"The Traveler" Glendale Community College Literary Magazine, 1988

              1988
TRAVELER
Spring 1988
TRAVELER
Volume 21
GLENDALE COMMUNITY COLLEGE CREATIVE ARTS MAGAZINE
Published annually by G.c.c. English and Art Department 6000 West Olive, Glendale, Arizona 85302
-1988 The Traveler, Glendale Community College
Traveler Staff: Literary Editor: Lorraine Fleck; Literary Staff: Dolores Hanney, Nicola
Jurkovich, Mary Mickle, Colleen Montez; Art and Production Director: Ann Papagalos;
Photography Co-editors: Jerry Eisenberg, Teri Howe, John Lemon; Cover: Cindy Bontrager; Assis­tant
Art Director and Typography: Jeri Walker; Literary Advisors: Joy Wingersky and Jan Boerner;
Art and Photography Advisor: Dean Terasaki; Printing: Bieri Printing.
Special thanks to Gerri Fiedler for her continued support.
Cindy Bontrager - Sea Fossils Second Place Fine Art
The Traveler staff would 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.
Non-Fiction:
Mary - Virginia Brotherton . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 19
Called to Commitment - Dolores Hanney . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 22
The Abandoned Farm - Grace Melody . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 24
The Joys of Reading - Vada Bowers 26
The Fight to be Light - Barbara Hunt 29
Fiction:
The Day Cinderella Went Home - Pamela Gilman. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 4
The Vacant Metropolis - Robert E. Kelley, Jr 12
A Logical Ending - Tim Ward 31
Poetry:
Guardian Angel - Juanita J. Simser . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 3
Lack of Communication - Virginia Brothers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 7
Once - Rebecca C. Slaughter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 9
The Old Woman's Ward at Bellsdyke Hospital - Marion Ingram 10
On Dali's Persistence of Memory - Marion Ingram 15
How Sad the Young Poet - Sharon Hrebicek 16
Prisms - Norma Lee Roudebush 20
What Did You Say? - Nicola Jurkovich . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 21
Who Am I? - Lisa Marie Wesley 23
Paper Relationships - Jill Walterbach 30
The Bird Our Parrot Polly - Nicola Jurkovich 32
The General Store - Nancy C. Webb . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 33
Photography:
Untitled - John Lemon .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 2
Untitled - Jerry Eisenberg . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 5
Untitled - Jerry Eisenberg .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 7
Our Love's Become a Funeral Pyre - John Lemon 8
Untitled - Marquita Porter 13
Mooncircles - Michael D. Gohr . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 16
She's Like Methadone to Me - Russ Ludwig 20
Untitled - Marquita Porter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 25
Kelly - Jim Wilson 27
Windows - Ross Anania 31
Art:
Watercolor: Sea Fossils - Cindy Bontrager Cover
Life Drawing: Untitled - Tony Hamlin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 11
Drawing: Tree - Barbara Boehmer 15
Life Drawing: Morning Stretch - Sandra Cesena . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 17
Ink Wash: Friends Forever - Joann Wolfe 18
Watercolor: Bus Stop - Carol Kong 21
Watercolor: Waterlilies - Ethel Caldwell 22
Life Drawing: Distortion Figure - Pat Jones Hunt 28
Drawing: Untitled - Michele Weiss . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 30
Traveler/l
John Lemon - Untitled
Traveler/2
Guardian Angel
By Juanita J. Simser
My mind grows tired from the effort
Of stretching out beyond its current grasp.
Mentally I wander through the swirling mists of time
Relentlessly pursuing an illusive shadow.
Often in childhood and youth
But rarely as an adult, I have felt
Your presence - this shadow that I glimpse
Only to have you slip out of reach again.
Tonight for a time I shed the shackles of reality
And lightly trip backwards to a simpler way of life.
With each step the memories grow brighter
Until I turn and find you waiting there.
You're just as I've always imagined you to be
Though you died as a baby long before I was born.
Why should that be so? I wonder
As I gaze at this uncle I've never known and yet know so well.
Like you, I was my mother's last child,
And with brother and sister already grown,
I spent my childhood alone until
You came to be my friend and constant companion.
Somehow you were always there
To strengthen me as a child.
You became my confidant and guardian angel
As we communed spirit to spirit.
Through an inner bond I grew to know
The kind of person you are:
Full of love and joy and deep compassion,
Too good to walk this earth for long.
Even now you willingly return
To share your influence on a higher plane.
All you require of me is to take the time
To be still and reach out to you again.
Traveler/3
The Day Cinderella Went Home
By Pamela Gilman
First Place Fiction
" I eri? ..Jeri!"
" eri pretended not to hear.
Footsteps tapped out frantic echoes in
the deserted halls outside the closed
door. She stared in the door's direction,
but couldn't see it yet. Not yet.
"Jeri!"
The call seemed farther away now,
upstairs, maybe. Soon they would give
up, go down, and go back without her.
Jeri smiled her crooked smile, leaning
her head against the red brick wall and
staring into the shadows. The naked
window across the room opened to more
red bricks, red bricks and shadows,
another old building.
Picking up the sapling twig she had
brought with her, she drew invisible pat­terns
on the dusty floor. She listened.
The patterns would be visible, she
reckoned, if she could see the floor. And
the footsteps were fading. Maybe the
others were trotting on downstairs now,
out into the daylight, where the sun
shone, the flowers bloomed and the birds
sang. "[t's a beautiful day for a picnic;'
Susan had said, huffing and puffing,
loting one of the big wicker hampers
across the grass, a beautiful day, warm
with spring sunlight.
A bit of it streaked across the crumbly
bricks outside the wi~dow, just enough
to turn her hiding place from total
blackout dark to hazy charcoal shadow,
just enough to try bringing spring to a
cold, dark hollow of a room, in a
rotting, empty apartment house.
She drew more patterns, her eyes
itching, growing accustomed to the
shadows. The dust lay thick upon the
,floor. Only shards of glass remained in
the double-sashed window, and a colony
of busy roaches crawled over the door.
Traveler/4
If she inhaled deeply, she could smell the
musty-sweet stench of decaying-things.
She drew more patterns on the floor.
"Jeri!" Her name floated up like a
whisper from below, floated like some
ghost weary of haunting a dismal
building like this.
"Jeri!" She bit the soft inside of her
crooked smile. They wanted her out in
the sunlight with the flowers, the birds,
and the warmth. Didn't they care that
she wanted to be inside?
Jeri tucked her thick legs under her
broad seat and leaned forward to inspect
her patterns. The waistband of her new
jeans cut into the fleshy roll of her
middle. It hurt, so she unbuttoned the
first rivet. That felt immediately a little
better, but not much.
She heard more calling, more distant
this time, more distant and distressed, a
verbal SOS, or a searchlight begging
someone to come in and buy a used car.
But these people were her friends, men
and women she had known a long time,
like AI, with his bushy dark beard and
his blue eyes that danced when he
laughed, and Karen, red-headed elf, her
freckled hands always eager to help with
the dishes or to play cat's cradle. There
was Big Buddy, whose pate gleamed as
shiny as the streetlamp outside her win­dow
at home. The others were calling,
100-especially Susan.
Susan was beautiful: tall, slender, with
dark brown hair curling around her
sparkly olive eyes and waving over her
shoulders. Susan had those cheekbones
models covet and an elegant nose. Susan
could have had a glamorous career in
modeling instead of one working long
hours in social service. But Susan never
could have looked aloof or sultry. Susan
always looked kind, even when she was
disappointed, even when she was angry,
even when she was very angry.
Jeri wondered if Susan was very angry
now and if she was still wearing her kind
face. Would Susan be more disappointed
or more angry that Jeri had tired of the
picnic and gone off by herself? But there
wasn't any reason to be either. They were
both grown women. In fact, Susan might
be younger.
"Jeri!" Susan's voice called the loudest
and the longest and penetrated the
shadows, the dust, the rot. Jeri clapped
her hands over her ears. Maybe if she
couldn't hear Susan's voice, she wouldn't
feel this tightness in her chest, this
pounding tightness that wanted to suf­focate
her. She should have brought her
spray with her. But it was too late for
"should haves" and, besides, her asthma
had never killed her anyway.
The dust lay thick upon the
floor. Only shards of glass
remained in the double­sashed
window, and a colony
of busy roaches crawled over
the door.
It was just the picnic and the trees and
the light. Why had they picked today,
today of all days? It was the ninth day
of the fourth month-the ninth day. All
her friends knew how she felt about
nines and fours. This wasn't hide and
seek she was playing. Maybe they had
forgotten. But forgetting was a hard
thing to do so how could they forget the
fours and the nines?
She smiled her crooked smile again
Jerry Eisenberg - Untitled
Traveler/5
and unbuttoned the second rivet, which
felt a little better, but not much more
than before.
Maybe she would wait until they had
all gone away, Al and Karen, Big Buddy
and Susan, everyone. She would wait and
then walk downtown, down those
glittering streets with pieces of paper and
crushed beer cans in the gutters, with the
winos sleeping over the grates in the
sidewalks, and the little men, lurking in
the alleys in their little coats, with their
dirty hats pulled low.
Maybe she would walk right into one
of those dingy bars and order a
bourbon, straight up. Jeri could see the
bourbon glass with those round bumps
on the bottom so it wouldn't make a ring
on the wooden counter. And she could
taste the bourbon, taste it, smell it. Or
was it just the musty, rotten smell of this
room and the aftertaste of the
lemonade? It had been a very long time
since she had been inside a bar, a long
time since she had tasted bourbon, but
she remembered that last drink-she had
drunk it in downtown's Coachman's
Lounge.
But worst of all, she could
see the big ball of silver foil
which she had carefully
molded from bits and pieces
she-had dug out of the dump­sters
behind restaurants and
apartment houses.
Coachman's was a cool refuge from
the summer heat and one could stay
there all day on a five-dollar bill. But the
last day had been different. The man
with the big shoulders had struck up
friendly conversation. She had wondered
what made him talk to her. She wasn't
beautiful. She wasn't even particularly
young. And she was fairly well sotted,
her fiver gone. But he had offered to take
her home anyway, which had been an
astonishing thing.
But, of course, taking her home had
been impossible. So she had thanked him
for the bourbon he had kindly bought
her and she had picked up her bulging
shopping bags and tottered out into the
darkness. But the big-shouldered man
followed. He pushed her down in the
alley, hitting her, his breath hot and
sweet and smelly, as if he'd been drink­ing
something else besides scotch.
She couldn't remember much beyond
the hitting and the breath. After daylight
someone had found her bleeding, and
she saw her shopping bags ripped up, all
her precious things strewn about the
Traveler/6
alley dirt. She remembered that she had
felt a curious pain low down-like
childbirth, almost, though she still
couldn't figure why.
The alley and all her things scattered
around it rose up in the hazy shadows
of the red bricks and the busy roaches.
Jeri squinted hard and could see
everywhere the bright-patterned scraps
of the fabrics and the fluttering bits of
yellow paper, pink paper, white paper­though
the white paper was mostly dir­ty,
grey-brown. She could see the rolled
up plastic torn and the crushed pop and
beer cans that she had smashed with her
blackened feet so they would fit into her
shopping bags.
But worst of all, she could see the big
ball of silver foil which she had careful­ly
molded from bits and pieces she had
dug out of the dumpsters behind
restaurants and apartment houses. The
ball had taken considerable time to
make, but that was OK since it was to
become a celestial radio receiver. Maybe
she would hail some E.T.s and fly
away-Close Encounters of the Ultimate
Kind, something like the movies she now
watched with Susan.
But his heavy combat boot had
smashed the ball, grinding and crushing
it back to silver bits against the dirt of
the alley while he laughed about it. "It
ain't real silver foil anymore, stupid! It's
aluminum. " And he kept grinding and
crushing and laughing until there was no
more silver left to see. She should never
have told him about the radio receiver
in the first place.
"Jeri! Please answer me!" Susan's
desperate voice knocked aside the vision
The ball of silver was long gone. The
man with the big shoulders, gone too. So
were the hurried people in the hospital
emergency room who had mumbled and
rumbled and rushed by without looking
at her twice. Susan and Al and Karen
and Big Buddy, wearing kind but sad
faces, had all come down to the hospital
emergency room, and she had been very
glad to see them after all.
"Jeralyn!" Susan sounded right out­side
the half-eaten door now. Jeralyn, it's
Susan. Please, Jeralyn, come out:'
Was Susan crying? Jeri huddled into
herself, drawing no patterns now. She
stayed as silent and as still as the rot and
the dark. "Jeralyn:' It evoked more vi­sions,
hazy slow-motion visions with
fuzz around the edges, like in the dreams
of daytime TV's story people.
There had been another man once, a
man in a white suit with shiny white
shoes and a pink rose in his lapel, a man
with light hair, laughing eyes, and'strong
arms that embraced her forever. But she
had been pretty and slender and young
then, with bright eyes and long silky hair
the color of roasted chestnuts, and he
had once upon a time become her Shin­ing
Knight.
Jeri smiled her crooked smile, but
drew no patterns because she wanted to '
see more of the light-haired man in the
white suit, holding her pretty and slender
youth. They had music and flowers and
he held her hand and his eyes told her
how beautiful she was in her white lace
gown with the pink roses in her hand­"
beautiful like Cinderella at the ball;' he
whispered. And in their white clothes
they spoke softly to each other on the
green lawn. And it was the ninth day of
the fourth month of yesteryear, the day
of the Shining Knight and beautiful
Cinderella.
A nd he had come to the hospital
emergency room the awful night of
the bourbon in the glass with the round
bumps on the bottom and the man with
the big shoulders and the stinky-sweet
breath who had destroyed her silver ball.
He had come to the hospital, and she
had seen that the laughter had gone
from his eyes and his light hair had got
thinner and whiter. He wouldn't look at
her even once before he told Susan and
Big Buddy and Karen and AI, told them
with hard words that almost broke his
voice, told them that they should "take
Jeralyn back to the farm:'
With the front of her big blue t-shirt,
Jeri wiped the wet from her cheeks and
screamed in her loudest voice:
"Susan!"
Jerry Eisenberg - Untitled
Lack of Communication
By Virginia Brothers
I heard her crying in the night.
I was wrong-she was right.
"I need to groW:' was what she said.
"I don't need you;' was in my head.
Married twenty years or more~
My pride was hurt-I closed the door.
And all the years she'd given me
Were nothing now-How could it be?
Travelerl7
John Lemon - Our Love's Become a Funeral Pyre
Traveler/8
First Place Photography
Once
By Rebecca C. Slaughter
First Place Poetry
Once .
On yellow paper with green lines
He wrote a poem,
And he called it "Chops"
Because that was the name of his dog,
And that's what it was all about.
And his teacher gave him an 'W'
And a gold star.
And his mother hung it on the kitchen door
And showed it to all his aunts.
That was the year his sister was born,
With tiny toenails and no hair.
And his mother and father kissed a lot.
And Father Tracy took the kids to the zoo
And let them play on the swings.
And the girl around the block sent him a
Christmas card with a row of "x's" on it.
And his father always tucked him in bed at night
And was always there to do it.
Once .
On white paper with blue lines,
He wrote another poem,
And he called it "Autumn"
Because that was the name of the season,
And that's what it was all about.
His teacher gave him an "A"
And told him to write more clearly.
And his mother didn't hang it on the kitchen door
Because it had just been painted.
That was the year his sister got glasses,
With dark frames and thick lenses.
And the kids told him why his mother and father
kissed a lot.
And Father Tracy smoked cigars
And left the butts in the pews.
And the girl around the block laughed when he
went to see Santa at Macy's.
And father stopped tucking him in bed at night
And got mad when he cried for him to do so.
Once .
On a piece of paper from a memo pad,
He wrote another poem,
And he called it "Why"
Because that was his question,
And that's what it was all about.
And his teacher gave him an "A"
And told him it was good.
And his mother didn't hang it on the kitchen door
Because she didn't take time to read it.
That was the year his sister took a liking to boys
And did strange things to attract them.
And the kids hardly talked to him.
And Father Tracy was in the hospital with cancer,
And the pews never had any butts in them.
And the girl around the block started to like him.
His father never tucked him in bed at night,
Not even to say "Good night, Son:'
Once .
On paper torn from his notebook,
He wrote another poem,
And he called it "Question Mark Innocence"
Because that was his grief,
And that was what it was all about.
And his teacher gave him an "N'
And a strange and steady look.
And his mother didn't hang it on the kitchen door
Because he didn't let her see it.
That was the year he caught his sister necking on
the back porch steps.
And his mother and father never kissed or
even smiled.
and he forgot the Apostle's Creed,
And Father Tracy died.
And the girl around the block wore too much
makeup that made him cough when she
kissed him.
At 3 a.m. he tucked himself into bed,
His father soundly snoring.
That's Why .
On the back of a pack of matches,
He tried another poem,
And he called it "Nothing"
Because that's what it was all about.
He gave himself an "A"
And a slash in each damp wrist.
And he hung it on the bathroom door
Because he couldn't reach the kitchen door.
Traveler/9
Traveler/ I0
The Old Women's Ward at
Bellsdyke Mental Hospital
By Marion Ingram
Second Place Poetry
Morning rounds, with harried, starched nurses,
shoes squeaking on brown, buffed floors ...
Mountains of fresh linens waiting to be soiled ...
The wet bed smells are masked by Iysol.
For bedsores, the alcohol rubs. Fresh gowns,
pillows plumped for fragile bodies propped like rag dolls.
Here comes the rattling trolley stacked for breakfast,
past the tall windows in drab, green walls,
barred to keep in. Who would want in?
Night rounds, with harried, starched nurses,
shoes squeaking on brown, scuffed floors.
Mountains of fresh linens wait to be soiled.
Teeth nest in glasses beside water carafes,
for parched old mouths. Bedbaths and bedpans,
suppositories and pills, rubber sheets, night blankets
and bed jackets to warm old bones...
In the dimmed light, faded glazed eyes stare, unaware.
Night sounds like chattering monkeys fill the ward.
Ancient voices talk to the past, oblivious to the now.
Veined hands pluck at the white cocoon
that contains the fragile skin and bones.
The rows of beds, not far removed from the morgue,
this dumping ground for the rich and poor,
governess, housewife, teacher or whore.
No discrimination here....only against age.
.'
X;:~L"~
./ l,'iy,~___
/'~ "f"J
Tony Hamlin - Untitled
'",
Traveler 11
The Vacant Metropolis
By Robert E. Kelley, Jr.
Third Place Fiction
T horn Monterosa woke early, when the
sun was just peeking over the horizon.
He kept his eyes closed for a while, trying
to fall back asleep, but his excitement
wouldn't let him drift off again. This is
it, he thought, the last day of school! And
the day that I have to decide whether to
accept the scholarship or stay home and
go to college here. Thorn was looking for­ward
to tonight, when the 830 members
of the graduating class of 2025 said their
good-byes to Phoenix High. Should be
fun, he mused, because the Mayor has
authorized a special allotment of water to
fill the pool for the graduation party! With
that thought, Thorn jumped out of bed
and headed for the bathroom to get ready
for school.
In the bathroom, Thorn relieved himself
into the dry toilet, then entered his per­sonal
code into the Watercomp, unlocking
the metered valves on the toilet and the
sink. He flushed the toilet and, using the
heavily chlorinated, recycled water
sparingly, took a sponge bath. The Water­comp
chimed just as he finished,
indicating that he had used his morning
allotment of one quart. Returning to his
room, Thorn began to dress, taking his
clothes from the sonic cleaning cabinet
and shaking them before he put them on.
As he dressed, Thorn wondered what it
would be like to live somewhere else
besides Phoenix. To wear different,
freshly washed clothes every day. To be
able to take a shower every day, instead
of once a week. His father sometimes told
stories about when he had been a kid, and
water had seemed plentiful. Back then,
Phoenix had over 3 million people living
within the city limits and the suburbs had
over 2 million more. Thorn couldn't pic­ture
that many people living in this dry,
desolate, desert town. Thorn finished
dressing, then headed out of his room.
"Thorn, is that you? What are you
doing up so early?" His mother spoke
from the kitchen; it was her turn to make
breakfast, so Thorn stuck his head in the
doorway before answering her.
"Yeah, it's me mom. I couldn't sleep
anymore. "
Traveler/12
"Excited about tonight, dear?" she ask­ed.
"Well, I'm glad you're up. Would you
go down to the corner and get our water
so I can make some juice for breakfast?"
"Sure, mom, no prob." Thorn crossed
the room to where the water jug was kept.
He grabbed the jug and the ration card
that hung next to it and headed out the
door. Cutting across the artificial lawn he
stopped for a moment to observe a ~ac­tus
wren fluttering puzzledly around the
plastic tree that shaded the front of the
house. One did not see too many birds in
town anymore, or too many living things
at all, except people. Since the ration laws
went into effect, there wasn't anything
growing around anybody's house, not
even the plants that had once been native
to this area. For that matter, you had to
travel clear outside the old boundaries of
settlement before you could see plants
growing. Only where the desert had
remained undisturbed did the native plants
flourish. The rest of the land was either
covered with abandoned remains of old
subdivisions or burned out from the farms
that used to surround the metropolitan
area. Imagine, farms in a desert, Thorn
thought. Nothing grew on the farms now
except an occasional weed during the short
rainy season.
When he reached the corner, Thorn saw
that he was not the only one who was
getting the day's water ration this early.
Mrs. Hernandez, the lady who lived two
houses down from the Monterosas, was
waiting in line behind three other people.
Thorn recognized them as the fathers of
some of the kids he went to school with.
Tommy Jones' father was at the outlet,
the Walsh kids' father was behind him
and Samantha Herbold's father was jus;
in front of Mrs. Hernandez.
"Hi, Thommy," Mrs. Hernandez
greeted him as he took his place in line.
"I don't usually see you here. Is your
mother sick?"
"No ma'am, she's fine," Thorn
answered. "I was up early, so she asked
me to come and get the water while she
started breakfast." Thorn hesitated, then
went on. "Please don't call me Thommy,
Mrs. Hernandez. I'm not a little boy
anymore."
"Oh! I'm sorry, Thorn," she replied
with a smile. It doesn't seem that long
since your parents brought you home from
the hospital."
"I know, Mrs. Hernandez, I know.
You've told me often enough." To
himself, Thorn wondered if she would ever
quit calling him Thommy. Probably not.
When his turn came, Thorn moved up
to the water station. After waving
goodbye to Mrs. Hernandez, he placed the
five gallon jug under the outlet and stuck
the ration card into the reader. The
computer read the code on the card and
lowered the nozzle to dispense the three
gallons of drinking water that was allotted
to a family of three for each day.
When he got back home with the water,
Thorn found his father sitting at the table,
waiting for his breakfast. Thorn put the
jug on the counter and sat down next to
his father. "Morning, Dad."
"Good morning, son," his father
answered. "You haven't been up this early
since the day we left for our vacation in
San Diego, three years ago. Excited about
graduation?"
"Yeah, some, Dad." Thorn hesitated,
then went on in a rush. " What was it like
to live in Phoenix when there was plenty
of water?"
Mr. Monterosa gazed at his son for a
moment, then spoke. "Well, for one thing'
Thorn, there never really was plenty of
water. People thought that there was and
so they tried to live the same lifestyle that
they knew back home, wherever back
home was. If the government had ... "
Letting his voice trail off, Mr. Monterosa
stared out the window for a moment or
two, wondering what he could say to his
son to give him a picture of Phoenix in the
days when it was attracting people from
all over the world to the Valley of the Sun.
While he was thinking, his wife took up
the conversation.
"When we were kids, back in the
1980's, Phoenix was a thriving, growing
metropolis. It was the 9th largest city in
the country and getting larger every day.
Marquita Porter - Untitled
Even then, there were people who spoke
out against the growth, like Edward
Abbey, who warned that the water supp­ly
wouldn't last."
"Then why didn't they do something?"
Thorn looked up questioningly, first at his
mother, then his father.
"Because they weren't in charge, and
the people who were in charge thought
that the growth was good for the
economy," Mr. Monterosa answered
flatly.
"It was good for the economy!"
Thorn's mother interjected, darting a
glance at her husband.
"Yes, it was. But it wasn't good for
Phoenix. At that time, less that 15 percent
of the people who lived in Phoenix were
natives, who cared more about Phoenix as
a place to live than just a place to make
a living," Mr. Monterosa retorted.
"So the people who moved here tried
to make Phoenix just like the places they
came from?" Thom inquired.
When we were kids, back in
the 1980's, Phoenix was a
thriving, growing metropolis.
It was the 9th largest city in
the country and getting
larger every day.
"Exactly, Thorn," Mr. Monterosa
answered, then got up to toss his empty
paper cup into the recyler. He leaned
against the counter before continuing the
conversation. "But still, even with all the
growth, things didn't get too bad all at
once. It wasn't until we had 10 years of
extremely wet weather that the trouble
began."
"Wet weather, Dad?" Thorn didn't
understand how wet weather could cause
a water shortage.
"That's right, wet weather. The lakes
on the Salt River were filled to overflowing
every year, which delayed necessary repair
work on the dams." Mr. Monterosa
paused, remembering his father, who had
been fishing on Apache Lake the day that
Roosevelt Dam gave way. Mrs.
Monterosa, guessing his thoughts, reached
over and patted her husband's hand, then
got up and headed for the bedroom to get
ready for work. Thorn's father watched
her go, then resumed speaking. "In May,
or maybe it was June, I don't remember
for sure, anyway it was in 1995, a small
plane crashed into Roosevelt Dam. Some
people thought it was a terrorist attack;
others said it was just an accident.
Whichever it was, the plane exploded on
impact, cracking the dam. Water pressure
did the rest. As the wall of water reached
the dams downriver, they each failed in
turn, increasing the flood." Momentarily
overcome with the memory of the
catacylsm that had cost him his father,
Mr. Monterosa stopped speaking and
turned to stare blankly out the window.
Thom recognized his father's grief and sat
Traveler/13
quietly, waiting for the moment of sorrow
to pass.
A hour later, when, when Thorn left for
school, he was deep in thought about the
An hour later, when ·Thom left for
school, he was deep in thought about the
last part of his conversation with his
father. Thorn had seen the remains of the
business district in what used to be
downtown Phoenix, but he had never
thought about the horror that the
sinkholes which had destroyed it must
have caused when they were occurring.
Nobody had been prepared for that result
from the overpump-ing of ground-water
in the 60's, 70's, and 80's. His father's
description of what had happened when
the section of land that lay underneath the
building that housed the headquarters of
the largest bank in Arizona had suddenly
subsided, leaving a sinkhole a hundred feet
deep, filled with the twisted remains of the
skyscraper, was almost enough to take
him out of the ebullient mood he had been
in since he awoke this morning. Thinking
about the fate that befell the thousands of
people who had been at work when the
building collapsed made Thorn feel very
strange, so he put it out of his mind.
Instead, he started thinking about the
decision he had to make today concerning
which scholarship offer he would accept.
He had almost decided to stay at home
and attend the community college and
ASU south, but he began to wonder if he
should accept the scholarship to CalTech
instead. He was so preoccupied with his
thoughts that he almost bumped into one
of his fellow seniors when he reached the
bus stop.
"Hey! Watch where you're going,
Brain! "
Startled out of his reverie, Thorn stop­ped
walking and looked around. He was
surprised to see that he had reached the
bus stop and that the other kids were all
looking at him. Directly in front of him
was Eddie Walsh, one of his best friends
from school. Eddie, with a smirk on his
face, was looking at Thorn.
"What-?" Thorn started to ask, only
to be iiJterrupted by Eddie.
"You were walking down the sidewalk
looking like you were in a trance," Eddie
said. "When you almost bumped into me,
I thought I'd better wake you up."
"Oh. Sorry, Eddie, and thanks."
"Hey, no prob." Eddie glanced
around, as if he was looking for someone,
then continued. "What's the matter with
you this morning, Brain? Samantha give
you such a workout last night that your
mind is still spinning?" Ever since Thorn
had started dating Samantha Herbold,
Eddie had given him a hard time about it.
Thorn figured Eddie was a little jealous,
having dated Samantha for a few months
last year, until she dumped him at the end
of the school year.
"No, Eddie. Nothin' like that. I didn't
Traveler/14
even see her last night," Thorn retorted.
"Actually, I was thinking about college."
"College! What's the prob, Brain, can't
wait to get over to California, away from
your parents, close to the ocean with all
that beautiful water and all those lovely
girls in skimpy bathing suits?" Eddie was
headed for San Diego State, mostly for the
social opportunities he thought he would
find there. Eddie's idea of a good school,
as he often informed Thorn, was one
where the girls outnumbered the boys.
"No, Eddie, not at all. To tell the truth,
I was wondering just where I should go to
school." Thorn had not told Eddie that he
had been considering staying in Phoenix
and attending the community college. As
far as Eddie knew, Thorn was headed for
California just as he was. Thorn looked
at his friend for a moment, then
continued. "Maybe I'll just stay here and
go to the community college for a while."
"STAY HERE!!" Eddie blurted.
"You've got to be kidding! You don't
want to spend the rest of your life in this
dry, desolate, backwater of a town, do
you?"
"I don't know, Eddie, I just don't
know. At first I was going to CalTech,
then I thought about staying here. Now,
I just don't know what I should do. You
know that if we leave Phoenix, it will be
difficult to get permission from the Water
Board to move back. So I guess I have to
decide where I want to spend the rest of
my life, here or elsewhere."
Eddie started to reply, but he was cut
off by the arrival of the school bus. He
and Thorn followed the other kids onto
the bus and found seats near the rear.
Eddie again started to say something to
Thorn, but his attention was caught by
another of the seniors, who wanted to
know something about the party that Ed­die
was having that night, after the pool
party at the school.
Eddie spent the entire bus ride talking
to the other seniors on the bus about his
party and never did tell Thorn whatever
it was that he had started to say.
After going to his homeroom for the
last time, and then to the final practice for
the ceremony, Thorn made his way across
campus to the administration building,
arriving there a few minutes before his
I I :00 a.m. appointment with his
counselor. He checked in with the
secretary, then stood, staring moodily out
the window, until he heard his name
called.
"Thomas Monterosa," the secretary
called.
"Yes?" Thorn answered over his
shoulder.
"You can go in now."
"Thank you," Thorn replied, then
turned and walked across the lobby to his
counselor's office. He knocked once, then
went in and shut the door behind him.
"Thorn! How are you today?" His
counselor greeted him with a smile.
"Ready to sign the papers for CaITech?"
"I'm fine, Mr. G., but I'm not sure that
I'm going to go to CaITech."
"Not going to CalTech! Why?" Mr.
Gennaco inquired, looking across his desk
at Thorn. .
"I'm not sure that I'm ready to leave
Phoenix," Thorn answered. "I've been
trying to decide if the education that I'd
get at CalTech would be worth leaving
home for. I like it here and I think I want
to make Phoenix my home after I get my
degree. "
"That's commendable, Thorn. Phoenix
needs more of its bright young people to
stay here, instead of running off to a wet­ter
place as soon as they finish high school.
But what does that have to do with your
attending, or not attending CaITech?"
Mr. Gennaco look inquiringly at Thorn,
waiting for his reply.
"It's the Water Board, Mr. G.," Thorn
blurted. "If I leave, they might not let me
come back. I've heard how hard it is to
get your ration card reinstated if you move
away and then want to come back."
Mr. Gennaco leaned back in his chair
and smiled. "That's correct, Thorn, as far
as it goes, but you've evidently
misunderstood the regulations."
Thorn leaned forward, his expression
eager. "Misunderstood? How?"
"It is true that if you move away from
Phoenix the Water Board can be quite
reluctant to reinstate your ration card, but
leaving the Valley to attend college isn't
considered moving."
"It's not moving? Why not?" Thorn
was curious, but the news that he would
be allowed to return home after college
had already made him feel a lot better.
"Because, if the Water Board did not
guarantee to allow college students to
return home after they get their degrees,"
Mr. Gennaco replied, "then the brightest
seniors would either have to stay home
and get an inferior education, or choose
to leave Phoenix for good so that they
could attend one of the better
universities.' ,
"Gee, I never thought of that, Mr. G.,"
Thorn said. "I guess we'd better get my
paperwork filled out, because I'm going
to CalTech. I was only hesitating because
I didn't want to leave home for good."
Thorn left the administration building
and headed across campus, towards the
auditorium, where the award ceremony
was to be held. He was back in the
ebullient mood that he had been in when
he woke up and was looking forward to
the assembly, to the rest of the day, and
to the rest of his life.
Barbara Boehmer - Tree
On Dali's Persistence of Memory
By Marion Ingram
Memory, the slightly altered past, like melted wax,
Molded in its space, yet not recalled exactly,
nor exactly forgotten.
Some memories colored bold and bright like
towering eli ffs in sunlight.
Reflected in the ocean's depth of time yet
fathomable still.
Dark memories hidden in shadow, not discerned,
But there beyond the shade, buried but
not dead.
Memory, branching ever backward, gathering the
basket weave of life togther,
In a tight tangle through which only a lifetime
can pass into memory.
Traveler/IS
Michael D. Gohr - Mooncicles
Traveler/16
Third Place Photography
How Sad The Young Poet
By Sharon Hrebicek
How sad the young poet
That is forced
To look at the moon
With an angle
Of reality.
Sandra Cesena - Morning Stretch First Place Fine Art
Traveler/17
Joann Wolfe - Friends Forever
Traveler/18
L ooking out the window, not really
observing the scene below but
reflecting, I am able to leave reality for
a moment. The antiseptic, caustic smell
of the hospital with its bland white walls
and pervasive quiet was getting to me­no
more than it would have gotten to her,
really, if she were conscious or cognizant
of what was going on.
A slight stir redirected my attention
back to the bed. The cancer has taken
its toll. It has decimated what was one
of the strongest, most vital people ever
created and left a mere shadow of a
human being, hardly enough to make an
impression in the engulfing bed.
Mary was the essence of life, and she
lived it to its fullest. Every day was an
adventure; everyone she met was special.
"Optimistic" would be a mild word to
describe Mary. She was all the "good"
and "positive" in the world and she
cared, really cared, about people. She
once said that anyone who might steal
her wallet would probably need it more
than she.
That's what makes it so hard to see her
now, lying there lifeless, a living sktleton.
There is no expression left to her
face...that face that always held a smile.
The tubes and machines have taken away
all the humanness, leaving a creature
which both attracts and repels me at the
same time.
Ah, the guilt. That also infuriates me.
How could one feel repulsion for such
a wonderful person? Perhaps it started
when she lost control of her body
functions. Perhaps it was the loss of
recognition of me after all the
ministering and caring I had given to her.
Perhaps it happened when that proud
spirit was crushed into a whiney, crying
fetal being. Perhaps it happened when
all the turmoil of grief and guilt became
Mary
By Virginia Brotherton
Third Place Non-Fiction
my constant compa.nion. It's not rele­vant,
I guess, except for my own stability.
Mary was only given two weeks, four
at the most, to live. Well, she had done
it in her own inimitable way, and she had
made it six weeks. Even though the
quality of this existence was
questionable, the relevance for it was
not. She was making a statement to the
end: "I'm a survivor, and life is not going
to beat me!" Mary was not arrogant,
because she truly believed in her
omnipotent God; but she also wanted to
show Him that she really appreciated her
gift of life and wanted to use it fully.
Perseverance, love, appreciation, a zest
for life-all these qualities she possessed,
yet they were insignificant compared to
her gift of humor, which she generously
passed on to all she came in contact
with. Anyone can laugh when things are
easy and going smoothly, but Mary was
the "one in the million" who could laugh
when she was hurt, and life was kicking
her in the teeth. I recall the time she had
been a waitress and her wig had fallen
into a customer's dinner. With great
control and dignity, she merely picked it
up, shook it off, put it back on her head
and told the man she would bring him
another meal. And when she was first
battling the cancer which threatened her
existence, she accepted that challenge
with a sense of humor too: the
chemotherapy had caused a loss of
hair-not a calamity because Mary wore
a wig anyway, but the loss of eyelashes
and eyebrows was another matter. She
spent hours petulantly working and
laughing while she tried to glue
unattachable eyelashes to her skin. I
smile when I think of how undaunted
she was.
The distractions of the lung machine
whirring and sucking return me to the
horrors of the present. Her arms are
black and blue from the nurses'
unsuccessful attempts to begin
intravenous feedings. "Sheer will;' that's
what the professionals attribute her
breathing to. They are dumbfounded by
it, yet it seems to disturb them. Oh, the
anger. The so-called "professionals"
seem heartless. Mary could teach them
a lot about humanity; that is, she could
have taught them a lot about humanity.
Pray, Pray. She believed in prayer.
Good, bad, or indifferent, she believed.
And when the prayers weren't answered,
what then? She never told me that. Were
all her prayers answered, or did she just
accept all the answers she got? The
answer for me now is the dichotomy of
wanting her alive/well for me, and realiz­ing
that death would really be the
kindest answer for her. Maybe that's it!
Even now she has found a way to tran��scend
life and complete my final lesson.
She has hung on only until I was ready.
My wanting her alive has been selfish but
based on the human emotion of love.
She is ready for the next step now, and
I must be too. She just sighed. I will too,
for that was her last breath. Good-bye,
Mother, you always had such patience
with me.
Mary was the essence of life,
and she lived it to the fullest.
Every day was an adventure;
everyone she met was special.
"Optimistic" would be a mild
word to describe Mary.
Traveler/19
Russ Ludwig - She's Like Methadone to Me
Prisms
By Norma Lee Roudebush
Falling from the sky
Bits of rainbows
Prisms reflecting light
Sparkling dancing
Dashing madly
Falling to the ground
Clouds rolling overhead
Reflecting in mirrors
Lying in puddles
On the ground
Liquid rainbows
Mirrors
Broken by the
Steps
Of the crowd.
Traveler120
Second Place Photography
What Did Yon Say?
By Nicola Jurkovich
There are many ways to say nothing,
And many ways not to say something.
Some ways mean nothing,
While none mean something.
But all in all, and one in one,
The same is the same, in the end,
They all stand for the same-that is:
For nothing!
So you see, to say something
is really to mean nothing.
Carol Kong - Bus Stop
Traveler/2l
Ethel Caldwell - Waterlilies
Called To Commitment
By Delores Hanney
Third Place Fine Art
With his bushy, grey streaked, shoulder
length hair, he looks, at first
glance, a little like a mad scientist, but
his joyful sense of color marks him for
the artist he is. In what must seem at
times another incarnation, Randy
Gorbette was an architect. If this were
a more perfect world, he would probably
still be cheerfully designing sleek, neo­deco
diners furnished with shiny chrome
and atmospheric neon instead of testi­fying
before legislative and professional
groups, comforting bereaved parents and
friends, or listening to one stricken cry
for answers. Though he clings yet to his
snappy-if frequently unreliable-
Traveler/22
vintage T-Bird, most vestiges of his
earlier, more comfortable and amusing
life have long since fallen away.
Two years ago, appalled by the
ignorance and insensitivity they met as
he shuttled a friend with Acquired
Immune Deficiency Syndrome (AIDS)
around from hospital to office to agency,
he vowed to devote his time, his talents
and his resources to educating the
Phoenix community to the myths-and
the realities-of AIDS, so that other
PWA's (people with AIDS) would not
have to endure the callous attitudes and
thoughtless behaviors his friend had
repeatedly encountered just when he was
most in need of loving concern.
Sustained in the endeavor by Bob Minor,
his unselfish design firm partner who,
like himself, was willing to cast off
worldly comfort and join the crusade,
Randy now functions as the Executive
Director of the Phoenix Shanti Group,
a non-profit, volunteer organization
patterned after the San Francisco group
and dedicated to the twin objectives of
emotional support for PWA's and
enriched understanding for the Valley of
the Sun.
His exalted posItIon in this
organization is entirely devoid of fringes,
perks and ·salary, but offers 12-14 hour
days, six or seven days a week, and
plenty of exposure. Relentlessly driven
and selflessly committed, Randy parlays
what sane folk would view as lousy con­ditions
into opportunities: opportunities
he is equipped to utilize to maximum
effect. Raised in an environment where
it was unacceptable to be a Jew, his
family lived a secularized lifestyle, if not
overtly as pseudo-gentiles. He is, never­theless,
blessed (or cursed) with a well­honed
Jewish sense of tragedy and high
drama, which color, and contribute to,
an awesome charisma that has facilitated
the gathering of a band of disciples to
share in the work, and in earning for
Randy a reputation as the foremost ex­pert
here on the human dimensions of AIDS.
Randy's "message;' if he has one, stead­fastly
revolves around the concept of uncon­ditionallove.
It is hardly shocking, therefore,
that Shanti operates under the motto
"affection without rejection" towards the
PWA; nor is one surprised to discover that
he insists it is the role of the Shani volunteer
to accompany the PWA on his journey, not
to interject a personal agenda. He believes
that AIDS and the individuals living with it
are here to teach, showing the way to com­passion
and a sense of connection to our
fellow sojourners in this life. Though AIDS
is a disease for which traditional medicine of­fers
little optimism regarding a cure, and a
disease that has taken first one friend and
then another with a monstrous, boring
regularity, Randy still considers people with
AIDS to be people with alternatives. His aim
is to surround each one who desires it with
loving people to support and empower him
in making whatever choices the PWA sees as
right for himself and his experience of this
syndrome with many faces.
Quietly tucking the pain of countless and
continuing personal losses into his heart to
grieve at a later date (when there is time), he
goes forth each morning-sometimes to the
music of accolades for his very real gift to
Phoenix, often in frustration over setbacks
or indifferences that greet him, always to the
nagging difficulty of finances-to better the
lot of those who are so special to him: People
with AIDS. If asked why he does it, he might
respond by sharing part of a letter from
Virginia Anders, who works at Red Cross to
attain many of the selfsame goals. Two brief,
poignant paragraphs clearly explain and
illustrate both reason and motivation:
This morning when I got up in my nice
warm house to begin my day, I found
a note on my kitchen table from a
friend who has been living with me.
This is what it said: "VA-Thank you
for the info. I won't need it at all. The
friend who did need it died tonight at
around eight p.m. He took his own life.
He was only 24. Thank you. Pat."
Pat's friend had found out recently
Who Am I?
By Lisa Marie Wesley
Third Place Poetry
that he was HIV+ (had tested positive
for AIDS antibodies in his blood, but
did not necessarily have the AIDS
virus). He did not have AIDS. He had
no symptoms. But he had been scared
to death by the media, the constant
misinformation, the silence, the pre­judice,
the unknown. I can do nothing
to bring him back. His friends and
family are going to have to sort through
their own emotions-probably in
silence for fear of what other people
would think of them.
R andy is making a difference in the
attitudes about and treatment of
PWA's, but for all his sacrifice he is no
saint. Congenitally theatrical and
volatile, he is fully capable of pitching
severe snit-fits, of being stubborn, shrill
and snotty-occasionally all at once. In­deed,
it is perhaps not so much the
urgency and fidelity to commitment he
exhibits but the humanity he brings to
it that renders his example such a
touching, compelling inspiration.
Who am I?
Tell me if you know.
I am lost inside myself.
I know not where to go.
I know not who I really am.
I don't know what to feel,
And when I do set feelings free,
I know not if they're real.
I've spent my life just pleasing you
And being who you want.
I've done this for so long
I know not what I want.
I am just your puppet
Dancing on a rope.
I've lost all chance of finding me,
And, yes, I've lost all hope.
That's the way it's meant to be:
Me living through your eyes,
Never knowing what the truth is,
Believing only lies.
When I gaze into your face
And stare into your eyes,
I see just what created me,
And it I do despise.
I'll never know just who I am.
You'll never set me free.
I'll always be just what you want
And never will be me.
Traveler/23
The Abandoned Farm
By Grace Melody
First Place Non-Fiction
I can still see the silhouette of that dil­apidated
three-room shack and its
tired, disintegrating out-buildings,
scat tered forlornly on the rise of a small
hill in the backwoods of Oregon. The
image, much like a Rorschach ink blot,
sometimes looms as a skeletal spectre of
t he past; on ot her occasions it appears
as a symbol of fantasy-filled childhood
days. It was "home" to me for the
sensitive years between six and nine. The
experiences of my life during those years
were as mixed as the features of that
neglected forty-acre farm. The habitat
had both drawbacks and benefits which
it dealt out in equal amounts to those
who live there. The duality seems to be
an apt analogy of my life at that time.
My family, which consisted of an
overworked, distraught mother, an ailing
father, and four lively children, was as
lacking in material possessions as the
house and grounds were in structural
substance and upkeep. Due to my
fat her's illness, work and paycheck were
sporadic at best. The increasing number
of doctor appointments and the ensuing
surgery completely overwhelmed the
fragile in-flow of funds.
At the time of his death, we were defi­cient
in many of the essentials of life.
Our clothing was always second-hand,
usually left-over church bazaar items my
mot her had made over to fit us. Pro­viding
proper food for four growing
children was an impossible task without
a refrigerator for storing perishables.
Bread, freshly baked in the oven or fried
in a cast-iron skillet on the wood­burning
cookstove, became the mainstay
of our diet.
The house, too, was in need. The wind
whistled through the tattered tar-paper
Traveler/24
siding, raising the worn linoleum off the
kitchen floor. the other two rooms were
void of linoleum, offering splinters to
those who risked crossing them with bare
feet. The tiny attic, accessed by narrow
wooden stairs which led up to a
trap-door, completed the crowded living
space. During the day, it was delightful
to rummage through the boxes of old
clothes stored up there, trying on
rummage-sale dresses which were await­ing
my mother's handiwork. Sunlight
st reaming through the dusty broken win­dow
pane, gave a wash of golden fantasy
to everything in the room. Once, I ven­tured
up after dark and was terrified of
the transformation created by moonlight
casting eerie shadows about.
The house had never been plumbed
and the well connected to the towering
windmill would only grudgingly cough
out spurts of brackish water after much
tedious priming. We transported our
water from the neighbor's well, located
a mile from us, in two tall metal milk
cans. My brothers hated the chore of
packing water. I would go with them on
the quest, but was of no help since even
the empty cannisters were too heavy for
me to lift. I would skip ahead of them
on the path through the woods, picking
wildflowers and enjoying the chatter of
the squirrels and birds, while they
grumbled and struggled with their load.
In the winter, we melted snow in a big
double-boiler placed on top of the cook­stove,
thus cutting down on the number
of trips made to the neighbor's well.
The winters were terribly cold, and the
water-packing chore was replaced with
one I could not escape, that of
continually clltting and stacking wood
for the stoves. Blisters and splinters werr
daily events. At bedtime I would stand
close to the pot-bellied iron stove in the
main room until the skin on my arms
and legs under my flannel nightie turned
red and mottled. Then I would rush to
the bed I shared with my sister, jump
between the chilly sheets and let the heat
I had stored up radiate and warm the
covers. In the mornings, we children
would feign sleep for as long as possible;
no one wanted to be the first one up, to
brave the cold and kindle the fires.
The ancient, leaning barns and the
orchard of gnarled old apple trees,
though useless for their intended pur­poses,
provided wonderful places to play.
My brothers placed a long board bet­ween
the haylofts of the two barns and
would walk across it, pretending to be
circus stars. Being too timid to stand up­right
and traverse it, I scooted across,
chafing holes in my precious underwear.
I spent hours climbing in the apple trees.
Sometimes I would take a book from
school with me and let the sturdy arm
of an old tree cradle me while I care­fully
ate wormy green apples and read,
transported by the book to another world.
We moved into a larger house, closer
to town, about a year after my
father died and I was torn between ex­citement
over having so much room and
apprehension at leaving all my secure,
"favorite places" on the farm. When I
reflect on that place today, it still has the
power to evoke mixed emotions. The
memories of harsh, cold reality are
tightly interwoven with those of warm,
childhood enchantment.
Marquita Porter - Untitled
Traveler/25
The Joys of Reading
By Vada Bowers
Reading is my°joy, my pleasure, my
entertainment, my passport to the
world and an updeniable compulsion. If
nothing else is at hand, I've been known
to read telephone books or the
newspaper liners from dresser drawers.
Perhaps growing up an only child who
lived two blocks from a small town
library helped to foster this love of
books. When I was seven years old, a
baby sitter took me to get my first library
card. Our library was a very old two­story
house. It had wood floors that
creaked and book shelves that lined the
walls of the various sized rooms. Most
rooms had their own fireplaces. The se­cond
story was all storage for
newspapers and magazines and served as
a work area for book mending. The
front yard was covered with a huge old
chestnut tree. In the fall the multi­colored
leaves seemed to reach a small
child's knees, and all the little boys
delighted in throwing chestnuts at
everything and everybody. That wonder­ful
old library is gone now, replaced by
a modern building of brick and glass.
I'm sure it is more efficient and certainly
less of a fire hazard, but it can't hope
to have the character, warmth and
memories of that old house. I wonder
also if small children feel as much at
home. My first check-out was" Water
Babies Circus. " I no longer remember
the text, but can clearly recall the
beautiful illustrations. My first book was
read several times in the first twenty-four
hours. My mother felt that daily trips to
the library were a little excessive, so I had
to settle for three books a week for the
next several years. By the time I reached
junior high the books were longer and
so were the school assignments, so I had
to cut back to three books every two to
three weeks. College took such a toll!
There was so much assigned reading that
little time was left for pleasure reading.
Occasionally school work was put aside
for a day while I sped through a trashy
Traveler/26
novel. What a luxury! Summer would
roll around, and it was back to the
library for a three-month reading binge.
Marriage and small children curtailed
my reading again, but soon the children
were being read to, and then they were
reading themselves. My daughter can
still recite whole Dr. Zeuss books from
memory. Then we graduated to some of
my remembered favorites, and Secret
Garden, Snow Treasure, and Winnie the
Pooh were read aloud. We always read
only one chapter a night no matter how
sweet the plea for "Please just one
chapter tonight:'
As the children grew, I tried to read
some of what they read to keep abreast
of their interests and thoughts. When my
son went through a "Conan" phase, he
nearly lost me. They are gone from home
now and are on their own, but we still
exchange books and love to review and
discuss our favorites.
I calculate that I have read somewhere
between three and four thousand books.
Some have been trash and some boring
but all were completed because I always
had the hope that the boring ones would
improve. I have never read a book
without learning something.
Sometimes the knowledge is of doubt­ful
value, but it is knowledge. The James
Bond series was pure escapist adventure,
but it also provided marvelous
travelogues and discourses on food,
wine, cars and little-known games of
chance such as baccarat. There are also
those magic moments when one of life's
mysteries is solved. For years I had heard
the word "vichyssoise" and knew it was
cold soup. I had also encountered a
really strange word in print that I
couldn't pronounce, but I knew it was
soup also. Can you imagine my delight
when one day I discovered that they were
the same word?
When I want to learn a new skill, I
first read a book. I became interested in
quilting before its current renaissance.
After reading several books, I began
quilting and have been at it for several
years. An interest in miniature room set­tings
led to more books and a fascinating
new hobby. I had a rudimentary
knowledge of embroidery and crochet;
again, books sharpened those skills. We
don't have to attend a class or wait for
someone to show us when 'how to do it'
books abound.
One of my fantasies is to order all the
books written by my favorite authors.
What fun it would be to uhpack,
catalog, shelve and then read. Just think
of all the adventures of Gann or Mac'
Lean, the politics of Drury, the intrigue
of Follette, Ludlum or Cussler, the pur��ple
prose of Michaels or Rogers, the re­cent
history of Uris and the varied sub­jects
of Haley or Wallace. How can
anyone not read when there is that
smorgasbord just waiting to be
devoured? How is it possible to ever be
bored?
I have a terri fic collection of books
just waiting for grandchildren so we can
read aloud and I can delight once again
to Mother Goose, Grimm and the Heidi,
Little House, or Big Red series. Maybe
I'd better read them over once again so
I don't get rusty while waiting.
That wonderful old library is
gone now, replaced by a
modern building of brick and
glasso I'm sure it is more
efficient and certainly less of
a fire hazard, but it can't
hope to have the character,
warmth and memories of
that old house.
""""'.~--
, ....~)--~
Jim Wilson - Kelley
Traveler/27
Pat Jones Hunt - Distortion Figure
Traveler/28
The Fight To Be Light
By Barbara Hunt
I f you have never had to battle the bul��ges,
read no further. If, however, your
bathroom scale rises and falls like a
barometer, you may find my dietology
useful. Having lost hundreds of pounds
over the past twenty years, I consider
myself an authority on weight loss. I
have discovered three major categories:
the miraculous diet, the wondrous diet,
and the realistic diet. There are so many
that I could never cover all the diets in
each category; therefore, I will cover a
few in each category.
Your class reunion is only two weeks
away and you have got to lose twenty
pounds. It will take a miracle. To your
surprise, there it is-a scientific
breakthrough, and just in time-the
miraculous diet. This one uses amino
acids in tablet form. Four of these babies
on an empty stomach at bedtime, and
you can sleep those pounds away-with
no diet or exercise program needed.
Imagine it, fat falling off, while you
sleep.
In this same category you will find
enzymes, spirulina, guarana, or the
famous vinegar, B-6, and lecithin diet
tablets. All of these methods promise
astonishing results, with no sacrifices.
Now, on a lesser plateau, is the
wondrous diet. This will do wonders for
your figure and with minimal exertion.
In just thirty to sixty days you will no
longer be the Crisco Kid.
Take the rotation diet-all you do is
eat bananas one day, only apples the
next day, only green beans the next day
and by day number seven you can no
longer risk being more that thirty steps
from the bathroom.
Also in this range is the Dr. Atkins'
Diet Revolution, a high protein, low
carbohydrate diet. You eat all the meat
you want, and still lose weight without
hunger, but your breath is atrocious, you
su ffer liver damage, and muscle tissue
breaks down.
Or you might see the Fat Doctor who
offers diet pills and vitamin B shots once
a week. The pills give you the jitters and
shots are a real pain in the derriere.
Perhaps you were considering the
famous Cambridge Diet, so you can
drink shakes three times a day instead
of eating meals. The side effects of this
protein drink diet can be nausea and
severe headaches.
There are endless fad diets in this
category and none of them offer
balanced meals. A trip to Ethiopia
would be a good alternative.
In the realistic diet category, we fin"d
the sensible diets, starting with Weight
Watchers and ending with the twelve
hundred calorie exchange diet. These
diets offer balanced, sensible meals, and
make no outrageous promises. Support
groups and exercise are used along with
the diet. You are taught how to use ex­ercise
as an effective appetite suppressant
and calorie burner. Here you can start
a successful fight to be light.
Having evaluated each category, I
would make some changes. Instead of
miraculous, "ludicrous" might be a more
appropriate label. We all know that
losing weight in our sleep is ludicrous,
not miraculous. Perhaps the wondrous
diet is better called "foolish~' These diets
are not wonderful; they are foolhardy. If
our realistic diets were renamed
"meritorious" they might be more
tempting, like a fine dessert.
Any experienced dieter knows that
taking off the lard can be hard, but with
vigorous exercise, strong will power,
common sense and perseverance, we can
beat the bulges.
Traveler/29
Michele Weiss - Untitled
Traveler/30
Paper
Relationships
By Jill Walterbach
Writing is my voice,
Poetry my hands,
Reaching where I can't,
Creating for me
Paper relationships.
Words are safer when written,
Each carefully thought-out
And weighed,
Before being set free
To be judged.
Hiding in pen and paper,
Afraid to speak out-loud,
I am lost in a world of words,
Silence and
Paper relationships.
I need those words
Reaching for me.
To those I need
Yet fear,
Paper relationships are safer.
..
Ross Anania - Windows
A Logical Ending
By Tim Ward
Second Place Fiction
M ick Twomey was a brilliant man,
perhaps the most brilliant in the
country. He could run circles around the
good Father Laughlin, who was Jesuit
trained, until the priest was dizzy with
the intellectual complexity of it all and
his nose would start to spurt and ooze
blood. So who was I to stand up to Mick
Twomey and tell him that his logic was
faulty? Like telling the bishop his Oy was
down! Still, I did it. I stood up to Mick's
six foot frame and I pushed my finger
against his chest and, tapping it, I told
him that I'd have no part of it.
You see, the problem was that Riley
wasn't dead and he was supposed to be.
Even the priest wouldn't have spoken so
nicely of him if he had been anything
short of dead. But there we were, leaning
against the box and smoking our pipes,
and the old bastard Riley beside us. We
were talking about the Cork-Kerry
match when I heard a noise from inside
the wet pine box.
"What's that?" said I, having a queer
feeling in the pit of my stomach that we
had just dug a six-foot hole for nothing.
Twomey raised his eyes to the gray sky
and, after a puff on his pipe, commented
on the poor weather.
"Did you hear that noise?" I asked.
"No, what noise?" said he.
"From the box:'
"Ach;' said he, "I hear nothing but the
sound of the wind in the trees, the rain
on that box and you gabbing awaY,'
"Are you both deaf?" asked a muffled
voice from the box. "Let me out of this
box you ijits!"
"Quiet you!" shouted Twomey in a
rare outburst. "I had enough of your
sour disposition while you were alive, but
now you are dead and in no position to
be making demands. No, not after we've
dug your hole and the worms have said
their grace:'
"Don't torment me, Twomey!" cried
Riley. "I'm using up the air in here!"
Traveler/31
With that, Twomey commanded him
to keep silent and, digging deeply into
the mound of mud beside us, tossed it
on top of the pine box as a warning to
the man inside. Riley moaned.
I looked to Twomey,. now leaning
against the box. "You've had your fun
with the old man:' said I. "Now let him out:'
Looking off into the hills, Twomey
said he wished it was all that simple but
that there were many thing to consider
and that burying Riley might be the most
merciful thing.
"How so?" I asked.
"Well:' began Twomey in a long,
pensive sigh, "you see there is the matter
of the Last Rites. A man cannot receive
the Last Rites for the same illness more
than once. Riley's problem, or illness,
being the weakness for the creature
(alcohol) means that if we release him
and he dies, he will die without the
ability to receive the Last Rites again:'
I asked Twomey what it mattered, still
having no idea where this path would
take us.
Twomey looked at me as though I was
some strange, little, furry animal from
another galaxy. "Do you not know your
catechism? Riley is bound to commit a
mortal sin between now and that last
pint that'll put him over. If we don't bury
him now, he'll surely go to Hell. I'll not
have it on my conscience:'
I told him that it was against the law
to bury a man who was still alive, but
he said that there were legal documents
that said he was dead and that such
documents were binding.
"Besides:' said he, "the widow's after
making the necessary claims on the
insurance. Sure didn't I see her with
O'Sullivan the agent this very morning?"
"That means nothing:' said I weakly,
seeing his point.
Twomey continued, "What? Would
you have her give the money back?
Would you deny her the much needed
rest she's planning to take in Florida?
And what of the house? Surely old Riley
would lose it for them if...:'
"I would not!" shouted Riley from the
box. "I haven't missed a payment yet!"
"Come off it, RileY,' said I with a
yawn. "You know she's the one been
making the payments while you
recovered your health between all of
those jobs you lost:'
Riley grumbled something that I
couldn't make out and then fell silent.
Twomey and I looked at each other and
then at the box. Then, with his ear
cupped to the box, Twomey listened for
movement. There was none. Twomey
stood up straight and stretched his arms.
"There's no bringing him back noW:' he
said very seriously, his bloodhound eyes
searching mine for an answer to some
unspoken question.
"Tis a terrible thing:' said I, blessing
myself.
"Indeed, indeed it is:'
"And not a very old man either,' said I
"No, not reallY.'
With that Twomey lifted one end and
I the other. And standing at both ends
of the hole, we looked with hesitancy
into the blackness beneath. I looked to
Twomey. He gave the nod and down went
Riley with a thud to his final resting place.
I had no sooner said "poor man" than
up from the hole resounded the words,
"Holy shit!"
"Lord, Mother of Mercy, help me!" I
screamed, suddenly feeling quite queasy.
"Forget them!" cried Twomey. "Grab
the shovel. Quick, lad. Quick!"
This Bird Our Parrot Polly
(Two roomates and guest sitting down at a dinner table.)
By Nikola Jurkovich
Traveler/32
1st Roommate: Aw, Tsk, Tsk, Tsk, It's really not that bad.
2nd Roommate: O.K. O.K., so what, you're feeling down and a little sad.
1st Roommate: Well, here I go. This is what I say:
I think it's fine, you asked for it, and besides, it's all we have today!
Listen, this is our story, it's really not so bad, listen while we dine.
Ya, this old girl here, she downed 8 or 9, while perched upon her parrot pad ever so fine.
And to my roommate I did warn---.!'Hey don't do it. Parrots, beer they should not drink,
and I think not either fancy, light, white wine~'
And back to me he stately replied: "Aw come on, let's open this bottle-here-Iook.
Imported direct from the Rhine!"
"Oh no!" were his words, "this bird, our parrot, Polly, why she's fine. A winning wager
it would seem, to bet on her motor abilities~'
1st Roommate: So, to say, it seemed quite inevitable, (at least to me) that this bird, our parrot
Polly would simply stretch out and fail to be. From my point of view, this bird, what
she managed to do, was truly beyond compare.
First as it would seem, she attempted to fly, but soon gave up after the 4th or 5th try!
Then quickly looking me right in the eye, she squawked "I will now fly, but first, open
me a tall cold brew, lest I refuse to try!"
And with this, these, her final words, this bird, our parrot Polly, flew over many an
empty can and straight, as an arrow, into the oscillating fan.
Ah! so now you ask, what is it that we did do?
Well, my friend, I ask you---.!'would you happen to like a helping of our Potato-Parrot
Stew? Of course, it was simmered in Polly's own favorite-Tall Cold Brew:'
t..!V6·
The General Store
By Nancy C. Webb
The general store is a happy place for me on Saturdays
when I come to spend my hard-earned quarter.
For the fIrst time, my mama did not quote to me,
"The laborer is worthy of his hire,"
as I go skipping down the dusty farm lane.
The screen door of the store swings open,
then slams with a Bang... Bang... Bang.
I love the cool dark cavern with its oily floors.
A fly buzzes through a sunbeam filled with dust
then disappears into the dimness of the high ceiling.
Someone is shuffling around behind the mailboxes.
It must be Norma Smith putting up today's mail.
The same old men are sitting around the pot-bellied stove
in their flannel shirts and galoshes, as if it were cold.
They are swapping yarns - which get Bigger... Bigger... Bigger
as they pass the jug, slap their knees and dispute one another.
"Here comes the Pritchard woman in for her mail," hisses one.
With downcast eyes, she passes by the now-silent old men.
"Neither Jack Pritchard nor young Joe Elkis have been seen
in these parts since that night," whispers another.
Ellie Pritchard, still looking at the floor,
hurries back past the stony-faced men.
"Shoulda been her what got shot," says old man Crenshaw.
His voice is loud enough for all inside to hear.
He spits on the floor near Ellie's hurrying feet.
Quickly and quietly I creep out of the store,
the quarter forgotten in my sweaty hand.
The general store no longer is a happy place,
for Ellie Pritchard is my mother.