APRIL/JUNE 2018€¦ · April/June 2018 Redwood Coast Senior Center Gazette 5 44951 Ukiah Homemad...

A quarterly publication of, by and for the Redwood Coast Senior Center community

SC

EDWOOD

O A S T

E N T E R

E N I O RR

C

APRIL/JUNE 2018

Redwood Coast Senior Center

490 N. Harold Street, Fort Bragg, CA 95437 • (707) 964-0443 • rcscenter.org

G A Z E T T EG A Z E T T E

R e d w o o d C o a s t S e n i o r C e n t e r G a z e t t eApril/June 2018 1

PROSE

Senior Perspectives:Homeless Elders — Charles Bush 2

Ideograms — Joe Smith 4The Last Hippie — Holly Tannen 6Understanding — Charlie Furey 8Mickey — Joan Hanson 10Wedding Day — Catherine Marshall 12Deep Water — Catherine Marshall 13I Remember That Song— Diane Semans 15

The Sign — Nona Smith 16 Bernardo Learns English— Priscilla Comen 18

Parlez-Vous Francais?— Diane Semans 19

POETRY

Mickey Chalfin 1Rick Banker 10, 12, 15, 16, 17Diane Semans 5Rose Mary Hughes 9

Rick Banker, PresidentZo Abell, Secretary

Mike CarrollPaula McDonell

Charles Bush, Executive Director

BOARD OF DIRECTORS 2018

In This Issue

Editor – Rick BankerCover Photo – Rick Banker

Poems –

Mickey Chalfin

young couple with kid at caféthey are me, fifty years agowith blond babynursing wifehe with dark beardtattoos ... those come latershe with nose ring ... also much laterthey live on a ranchoff the gridtheir generation is after mineeven two generations, i’m remindedwe chat about our livesthey will remember our chance meetinghow they met a localwho was coolwho had lived a long long timeon the coasti tried not to tell themthat time flieswhen you are not lookingor that i was marriedmore than once or twiceor that they reminded meof mei held backso as not to be rememberedas someonei really am

she told a jokeit took her about 15 minutesit should have taken less than one minutebut she kept starting oversaying wait 100 timesgetting it wrongand finally getting to the endwe were all patientwe laughed politelybut years laterthe retelling of her effortsis the real jokeremembering her deliverymakes us laugh uncontrollablyoh, yes, the original joke:about ... uh, uh, uh,two carrots

R e d w o o d C o a s t S e n i o r C e n t e r G a z e t t e2 April/June 2018

Mendocino County hired nationally knownhomelessness expert Dr. Robert Morbut tostudy that population in Mendocino County,and to make recommendations about how tomove forward in dealing with our “homelessproblem.” Redwood Coast Senior Center hasseen an increase in the number of aginghomeless here on the coast, utilizing ourservices. Although we do not provide spe-cific assistance in finding low cost housing,we nevertheless make every effort to adviseand assist elders in managing their lives byutilizing local services available. We are par-ticipating with county efforts to understandand respond more effectively to homeless-ness.The recently published report provided

some interesting and somewhat surprisinginformation about the scope and texture ofhomelessness in the county and on thecoast. Here are a few highlights.1) There are fewer homeless folks on the

coast than one might expect. Somewhere inthe neighborhood of about 100 people, 60males and 40 females. Most of them aremiddle aged. There are a few families or sin-gle parents with children.2) Our homeless population is pretty

home-grown, with nearly two thirds havingeither grown up, or having followed theirfamilies to reside on the north coast beforebecoming homeless. The rest becameunsheltered in some other communitybefore moving here. While we certainly havesome proportion of north-south transienttravelers, there is very little movementbetween towns inside the county, and backand forth between inland and coast.

3) Half of ourcoastal homelessbecame unemployedbefore they lost theirhousing, and cur-rently 80% of thelocal homeless areunemployed. Thatsame percentage fallsinto the category ofone to four years of homelessness. This isimportant because the longer homelessnesslasts,the less likely it is for successful reinte-gration, suggesting the likelihood of growingproblems in the future.4) The data included in the consulting

report did not identify the number of eldersexperiencing homelessness either county-wide or on the coast. Neither did the studyidentify the number of people living in theirvehicles on the coast, although it does dif-ferentiate between “van dwellers” who tendto be transient north-south travelers, and“car dwellers” who tend to be more local,with some roots in the community.5) Also not included in the report was the

number of homeless receiving services atRedwood Coast Senior Center. We were ableto identify eight elderly individuals living invehicles and another half-dozen seniors onthe street, or temporarily in shelters, (morethan 10% of the total) who eat at the seniorcenter and participate in programs or useother facilities there.The report shared some recommendations

for improving the focus and results of thetime, money and human effort being spentdealing with homelessness here in Mendo-

Senior Perspectives – Charles Bush

Homeless Elders

R e d w o o d C o a s t S e n i o r C e n t e r G a z e t t e 3April/June 2018

Harvest MarketHarvest Market makes weekly vegetable, fruit, and bread donations and suppliesmuch of the fresh produce for the 800 lunches we serve to elders every week, in thedining room or delivered by Meals On Wheels to shut-in seniors at home.

Harvest MarketHarvest Market also collects close to $900 a month for the senior Center throughtheir bag purchase program.

Without this generosity we literally could not operate the lunch-for-seniors service, because our federal subsidy does not cover the cost of the program.

Harvest MarketHarvest Market is truly an anchor for redwood Coast seniors food services. Many, Many thanks.

cino County. Here are a few highlights ofwhat it suggests.1) Instead of responding primarily locally

and tactically to problems as they arisearound homelessness, the county coulddevelop an overall strategic response to thewhole problem, and integrate its specificresponses within that strategy. This couldavoid duplicating services, get better resultsrelative to the causes versus the symptomsof homelessness, and help the whole com-munity work together more effectively.2) The many agencies addressing various

parts of the problem could benefit by shareddata tracking of homeless individuals overtime, and an integrated case approachfocused on re-integrating individuals into thehouse community.3) Because there's simply not enough

housing available, it is crucial that every bedand every facility be maximally utilized bymore integrated management and placementat the same time efforts are made toincrease low-cost housing stock and rentsubsidies.4) Resolving homelessness issues

depends on the effective accessibility tomental health services, educational support,and employment development. Theseapproaches are essential in moving towarddealing with causes, rather than treatingsymptoms relative to homelessness.5) Unless the community is willing to sig-

nificantly increase expenditures and facili-ties, it may be more effective to focus on“home grown homelessness” and act inways that encourage other individuals toreturn to the communities where theybecame homeless in order to seek supportand services. This would free up more time,energy and effort to actually re-house andre-integrate the community's own members.Homelessness among elders presents a

somewhat unique situation, and calls for asomewhat different set of responses. Wewill be working in the coming months toassist in the development of a strategic plan,integrating with all the other agencies andorganizations on the coast, and identifyingthe unique needs of homeless elders. Thattopic will be the focus of the next “SeniorPerspectives” article.

April/June 20184 R e d w o o d C o a s t S e n i o r C e n t e r G a z e t t e

Ideogram: Television

I always set up here high in the corner, wherepractically every pair of eyes in the restaurantcan watch me. My job is to distract dinersfrom lives of quiet desperation and pitchsudsier laundry detergent.

Faster cars, antacid. During football seasonwomen mostly sit with their backs to myscreen. The mousy gal at a table for two overby the swinging steel doors, for instance.Inspecting fingernail polish.

Paper parasol in her Mai-tai. You and me,babe, we were meant to be, the guy acrossfrom her, eyes glued on Alabama-Auburn, saida few Augusts ago. My sound was off, and Iheard. They’re regulars.

Guess she’s no longer a cute little doodlebug,he no longer honey. Romance has done gone.Leaked like water through the fingers ofcupped hands it did, the flesh of two squeezedtight by gold bands.

Ideogram: Auk

Wake up and smell the coffee, you emperorpenguins. I used to be great myself. Two footeight I stood on the webbed feet my closestliving relatives use for brakes when they comein for water landings.

Razorbills. Now I’m extinct. Not because Iwas flightless — I lived that way for eons.Because of the likes of them coming from afarin gleaming cruise ships to coo over your ohso cute fuzzball kiddies.

When they say we they mean me, likejournalists and royalty. They don’t care asnowflake about you, your home, your land,breaking off in mighty bergs, slipping into theseas, just to keep them comfy.

They flip on electric heat in winter. And insummer, after an hour’s commute back totheir mortgaged digs, turn up the airconditioning so high, even penguins’d shiver.Hey Al! That’s the razorbill’s call.

Hey Al! do you remember? Soon you’llyipping the old tune. Once I had an ice floeyada-yada now it’s gone. They’re pointingmobile phone cams right at you. Brother, canyou spare a clime? Attack!

Ideogram: Kite

You hip to why Mister Benjamin Franklinsplit for France and had a hush-hush affair?XYZ, isn’t that what they call it? Curiosity,man. Electricity. The brass key he looped tomy tail in a thunderstorm.

Healthy wealthy and wise Benjy flew me tosnag the lightning, dig. Eyed that house keyhe needed to open the front door through thebifocals he invented. Flipped-out winds, man!My string snapped.

I was flying. High as a kite doesn’t half sayit. Doing the jitterbug with the sky for yourballroom makes dancing seem sort of lame.That chick who came home from the ballminus one glass slipper?

Cinderella? Me, I didn’t come home at all.Benjy baby saw me sail away with the keyover the roofs of Philly. The dude wasn’talways as bald or green as he is on currency.Tore his hair out in despair.

Curiosity’s cool. Could’ve iced that cat withhis stove and lightning rod and farmer’salmanac with one hand tied behind its back,with a flick of the wrist. Instead, Big C justkept him locked out of his pad.

—Joe Smith

April/June 2018 5R e d w o o d C o a s t S e n i o r C e n t e r G a z e t t e

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gentleNo Bread

Luncheon table settingSpring flower centerpiece,Tablecloth and napkinsAwait the noon day feast.

Two kinds of salad,Sparkling water to drink.Something is missing,I think.

No bread and butterFor a table of five;I say to myself,How will we survive?

Our hostess is dieting,No sugar or flour.She lectures on health food,Through the lunch hour.

Then comes the dessert,And to our surprise,A beautiful cheesecakeLights up our eyes.

— Diane Semans

I b e l i e v e a n y t h i n g

i s p o s s i b l e .

B u t w h at d o I k n o w ?

N a n c y B a n k e r


A man from a magazine called up to say,“I am coming to talk with your grandma today.I'm bringing my camera, I’m bringing my tape,And she’s in a wheelchair, so she can’t escape.

“Back in the sixties she lived in the Haight,Danced in the park and sang at the Freight.Now Jimi and Janis and Jerry are dead,And she’s the last hippie,” this journalist said.

He sat down beside her, his hand on her knee,Saying, “You can confide all your secrets to me.I'll carefully write down each word that you say,And you will be famous eight weeks from today.”

“Oh no,” says my grandmother, “’Cause I have seenThe crap you call writing in your magazine. I’d tell you my story, it’s long and complex,And you’d only write about acid and sex.

“The last of the old-growth is burnt down to ash,The northern Pacific is filled up with trash.Dolphins are dog food, whales lie on the beach,And I blame those bastards we couldn't impeach.

“Seabirds are dying, all covered in oil,Pesticide residues poison the soil.The polar bear’s gone and the songbirds have fled,And I’m the last hippie,” my grandmother said.

“So all you reporters come listen and learnThat your magazine sales are not my main concern.I’m not going to tell you who I took to bed,And fuck getting famous,” my grandmother said.

“But all you good neighbors, bring something to eatHome-made chocolate-chip cookies or some other treat.I’ll sing you an old song if you’ll pass it on Let that be my legacy after I’m gone.

“We’ll sit on the porch and we'll laugh and we’ll jokeAnd be kind to each other before we all croak.John Lennon and Timothy Leary are dead,And I’m the last hippie,” my grandmother said.

“The Freight” is the Freight andSalvage Coffeehouse in Berkeley.

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Understanding – Charlie Furey

TThis summer the young college stu-dent is immersed in the study ofGerman literature, an intensive

course condensed into ten brief weeks. Heis a diligent scholar, but it is a difficult lan-guage for him and the phrase, “Ich kanndas nicht verstehen,” remembered from oneof his class assignments, reverberates in hisbrain. The weather is soft and warm. His blood

surges. It is increasingly difficult to concen-trate on his studies. His body craves sun-light, demands physical release, and yet heis tied hard and fast to his studies. Still, hissavings are running low and he must earnsome extra money, or he will go hungry. Atthe student employment office, he finds aposting for a part-time gardener. If he getsthe job, it will solve his need for funds, andfor fresh air and exercise. The brown shingled two-story house is

located on a deep lot half a mile away fromcampus. He is interviewed there by a pro-fessor of medieval history at the university,who tells him his duties. He will mow thelawn, trim the hedges, clear the debris fromthe neglected garden. Plant chrysanthe-mums there. Dig another section to set inthe yellow roses the professor has alreadyordered. “You will be making a flower gar-den for the enjoyment of my daughter,” theprofessor says. Twice a week then, for several hours

each day, the student works in the profes-sor’s garden. After that first encounter hesees no one except for the maid, who giveshim an envelope with the agreed amount at

the end of each day’s session. Working inthat quiet place, shielded by its red brickwall and a pear tree the young man feelsisolated from the rest of the world. Thephysical activity, his sweat and calluses, thedirt under his nails, calm him. He nolonger hears the weary German voice com-plaining, “I can’t understand that,” any-more.One afternoon while the student is tying

the branches of the young pear tree, so itwill get full benefit of the sunlight alongthe warm brick wall, the professor comesagain into the garden. From the firstmoment he rambles on, speaking of onething and another. It does not bother himwhen the young man turns aside to com-plete a task he is working on. The profes-sor tells him of the artifacts he has col-lected on the vacations he and his familyhave taken throughout Europe. “Mydaughter, Julie, is about your age,” the pro-fessor says at last and at the utterance ofher name, his voice breaks. “There is agreat tragedy there in that room,” he sayshoarsely, pointing toward the open case-ment window on the second floor of thehouse. Then he turns abruptly away. Theyoung man, left standing there with hispruning shears in one hand and a roll ofgardener’s tape in the other, is deeply con-fused. A cooling breeze sweeps the whitelace curtains back and forth across the win-dow sill. From that moment on, in all his hours

working in the professor’s garden, theyoung man is aware of that open window.


Understanding – Charlie Furey

And of the silence filling its hidden room.A girl his own age is there. He has neverglimpsed her shadow, and yet he senses herlooking down at him. A thin silk gownshields her breasts. Her sleek black haircurls upon her shoulders. He tells himselfif he could only see her, talk to her, hecould cure her of whatever is wrong withher. He would touch her hand and shewould be well. They would go away and behappy together. They would have a smallfarm. And in the pleasant noontimes theywould sit beneath the pear trees and eattheir midday meals together.One day the window overlooking the

garden is closed. It remains shut on his fol-lowing visit, although the air is warm andthe sun shining bright. When the maidhands him the envelope containing hiswages, she turns away weeping. Without aword of her usual greeting. Summer is ending. Autumn is nearly

here. The young student can’t get theimage of that shuttered window, of thenewly planted roses, of the carefullyespaliered pear tree out of his mind. Hisfinal examinations are fast approaching. Heneeds more time for his studies. And theworrisome phrase, “Ich kann das nicht ver-stehen,” hums again in his brain. Onemorning on his way to class he asks theclerk in the student employment office totell the professor that he will not be com-ing back to work in his garden anymore.

“Ich kann das nicht verstehen,” translatesas “I do not understand.”

A Song of Love

She met a man in Santa FeWho stole herheart awayBut when she closedher eyesAll she got was lies.The man in Santa FeWore a white Stetson hat;He followed herto a bench that satRight in the Plaza.There on the PlazaHer Tarot was readThe sun was hot;And she totally forgotWhat was said.She met a man in Santa FeWho stole herheart awayBut when she closedher eyesAll she got was lies.

Gone to Glory

When I die,I’d like a horse drawncarriage through the streets of New OrleansOr bagpipes at Star ofthe Sea, San Francisco.But since my willstates cremate & scatterI don’t know.Where will I go?

Youthful Follies

Summers we pickedgooseberries, blackberries;Cooled off in coldstreams with WaterMoccasin snakes.Today’s child – a victimof iphones, Facebook,Instagram and Twitter;No wild uncomplicatedNature.

— Rose Mary Hughes


Mickey

It was a warm sunny day in May. Mickeysat on the curb with his scooter, waiting forthe red traffic light to change. He watched astraffic rolled by, and then looked down tocheck the tires on his scooter and in the gut-ter, he saw a green ten-dollar bill. He lookedup and down the empty sidewalk beforequickly picking up the money.“Oh boy, ten dollars” his brain was racing.

I can buy so much, maybe that baseball mittI saw at the Woolworth store or the big reddump truck I like. So many things to thinkabout, I can’t decide. He pushed his scooteras hard as he could and hurried to hisfriend’s house. He ran up the front stepsyelling “Jack, Jack.”“Hey Mickey, what are you yelling for?”

Jack was excited too when he saw the money.They went next door to show their friendBill. In a few minutes, they were all arguingabout how to spend the money. Bill wantedto go to the diner and eat; Jack suggested get-ting a basketball and asking Mickey’s Dad toput up a hoop for them. Mickey said “I foundit and I will decide how to spend it.” Both hisfriends went home angry and Mickey shovedthe money in his pocket and started for thestore, still trying to decide what to buy. Onthe way to the store, he saw Margaret, apretty girl with blue eyes and dark brownhair in his fourth grade class. She had a bigsmile waving at him.“Hi Margaret, look what I found today.”“Wow, I bet you can get a lot of stuff with

that.”“Yeah, but I can’t make up my mind, I’m

going to the five and dime now and lookaround.”“Me too, tomorrow is Mother’s Day and I

want to get my Mom a nice present and acard.”

— Joan Hansen

STOP! She saidWhy don’t you stopThe world and IWant the world toStop and go in meAnd in you withoutCar horns andLoudspeakers Oh please STOP and Help me or leave me aloneShe saidTears running down herFace and her ears redSobbing trying to help andStopping all time in thatFrozen instant of runningNowhere into a brickWall of tear gas and Roses.

White and coldFrozen white so clearWith a swirl of dark blue,That we see ourselves;InsulatedFrom sun and ice,Flashing upside downIn the jewel of a Drop of melting snow.

— Rick Banker


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T he bride and groom pose by a latemodel Chevy. When the Novemberwind tangles her wedding veil, she

gathers it with her free hand and tucks itbehind her car coat, buttoned like a capearound the bulky dress and train. Pressednext to her, the groom gazes into her eyesand grins. Tall and slim, his dark hair sweptinto a pompadour, he kisses her hard andlong. Breaking free and laughing, she glancesat the friend with the home movie camera.With her chubby cheeks and upturned nose,she looks younger than her eighteen years. A crowd of friends and relatives walks the

couple to the front door of a single storyhouse. The groom makes sure the camera’swatching, then scoops the bride into hisarms. Her mother holds the screen door andtakes her bouquet as his knees buckle at thethreshold.The bride and groom stand in front of the

Chevy, flanked by both sets of parents. Hegoes for another smooch and his father pullshim off. They all laugh.Cigar in hand, the father of the bride

strolls across the front lawn, never losing eyecontact with the camera.Everyone gathers around another Chevy,

an older model, the one they’ll drive to theirhoneymoon in Joplin, Missouri. His eleven-year old sister, still in her bridesmaid’s dressand bundled in a winter coat, darts amongtheir friends as they decorate the car. Hisgrandmother squeezes through the crowd.She’s a farmer’s wife wearing her best, a thinprint dress and white hat, better suited forEaster than a winter wedding. The youngpeople paint “Just Hitched” on the hood anddrape streamers from the antenna. A stringof old shoes and cans is attached to thebumper.

For a moment, the camera films mymother alone, waiting in the passenger seat.She’s wearing a black hat with netting and adark suit decorated with a large corsage. Shecontinues to smile, but then her eyes becomeserious and the smile waivers. The windblows the streamer across the window andshe looks around for her friends. Severalyoung women gather at the passenger sidewith their backs to the camera. Her motherjoins them and says something to the bride.There are more scenes of car decorating

and well-wishing. Then the handsomegroom, my father, drives them both away,old shoes and cans in tow, kicking up duston the dirt road of the first day of their lifetogether.

Wedding Day

An orbiting all being mindflys aware of

cloudy veils andborders of water limits and

life in patterns of living

death in patterns of dying.

red rivers not pinpointpricks of blood flowand mingle; blue calmslowly moving phosphorescentlava meets red andpurple wet watercolorsslide and dripoff the ends of the earth.

— Rick Banker

2 Stories — Catherine Marshall


Ifloated face down in the Caribbean Sea,enthralled with the fish life flittingaround me. The ocean was as warm as

bath water on this steamy August morning.The Mexican booze cruise stopped to allow afew of us into the water to view the sea life.My boyfriend, Fred and I were among thosewho were not yet inebriated, so we donnedlife jackets and snorkeling masks andplunged in. We were warned by the captainto not go far, because we’d only be at thisspot for about thirty minutes before movingon to Isla de Mujeres. I spotted a large turtle and pulled in my

legs, worried I’d get bitten. I grabbed Fred’sarm. “Stay with me, please Fred. I’m a littlenervous in the ocean and I’d feel better ifyou were nearby.”My boyfriend and I were on vacation in

Cancun, one of those cheap, all-inclusivedeals where every meal was a buffet. He andI were in an on again, off again relationshipand this trip was another try as a couple.Fred was a nice guy with a steady job. Hewas funny and a good lover, but he wasn’tmuch to look at, stocky, balding and plain asa block of cement. It didn’t help that he hada roving eye. Despite this irritation, Ithought he had potential. A sting ray swam too close and I panicked,

jerking my head from the water. I reachedfor Fred, but he wasn’t there. Concentratingon the view below, I must have floated awayfrom the boat and the others and Fred hadwandered off. How could he leave me?I pushed up my mask and surveyed the

sea. Some distance away I saw other daycruise boats and clusters of floating tourists.Which boat was mine? I tried to recall thename of ours written in tiny letters on theside. I couldn’t swim fast with the life jacket

so I dog-paddled to the closest one, bobbingthrough the gentle, but daunting swells. Ihoped Fred felt terrible when he discovered Iwas missing. Without my glasses, I had to swim right

up to the boat to see if I recognized any-thing. The Captain of this one didn’t lookfamiliar. His back was to me so he didn’t seeme waving and he couldn’t hear me over theblaring music to help me up.I spotted an identical boat in the distance

and swam toward it. I swallowed sea water,grew tired and treaded water to rest. Would Ibe left here? Surely Fred would say some-thing and they’d look for me. I was feelingsorry for myself and embarrassed that myboyfriend had abandoned me.A small fishing boat motored nearby. I

waved my arms, the motor was cut and Iswam over.“Hey, senorita. ¿Que pasa?” The thin

young man piloting the boat wore a baseballcap and ragged tee shirt. His two compan-ions, tending their fishing gear, watched withamusement as I explained myself. “Tengo verguenza. Olvide el nombre de mi

barco.” My Spanish was ridiculous, but theygot the gist. I was embarrassed and lost. I gota hand up while the two seated fellows pro-vided counterweight. I heaved my chubby,middle-aged body onto their boat like alanded sturgeon. After some wobbling andlaughing, I pointed at another boat I thoughtwas mine and we headed toward it. Fred stood alone on the deck of the day

cruiser. He was dry and dressed now, withhis hands in his pockets. He looked sheep-ish, hopefully ostracized by the rest of thetourists on board. I thanked my rescuers asthey maneuvered their boat so the captaincould help me on board. I stood on the deck facing Fred, with my

hands on my hips in a What the hell! thatleft no doubt to my state of mind. At least hehad the decency to look ashamed, this manwhom I once thought had potential.

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I Remember That Song

“What is your earliest childhood mem-ory? Is it a nursery rhyme, a prayer, asong?” I am at a class reunion. Someone sug-

gests we go around the room and share.Yes, a song. I remember that song. I

am still in my crib, so I about two orthree years old. I call my dad at night to bring me

water. I really want him to sing to me. Itmakes me happy.

I remember Dad coming into my roomin his pajamas with a glass of water. It isdark.

A night light gives a faint glow nearby.I take a sip and say, “Daddy, sing me thatsong.” He puts the glass down on thedresser by my bed. He starts to sing softly,so no one else will hear, not Mom, notmy brothers, asleep in their rooms.

“School days, school days,Dear old Golden Rule days.Reading and ‘riting and ‘rithmetic,Taught to the tune of a hickory stick.You were my queen in calico, I was your bashful, barefoot beau. And you wrote on my slate, ‘I love

you, Joe,’When we were a couple of kids.”

I stand up in my crib. Dad puts medown gently on my tummy, tucking thecovers in all around me. He tiptoes out ofthe room. I can’t remember how oftenthis happens, but long enough to learnthe song.

My happiness comes to a sudden endone night. My mother scolds me as she

puts me to bed. “Listen to me, younglady. Do not wake your father to comesing to you. He works hard all day andneeds his sleep. Do you hear me? Do youunderstand me?” Yes, I hear. Yes, I understand. I am a

bad girl. I will not call him. I will nothear him sing to me again.

— Diane Semans

Hallucination

Media fields great flashingMolecules write patterns thatBloom like aurora poppiesAcross the screen behind my eyes.

Sparking trails of fire, larkingButterflies ghostA shadow so bright I haveTo take off my gloves to see.

— Rick Banker

16 April/June 2018R e d w o o d C o a s t S e n i o r C e n t e r G a z e t t e

Aslightly lopsided card table wasset in front of the white clapboardchurch on the corner of Lake and

Green Streets. A sign, printed in block let-ters, was Scotch taped to the table. Freeprayers it read. Made me shake my head.Since when were prayers otherwise? Two gents, maybe a bit younger than me,

sat behind the sign. Both were clad injeans, their legs stretched out in front ofthem so you could tell one was tall, theother short and bowlegged. Both had grayhair, but one had an elaborate comb-over.The other had nothing much to comb.They waved me over, but while theylooked pleasant enough, I decided to waveback at them from a safe distance and con-tinue my walk to the post office. Truth betold, I didn’t hold anything against churchor prayers. I just reckoned God wasnobody’s business but my own. My AuntGert influenced my thinking along thoselines a long time ago. Aunt Gert was mymother’s older sister. “She was born preaching,” my mother

used to say, rolling her eyes, making meunderstand that wasn’t necessarily a goodthing. My aunt went unmarried until theday she died, which gave her a lot of freetime to mind other people’s business. Espe-cially their business with God. She spokelike she knew everything about Him, likeHe was her best friend. And maybe Hewas. She didn’t have many others.My earliest recollections about Aunt Gert

and God were the Bible stories she’d readto me. I’d watch her thin lips and bushyeyebrows as she told me tales about Adamand Eve and that no-good snake, about

Noah’s two-by-two animal ark and Davidand that bully Goliath. My mother inter-fered with her telling the story of Job.“That’s just too sad an account for a child,”I recall her saying. “Besides, it glorifies vic-timization.”The year I began kindergarten, we

invited Aunt Gert to come to the holidayassembly. Every class got a turn to dosomething: sing a Christmas carol, recite apoem. My class went first, singing ourslightly-out-of-tune hearts out. “You betterwatch out, you better not cry, you betternot pout, I’m telling you why…”When the program concluded, families

gathered for refreshments. Aunt Gertsqueezed my arm and planted a sloppy kisson my cheek. “You were wonderful,” shegushed. “God is proud of you.” She winkedand pointed to my chest. “With that voice,I know God must be in your heart.”I touched my ribcage, feeling a little

creepy, wondering how God managed toget there without my knowing. “How doyou know that?” I asked.“God is everywhere,” she assured me.

“He knows if you’ve been bad. And Heknows if you’ve been good.”My mother was doing that eye-rolling

thing again.But I was beginning to put two and two

together. God knows when I’ve been badand God knows when I’ve been good. Hesounded a lot like another guy who knewme pretty well. “Aunt Gert, can I ask you something

about God?”My mother gave me a crinkled-brow

warning look, but Aunt Gert was all smiles.

The Sign — Nona Smith


“Of course. Ask me anything.” I paused, hesitant to put the question out

there and be wrong. “Go ahead,” she encouraged.“Well, if God knows everything about

me…” “No doubt about it: He does,” my aunt

assured me. She radiated expectancy.I heaved a ragged sigh. There was no

turning back now. “So, God knows if I’vebeen good or bad … I’ve been good orbad.” I wavered a second longer beforeblurting out my question. “Is God SantaClaus?”Aunt Gert drew back in horror. “Oh, for

goodness sake!”My mother ruffled my hair and pushed

me toward the refreshment table, a satisfiedlook on her face.But that business about God knowing

everything stayed with me for a long time.Did He know when I hid my peas underthe mashed potatoes and said I was full?Or, worse yet, when I went to the bath-room? It took my mother quite a while toconvince me I needn’t worry too muchabout God being a voyeur. “He’s got biggerbusiness than that,” she assured me.That pretty much sums up my relation-

ship with God to this day. Introduced tome by my busy-body aunt, I decided Hewas someone I could keep at arm’s length,like my mother did. So, the day I noticedthe prayerful duo in front of the church forthe first time, I decided to keep a safe dis-tance between us. No need to bother Godwith prayers, free or otherwise. Especiallysince He already knew everything therewas to know.

The Sign — Nona SmithGREY

The sea is greyAnd the gulls swoop and wheelIn parabolic curvesAnd skim the waves, searching.

The sky is greyAnd the gulls too are greyAnd their keening criesDespairing

Call “No home, No home.”And they cry white tearsOn the grey sea.

The ship is greyLeaden with man’s leadAnd the gulls see the greyAnd the sea, somehow,Senses its greynessAndThe gulls cry white tears On the sea and cry

“No Home, No Home.”

Charcoal dust from the chimneysMakes the snow greyAnd in the street slushyWhere the cars don’t go;And the path,Cinders crushed in the snow.

— Rick Banker

18 April/June 2018R e d w o o d C o a s t S e n i o r C e n t e r

Richard and I are driving to Mexico.We’ve been given a house in PuertoVallarta on the Bay of Banderas,

where we can swim and fish and relax. I’vebeen dreaming of this vacation for months,to be away from house cleaning, market-ing, caring for dogs, grandchildren, andworry about sick friends. Richard turns away from watching the

long straight road that stretches across thedesert, and looks at me. “Why so quiet?”he says. “Are you exhausted from gettingready?”As we drive, I dream of how we first met

the man who is giving us his house.Bernardo is the son of Mexican friends wehave known for years. He came to live withus for a year in Malibu, going to schoolwith our kids in order to learn English. Hewas eight years old.I remember how I dropped him off at the

Alternative School. He opened the car doorand walked to the playground wherebunches of children ran, played, andyelled. Bernie was a skinny kid, legs likesticks, and a big head with a thatch ofmessy black hair. We called him Bernie andhe loved it. His shoulders slope downwardsand he drags his feet in his Mexicanhuaraches. Peter, the head teacher, comesto stand beside me. He points to Bernardo.“Quite a spunky little guy eh? How longwill you have him living with you?”As we chat, we watch. Bernie runs after

the other kids, yells at them, “No, no, no,”he screams. For one month, this is the onlyEnglish word he utters. Then, one night atdinner, he says, “Please pass the potatoes. I

like potatoes.” From then on it was full speed ahead

with him speaking mostly English. Hewore cut off jeans, and ate everything Icooked for him. At age ten he returned toMexico, grew up, attended college andbecame a successful realtor.Many years later, the phone rings in our

Malibu house and I answer. “Hello, Comenresidence.”“Hola,” a voice says. “This is Bernardo,

remember me?”A lump forms in my throat. “Of course, I

remember. How are you? Como estas?” It’sbeen twenty years but it’s as if it were yes-terday.“I wanted to call to tell you that you

changed my life. I want you to come toVallarta and stay in one of my houses. Inever forgot what you did for me.”It wasn’t just what I had done; it was the

school. The Alternative School we foundedin Santa Monica, California, was grades Kthrough 12, and kids attended whateverclasses they were interested in. It waschaos on the playground, and Bernielearned most of his English there, mostlyswear words, but also how to interact withthe other children. That school workedmiracles. One hundred fifty volunteersfrom the community taught classes in theirfield of expertise, from courtroom proce-dure to photography, from classic literatureto cooking. Now Bernardo is returning ourgood deed and we’re on our way to a vaca-tion in the sun.

FANTASTICO!

Bernardo Learns English — Priscilla Comen

19April/June 2018 R e d w o o d C o a s t S e n i o r C e n t e r G a z e t t e

Growing up, I had a reputation as agood girl who rarely, if ever, got introuble. I liked being favored by the

nuns in Catholic school, but I reallywanted to get into some mischief once in awhile. Ma Mere, an elderly nun, gave me the

opportunity in French class one day. She should have been retired to tend the

lush gardens surrounding the Country DaySchool of the Sacred Heart in Bethesda,Maryland. Instead, she was our seventh-grade French teacher.She was five feet, two inches in her black

habit, matching hose and shoes. A stiffwhite wimple surrounded her wizenedface, and a black veil covered her sparcegrey hair. Wooden rosary beads hung loosefrom her brown belt and dangled from herample waist. She was French and spoke ina high shrill voice.“Bonjour mes enfants. Comment allez

vous aujour d’hui?”“Bonjour, Ma Mere. Nous allons bien,

merci.”“Today we recite our numbers from one

to ten, but first we pray. Au nom du Pere etdu Fils et du Saint Esprit. Ainsi-soit-il.” After the blessing, we say our numbers,

“Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept,huit, neuf, dix.”Ma Mere writes on the black board and

we take notes. We are bored. We yawn.She conjugates the verb aimer. I get out

the squirt gun I have brought to class. Ourclassroom is small, and my desk is in thefront row, near the black boards. When MaMere finishes one board, she moves on toanother one. I begin to erase her writing onthe first board with my squirt gun, which Ifire from a distance of a few feet. The girlsgiggle as the water and chalk run down theblackboard.Ma Mere turns her head to see what is so

funny and discovers her verb lesson van-ishing in wet rivulets.“Mon Dieu!! Quel est? Enfants, enfants,

qu’avez-vous fait? What have you done? Iwill go report this to Mother Tobin atonce.” Ma Mere hurries down the hall, heading

for the principal’s office. Realizing the trou-ble I am in, and not wanting to get thewhole class involved, I chase after her.Ma Mere’s short, chubby legs slow her

down, and I catch up quickly.“Oh Ma Mere, I am sorry that happened.

Whoever erased your verbs should be pun-ished. Please don’t get the whole class introuble. I will find out who did this and seethat she gets an extra hour in study hall.Please come back and finish the class.”Ma Mere looks at my innocent, pleading

face, and pauses for a moment. Then shepats my shoulder and says, “For youDiane, I will come back. You should nothave to pay for what someone else did. Youare class president and you are a good girl.”

Parlez-vous Francais? �— Diane Semans

20 April/June 2018R e d w o o d C o a s t S e n i o r C e n t e r G a z e t t e

MENDOCINOCOAST

PHARMACY

350 Cypress St • Fort Bragg, CA 95437(Located between the Police Station andthe Hospital on Cypress Street)

Mon-Fri 8am-7pm; Sat 10am-4pm

Phone: (707) 962-0800

Mendoc ino Vi l lage PharmacyIns i de Har vest Market in the

v i l lage of Mendoc inoand at

Mendoc ino Coast Pharmacy350 Cypress Street

Next do or to the hosp italin Fort Bragg.

Great customer service in a caring environment. Competitive prices.Most insurances welcome. Free local delivery available.

Se Habla Espanol • Professional service you can depend on.

CANCLINITELEVISION & APPLIANCES

MATTRESSES

Marilyn (Pixie) Canclini

636 S. Franklin, Fort Bragg, Ca 95437

707 • 964-5611 • FAX 707 • [email protected] in and say hello to Pixie, Lynn,

James, Jose and Francisco

MENDOCINO • LAKE &HUMBOLDT CAREGIVERSWE ARE HERE FOR YOU

1-877-964-2001 (TOLL FREE)707-964-2000 • FAX 707-964-5557

Call Us: (707) 964-7095 Address: 524 N Main St • Fort Bragg, CA 95437Shop Hours: Monday - Friday: 8:00AM to 5:00PM

Brake RepairSchedule an appointmentfor brake repair services atGordon’s Auto Service, Inc.

Transmission RepairGordon’s offers transmissionrepair for all of the Fort Braggcommunity.

Auto Repair in Fort BraggLet Gordon’s run a computerdiagnostics test on your vehicle.

TiresGordon’s offers competitiveprices on brand name tires.

I’m Fernando Gordon, resident of FortBragg, California and proud owner ofGordon’s Automotive Service, Inc.. Imade professionalism, support and totalcustomer satisfaction the cornerstone ofmy Auto Repair Business when I firstopened it over 20 years ago. I still holdthose core values today, all backed bysome of the best warranties in town.

The Woods is a community of Northern California Presbyterian Homes and Services.

The Woods offers beautifully constructed manufactured homes for 55+ adults on 37 acres in the North Coast. Just a few minutes’ scenic drive reaches a pristine golf course, tennis courts, one of six state park beaches, or Mendocino’s famed art galleries, shops, and restaurants. Come see for yourself how active and vibrant, yet comfortable and secure life can be. To tour this exceptional community, contact The Woods at (707) 937-0294.

43300 Little River Airport Road Little River, CA 95456

(707) 937-0294 | ncphs.org

Homesof refreshing

tranquility

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