. Daddy said you say it
"be-you-ick." The car beeped softly
until Daddy put our seat belts on.
The car rolled back and we started
to drive down the road. The night was
cold, but warm air softly blew from
the vents. The radio was singing some
classical music. I shut my eyes, but the
flash of streetlights-bright-dark­bright-
across the windshield kept me
from falling asleep again.
"Where are we going, Daddy?"
"Don't worry about it, Amber.
We're just going to drive for awhile­It's
a nice night out."
The black and white of the road
was hypnotizing. All of the streets
looked the same to me. Daddy says
it's because I don't drive. I'm not sure
exactly what that means.
"Hey! This looks like Mr. Bond's
house!" I said excitedly. Mr. Bond
works with Mommy, and we've been
to his house before. I recognized the
big black car in the yard. Mr. Bond
calls it "Phantom." Daddy looked at
me kind of funny.
"I guess that is Mr. Bond's house,
isn't it? I guess I didn't even realize
where we were."
"Maybe we could stop in and say
'Hi.' "
"I don't think so, kitten. It's getting
pretty late."
1 was kind of disappointed. The
lights were on, and Mr. Bond was
always so nice to me. Mommy always
said he'd make someone a nice
husband some day. Oh well, 1 guess
we'll probably see him again soon.
We drove on. The numbers on the
clock read 10:30. More nameless roads
passed. The night drive was starting to
get kind of boring. 1 snuggled down
into my blanket some more. 1 drifted
away.
1 awoke when we pulled up over a
gutter. 1 looked out to see a narrow
drive with lots of cars under covered
parking spots both left and right. It
looked kind of like the apartments we
used to visit where Aunt Susan lived,
only under the bright lights it looked
like these were probably a different
color.
Daddy turned the car down a side
branch of the complex. The black
night closed around us tighter. He
slowed and looked out of his window.
There was Mommy's car.
"Daddy, look!" 1 said excitedly. He
sped past the car. "There's Mommy's
car! Let's go back and see her."
He looked tired. "That's not
Mommy's car, Amber."
"Yes it is-let's go back, and I'll
show you."
A little louder. "That was NOT
Mommy's car, Amber. There are a lot
of cars that look like hers. There are
tons of white Grand Prixs in the
city. "
"But the license plate. . ."
"It wasn't her car," he said quietly.
1 knew it was, cuz the license plate
said "SGR BEAR." We gave it to her
last Christmas. Daddy said it wasn't
her, though. Maybe it didn't say that,
maybe it was something else kind of
like that. After all, Mommy was at
work.
We pulled out into the street again.
1 hope we're going home now. Maybe
Mommy's home from work. Won't
she be surprised when 1 tell her 1 saw
a car like hers. Just like hers.
It sounded like Daddy had the
sniffles. 1 looked up at him. 1 could
see the wet streaks on his cheek
reflecting the blue light from the
dashboard.
"Daddy, why are you crying?" 1
asked. Suddenly 1 was scared.
"Daddy-please don't cry."
Traveler/31
~S\ G~
~~~~('-SS~e, [ don', know, honestly, what 0< why I am writio•.
~~ (} oo~ I have no excuses to offer, only
\~ ~\c'r.~'{ these frail and failing wrists.
\ \,>'l ~. My perfect fingers are still here
and so is the pain.
You are too happy,
as I sit in this loneliness and listen
for the echo of the telephone ring
and the message, that last message.
It still resounds between these two ears.
I have saved it as I won't save you.
You are drowning and splash happily in your ignorance.
There are no life rafts left.
No tubes of everlasting love have I to throw.
So when you realize that you are inhaling
the blood that you so blindly wrung,
Look not to the ideas of forever to sustain you.
I can only smile and look away
and hope that you are a good swimmer.
Traveler/32
flRS1 pLACE ILLUS1RA110
N
By Morc de CelIe
GLENDALE
COMMUNITY
COLLEGE