creativev oices - university of cincinnati content... · p .10, jeanne crandell pp .12, 28, ......

Rediscover the joy of learningCreative works by members of the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute at the University of Cincinnati includes the 2009-10 report to the membership

Creative Voices

2 Creative Voices 2010 Osher Lifelong Learning Institute

Creative Voices

Now in our 18th year, we continue to invite OLLI members to contribute their creative work in the form of short fiction, poetry, non-fiction and graphics. Creative Voices is published by the Osher Lifelong Learning Insti-tute at the University of Cincinnati.

Publisher Fred Bassett

Staff Gloria Singerman, co-editor Ethan Stanley, co-editor

DesignUniversity Relations, Creative Services

Cover photoWedding under the archDavid Blumenthal

Will Expertise Replace Empathy by Vivian B Kline . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3

Leaving the Nest by Tom Schenck . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4

Angel Feathers by Gwen Peerless . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5

150 Souls Going Down … One Saw It Coming by Dick Hellman . . . 6

March Day by Sue Wilke . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8

Dancing with Elks by Sheila Case Benner . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9

For Better or Retirement by Kandy Witte . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11

Haiku: Winter by Rose Bianchi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13

Our Road Less Traveled by Dottie Rockel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13

The Child Within by Daphne Williams Robinson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14

Photographic Memory by Bruce Martin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15

The Hidden Trilogy by Joan Murray . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20

Reception by Frank Taylor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21

Beauty and the Beast: A Love Story by Barry Raut . . . . . . . . . . . 23

Old Pals by Tony Barga . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26

Wish You Were Here by DonWenker . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27

Bounty and Grace by Alice M . Mesaros . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28

Goodwill in Johannesburg — December 2007 by Stella Holding . . . .29

My dad nearly shot John Dillinger by George Weber . . . . . . . . . . . .30

Drawing, Painting, Photography: Janice Alvarado, pp .3, 10, David Blumenthal

p .1, 3, Becky Linhardt p .8, Bernadette Clemens-Walatka p .8, Sam Hollingsworth

p .10, Jeanne Crandell pp .12, 28, Jeffery Slotz p .14, Rosemary Deitzer p .14, Kathryn

Hinkle p .25,

The editors of Creative Voices wish to thank all of those who submitted their stories, poems, and artwork.

Inside

Creative Voices 2010 3at the University of Cincinnati

Creative Voices

Oregon Coast Janice Alvarado

Grass David Blumenthal

Will Expertise Replace Empathyby Vivian B Kline

Three-year-old push buttonTo bring themselves cartoons.Computers now fill librariesWhere there were only books.Once telephones were on a wallNow iPhones are transportable.Lap-tops and kindles go trundling alongAs Skype shows us each other. Some oldsters still use pen and ink.The postman brings them mail.They don’t “spam” and things don’t “Crash”But much they miss today. Will friends be known through tweeting?And face-book show their face?We won’t go back. Must forge ahead.Forever: uber alles?But a kiss in personAnd a hug so warm:Those things last forever.


Creative Voices

“Your mother and I have always, always, only wanted what’s best for you. You know that, don’t you Will?” asked his father.

“Yes, Dad” replied Will, eyes down and focusing on the expensive, intri-cately patterned oriental carpet of his father’s home office. His throne room, from whence all dictums emanated.

“We’ve given up a lot to send you to private school, then prep school and then Vanderbilt. A lot. Hell, so many fancy vacations were put aside over the years so that you could take advantage of all the things those fancy places had to offer.”

“I know that, Dad,” said Will, feeling himself being maneuvered, yet again, in the direction his father wanted him to go. To that corner of his heart where the only door to peace was labeled “capitulation”.

Anticipating Will’s agreement and leaving no time for anything else, his father plowed on. “And yet at dinner tonight, with your cap and gown still warm, you spring this half-baked idea on us about traipsing all over Europe with this Amy girl, someone your mother and I met only yesterday. No wonder your mother is lying down in her room upstairs. I’m surprised you didn’t give her a full blown stroke with this ridiculous, crazy-ass scheme of yours.”

“It’s not a scheme, Dad. And it’s not crazy-ass,” said Will. “It’s a well thought out plan that Amy and I have been working on for over five months.”

Frowning as he poured rich amber liquid from a cut glass decanter into an equally elegant goblet, his father snapped a quick glance at Will, an-noyed at any kind of response at all, but particularly miffed by one that seemed to signal the onset some kind of dialogue.

“Don’t you give me any lip, Will. Where’s that nice young man we raised? What do they teach at Vander-bilt? Or maybe it’s this Amy girl that’s

Leaving the Nest by Tom Schenck

filling your head with fantasies of trips and who knows what else.”

Will leaned forward, eyes now skewering his father, icy, like his words “Stop it, Dad. You know Amy is not like that. Or if you don’t know, I’m telling you. She’s a fine girl. Smart and good, kind and funny. I don’t much about love yet, but I know I want to find out more about it, and more about her. And anyway, this isn’t about Amy. This is about me … and you … and Mom.”

All the father’s senses were alert now. Will had never before come at him this strongly. What had gotten into him? Must be his hormones. Had to be. The young buck just wanted to get laid by this girl. Time to bring out the bigger guns

“Well, then, how do you plan to pay for this junket?” he sneered. “Deprive us of another vacation? Have us dip into our retirement fund?”

Will sat back again, feeling the plush leather of the visitor’s chair hiss him deeper into its calming softness. “Actually, I’ve had a job on campus for all senior year … tutoring Nashville teens in math and science. Amy told me about it; she’s been doing it for three years to help pay for her tuition. If we pool our money, we can cover all our costs for at least two months…three if we’re really stingy about it,” he smiled.

This calmness in the face of pa-ternal pressure was a new thing; they both sensed it, one pleased and the other panicked. In battles past, at this point, Will would have stormed out in a fit of dramatic profanity, vow-ing some kind of juvenile retribution over the next several months. What I’d give to see that right now, thought his father.

“I guess we’ll have to return your graduation present then,” prodded the older man. “We can’t have it sit-ting around in the driveway for three months, letting the tires go flat and the

oil turn to sludge.” He looked side-long at Will, trying for disappointed, but falling sadly short. He knew no twenty two year old single male could walk away from a brand new Beemer convertible.

Will stood and walked over to the large picture window framing their yard like an impressionist painting … gardens, trees, tennis court … and sleek silver convertible. He looked at the car as he spoke.

“That would be a real blow, Dad. It was a generous gift, and I’ll always remember the joy I felt when you and Mom gave it to me.” Behind his back his father lips had turned up in a vic-tory smile, then straightened quickly again as Will walked back to the chair and sat.

“But you know best,” Will finished, “I’d hate to ruin such a beautiful thing. Do what you think is right.”

“God damn it, Will,” his father shouted, trying one last tack, “Why not just do what we’ve planned all along … join me at the company, learn the ropes, become Vice President and earn a great salary until you’re ready to take over and run the whole shebang.”

Will sighed softly, and that fright-ened his father. No ranting, no dramat-ics, no name calling. When Will began to speak, his voice was so low that his father had to lean forward to hear.

“Your plan, Dad, Your plan. I’ve told you again and again that running a computer software company is not how I want to spend my life. You’ve loved it and I’m glad. And I’m grate-ful to it…and to you and Mom for all I’ve been given in life. But, if it was all given out of love and in my best inter-est, as you say, then I assume it’s been given with no chains.

“And now it’s my turn. Everyone gets a life and this one’s mine. Listen to me Dad, because this is important: I have heard what you’ve said and I know what you want me to do. I have considered your wishes and weighed

Creative Voices 2010 5at the University of Cincinnatiat the University of Cincinnati

them against my own wants and needs. What I want to do hurts no one, is not illegal, immoral or anyone else’s busi-ness but mine. I choose to do what I want to do.”

A series of emotions swept over his father’s face. Anger, followed by disbelief and then a strong realization of something being lost. He started to speak but Will gently cut him off.

“Dad, I don’t say these things to hurt you. I say them because they are true, and they are right and it’s time. I love you and Mom. I always will. But…”

His father held up a hand, palm out to Will, halting the traffic of his comments. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. And all that bullshit” He said it with an edge to his voice that sliced any trace of humor from his John Wayne parody.

“Well, let me tell you something, kiddo,” he raced on, “If you do what you gotta do this time, don’t count on running back to this oasis in the cold cruel world anymore. Be straight on that,” he demanded coldly.

“I’m straight, Dad,” said Will. The two men stood silently and looked at each other, arm wrestling with their eyes and their wills. For several moments nothing happened, and then Will walked over and extended his hand to his father, turning the handshake into a hug and kissing him quickly on the cheek. “Good bye, Dad. Thanks for all you’ve given me. I love you.” He disengaged and stepped back holding his father’s gaze. “Now I need to say goodbye to Mom.”

Still angry, and now stunned from the sudden and seemingly final turn of events, Will’s father struggled to un-derstand what had just happened. His anger dissipated slowly like fog in the sun. What had he done? “Goddamn,” he muttered softly. How did the stakes escalate so damn quickly?

He replayed the entire scene in his mind and kept stopping at the same

place. The place where Will had said something like .. . I don’t say these things to hurt you . I say them ‘because they’re true, and they’re right and it’s time .”

“It’s time,” murmured the father. “It’s time,” he said again, his anger only a wisp now. Almost reluctantly a gleam of pride began to slowly flicker in the father’s eyes. A mixture of love and satisfaction pumped from his beating heart to the smile on his lips.

“Goddamn, he’s a tough little bug-ger,” he grinned. Will knew this would always be home no matter the tiffs, didn’t he? Well, if he didn’t, his father would just tell him the next time they talked. And there would be a next time; he’d see to it.

“It’s a scary world out there, Will,’ he said softly to the room. “But, God, it’s wonderful. Taste it, Son. Go taste it.”

Angel Feathers by Gwen Peerless

In the early evening, they began to fallAngel feathers to earth below,caressing window,embracing tree and garden wallclosing day with snow.

Softly sweeping all over towndressing lamplights with crystal lacecovering all in alabaster downcreating earth a peaceful place

But in the silence. the wind heardof the angelic displayand thinking it the master of the world,howled in its dismay.

Raging the night through, it blewfeathers through each city block,battering window, wall and chimney fluetrying to chase the heavenly flock

But in the morning sunlight,it was plain to seewho had won the aerial fightwho was victor of the nightly spree.

Angel feathers everywhere,sheltered house and whitewashed treesilent street and park so faironly puffing chimney could be seenwhispering of the Angel’s victory.

Creative VoicesCreative Voices


Creative Voices

Have you ever faced death?I have, on an airplane, with a cock-

pit crew whose negligence precipitated the event, but whose skill saved us.

The crisis occurred on a 1979 busi-ness plane trip from Cincinnati to An-chorage. I was an engineer with GE’s Jet Engine Division. Enroute, toward the end of the Chicago- to-Seattle leg, word came from the cockpit, “Seattle is snowed in, closed; we’ll divert to Portland, one hundred and fifty miles to the south.”

As we coasted down from our cruising altitude my white-blurred window announced that the storm had also arrived in Portland. We had to spend the night.

The next morning, after a harrow-ing ride to the airport through the snow and freezing rain still coming down and a flurry of flight changes, I dashed to the gate for the first depar-ture of the morning. I made my way to the rear of the airplane, stashed my coat and briefcase, and collapsed in the warmth and coziness of my seat, last row, aisle seat on the left. Exhaling the stress of the morning I scanned out the windows left and right. Trucks were de-icing the wings of surrounding aircraft. Suddenly, my deep relaxation gave way to a jarring realization: our wings! The previous night’s eight-inch snowfall had been cleared off the left wing, but had not been touched on the right one. This was a big problem. I knew that thirty thousandths of an inch of frost cut a wing’s lift by about 30%. Here I was, not looking at thousands of an inch, but two-thirds of a foot and covered by a shell of ice! I strained to see any sign of de-icing of our right wing.

No truck had come close to us by the time I heard the first engine being motored for startup. Then the other two engines whined and popped as they lit off. (A jet engine is not started like a car engine. It has to be cranked by an auxiliary motor, to get the air

pumping through it. Then the flight engineer hits the fuel switch which releases a high pressure spray of kero-sene into the combustor. A “sparkplug” ignites this volatile mist and it lights off like a giant blowtorch. Once lit it stays burning and this inferno blasts through the turbine to keep the engine going, and then exhausts out the back to provide the thrust.) Starting engines before the airport finished de-icing was unusual but not unheard of. I remained vigilant.

Suddenly the aircraft jerked gently backward as a tug pushed us away from the gate. (Jet engines don’t have a reverse gear so an airport tug has to push the plane backwards.) This was unusual, to leave the gate with snow still on the wing.

My neck hairs sprang to attention.I thought of running to the cockpit

and hammering on the door, but, be-lieving that even neophyte pilots know that wings must be pristine at take off to assure power, lift and control, I calmed down. Knowing that de-icing crews frequently touch up wings on the ramp else-where or even on the taxiway further encouraged me to stay in my seat, as did the thought of possi-bly embarrassing myself by needlessly alarming a planeload of people.

The engines revved up and we eased out toward the taxiway. Cer-tainly they’ll spray us before we leave the ramp, I thought. They didn’t. We turned and headed down the taxiway to take its position at the end of the runway - Certainly they’ll get us here!

They didn’t. Our pilot turned onto the runway

and pushed the three throttles full for-ward to take-off power. (Our Boeing 727 had its three engines in the rear, just outside our row, two either side of the tail, and one up top with its inlet mounted just above the fuselage. They are numbered 1, 2, and 3, left to right.)

All three engines roared to life and hurled us down the runway.

My gut twisted. We’re doomed, I thought. There’s no way we’re going to make it. With our left wing lifting and the right one, not only not lifting, but weighed down with heavy snow and ice, the airplane will roll before we clear the airport fence.

Slabs of frozen crust started to peel off the right wing, little white pillows at first, flipping up in the air, then big-ger ones as the aircraft accelerated. Just at “rotation” - the point when the nose of the aircraft lifts off the ground and flight begins - a table-sized piece lifted, rotated upright, and slammed into the inlet of the right-hand engine.

I watched, horrified.Kaboom! Our No. 3 engine thun-

dered and shot a wall of flame forward past the right windows. An engine stall! A belch of the engine’s continu-ous inferno, centered in the combus-tor and flowing aft, reverses direction or “stalls”. It blasts forward, out the inlet instead of out the exhaust. A stall destroys all thrust and can tear up the engine. This is serious in a test cell, under controlled conditions; on wing it is disastrous.

Orange sparks spiraling through the sky-blue flash further alarmed me. They indicated that metal blades and vanes had broken inside the engine and were whirling around at 8,000 rpm, like ice in a blender.

The plane shuddered and jerked side to side. We were going down, I was sure of it: the wings’ unbalanced lift and the extra weight on the right were trying to flip us, and now we’d just lost one third of our power, so critical at takeoff. And, who knew, maybe the unseen #2 engine above us had suffered the same fate.

Our rate of climb dropped instantly, maybe even to zero …or negative; I couldn’t tell. The thick, falling snow and rain curtained our view outside.

If we were headed down, with us being only a few feet off the ground, I knew we’d crash. If we were headed

150 Souls Going Down … One Saw It Comingby Dick Hellman


Creative Voices

up, or just making level flight, Mt. St. Helens, Mt. Hood, and their neighbors could lay directly in our path.

I knew the captain and his co-pilot had their hands full. They had to juggle four emergencies: Keep our plane in the air, keep it from rolling over, shut down the crippled engine, all the while dodging the mountains hidden behind blips on the cockpit’s radar screen. The fight engineer was scanning his instru-ments, frantically trying to figure out what had happened. On this aircraft no one in the cockpit could see the en-gines. At this point, I knew more about our dire situation than they did.

Sometimes blades battered about in an engine can escape its steel or tita-nium casings. I’d seen “uncontained” engine failures in overhaul shops. They’re ugly. In worst cases they can continue outward and penetrate the fuselage.

A flight attendant hustled down the aisle. I stopped her and said, “You might want them out of there;” point-ing to two guys sitting across the aisle, oblivious to the explosion just outside their window, “that engine has failed; pieces are flying around and may come out.”

“That’s a good idea,” she said, and shuttled them forward.

The aircraft continued to shake and lurch and the engine noise pulsate as the wounded aircraft protested its heavy load and loss of a key partner - three-engined airplanes can take off with two engines; they cannot take off on one. If we were flying on one engine we were going down for sure.

After a seemingly interminable time the captain came on the PA system and drawled, “We got a li’l prol’m heah wi’ numba 3 engine. Keep ya seat belts fastened and there’ll be no smokin’.” Click. I felt a little better; we had two engines.

The engines droned on. Not a sound issued from my fellow passen-gers.

Finally, another announcement, “We’re gonna have to make an un-scheduled landin’, folks; folluh ya cabin

crew’s instructions. “ The same flight attendant came

running down the aisle and stopped at my seat. “Do you know how to open the rear door of a 727?” she asked.

“No,” I said, and tensed up even tighter - Why open the rear door of a 727 unless it’s for a crash landing?

“Well, you sound like you know something about airplanes. Follow me.” Fifteen feet back, the aisle ended at a door, “This handle opens the door. After you open it you’ll see a big red handle. Push it down hard; it opens the outside door and extends the rear stairs. Do this when I give the word.”

I went back to my seat and buckled up.

The head flight attendant followed up immediately with, “Everyone get up now and put on all your winter gear - coats, hats, gloves, etc. Take off all jew-elry and anything hard from around our head – glasses, earrings, etc. Then sit down.” Now I knew we were really going down.

We all did this in total silence. I sat down and started thinking, What does an airplane crash sound like – tear-ing metal, screams, falling overhead compartments, exploding fuel in the wings? Will we break up? Fire, that’s the killer. Got to get out ASAP.

We continued to fly, more smoothly now but in total whiteness, visibility zero. The engines continued their disconcerting throb, a rhythmic up and down, Rrrrrrrmmmm, Rrrrrrrm-mmm, seemingly for hours.

Still no crying, whimpering or praying. Here was a planeload of people facing death, and not a peep from anyone. Either they didn’t know our predicament or were very brave. I amazed myself also. Despite years of nuns, priests and parents drilling me in all aspects of my Catholic faith, I thought of none of that. Instead of worrying about my last confession, a feeling of serenity came over me along with thoughts like: “I’ve had a great life, shared with a great wife and two great kids, packed with adventures of a lifetime.” I felt neither panic nor need

to cry. I did feel, facing death, very focused on staying alive and thankful for the life I’d had.

We waited.The engines decelerated to idle.

The flight noise hushed as the airplane slowed, dropped slowly, and floated in for the landing like a big, noiseless glider. I held my breath and waited for the plane to hit. Then, barely notice-able, whisper-like, we landed. The smoothest, softest landing imaginable!

I jerked up, whipped on my glasses, ready to man my door, and looked out.

This was no mountain. This was Seattle, one of the biggest and most high-tech airports in the country. Why hadn’t he just told us! No runway ever looked so sweet. Fire trucks streaked along either side, manned by asbestos hooded firemen aiming their brass nozzles, ready to foam us down.

My fellow passengers applauded, but I was steaming. The pilot had done an incredible job of getting us down, but this had been a huge “pilot error”. I had almost died because a flight engi-neer had not done his “walk-around,” mandatory before any flight, snow or no snow, and the captain had not checked on him. Had both done their duty we’d have had a safe flight.

We taxied up to the gate and disembarked as if nothing had hap-pened. As soon as I exited the jet-way I stopped at the first phone booth and looked up “Government, USA, FAA.” I knew that the FAA’s headquarters for aircraft was located in Seattle. I called, I’ve just been in a serious incident with an IFSD (industry speak for “In-flight Shut Down”), on take-off out of Portland. Pilot error. You need to get someone out here to SEA right away.”

I called my wife “I’m OK.” “OK from what,” she asked.Only the cockpit crew and I knew

how close we’d come.


Creative Voices

March warmth envelops meSunny day lifts my spirit,Hardy winds blow.

Remnants of fall leavesSkip across pavement,Waiting to be corralled.

Deep snow piles melt awayTo moisten earth’s awakening moments.Points of green peek through a frosty blanketWith hints of floral beauties yet to come.

A respite from the winter’s misery,Teasing us out of time’s hibernation,The lion of March waits in ambushWith dark clouds and chill tempests.

Remember this day.

Keep your inner spirit aliveUntil spring’s season explodes.And souls renewed leap for joy.

March Dayby Sue Wilke

North Country OneBernadette Clemens-Walatka

Autumn: Little Swallow Falls, McHenry County, MDBecky Linhardt


Creative Voices

In the black hole of blind dates that I endured when I was single, there are those that stand out from all the rest … the blindest of my dates, if you will. They remain outstanding after more than a quarter of a century of married monogamy to remind me that all is not poetry in the mating season.

Take Walter Fiorentini. He was all angles and alarmingly tall, maybe six-six. Dark-haired, intense, not re-ally bad or good-looking, his salient feature was skinny. He might have gone one-hundred-forty pounds, but stretched over that bone field, it wasn’t enough. Stooped over in my apart-ment doorway, his overcoat hung loosely, shoulder to knee. It covered a lot of surprises.

“I’m an Elk”, he started and paused. “Great,” I thought, “My first Elk.” “I hope you like to dance,” he enthused, “My club’s got a top notch band and super food. We’ll have a ball!”

He left out a little something about his club. It would have been about an hour away by jet. We happened to be going by car. This was a trip that called for provisions, perhaps a rack of beef or so to tide us over.

Off we went, chatting in that anx-ious-to-please way that is so exhaust-ing after time. I knew more about this guy than I would ever learn about my father. I’m afraid to remember what I disclosed. For the better part of two hours, we strained to keep a sort of conversational medicine ball bouncing between us.

Finally, a grand driveway circled us around to a grander stone-carved entrance. There WAS an Elks Club! My smile began to hint of sincerity. No matter the dead animal heads hover-ing over the dining room, nor the fact that you could count the number of patrons on one hand, there was silver-ware on the table and my gleeful guess was that somewhere there was food.

We ordered a drink, but alas, before anyone could bring a menu, the band

Dancing with Elksby Sheila Case Benner

cranked up its first notes. A beatific smile spread across Wal-

ter’s facial bones and when he asked for the first dance, I could no more have refused him than I could have turned down Mother Theresa at my front door.

Did I mention that he had taken off his overcoat? His shoulders and elbows actually came to sharp points, as did his Adam’s apple and his wrists. He was as healthy as a horse though, and as I was about to learn, almost as fast as one.

Walter’s dancing style beggars description. The horse comes to mind again — its gallop. The band was not small — eight pieces — but none of the other five Elk’s patrons was inclined to take the floor so, we had it all to our-selves. Good thing! Hours later, it oc-curred to me that maybe Walter drove all the way out to this God-forsaken spot because he needed a whole dance floor. I am five-four and weighed almost as much as Walter. Three of my steps equaled one of his.

Beaming, he stretched his right arm straight out to one side with my hand in it. This had the effect of yanking my shoulder out of its socket and that is how we began. Then, he lifted his foot clear up to his buttocks and thrust it forward savagely like a goose-stepping Nazi. I skipped in a sprightly fashion to stay out of harm’s way. Two or three skips and I was right up with him when his number sixteen landed on the polished floor with a pop.

My entire life passed before me that evening in a blur. I could see the Coro-ner’s report: “Death by Mortification.” Later, I thought it would read: “by Starvation”. Whatever, we galloped on — me conjuring up a convoluted myth about a poor soul condemned to live out her life on a merry-go-round at high speed.

There is a self who stands outside myself and observes peak moments like these. It took note of a bizarre

phenomenon that night. While I was trying to put a good face on this death march in 3/4 time, Walter Fiorentini was falling in love. He had never had an evening to match it.

No surprise, really. Most other girls — normal girls — would have kicked him smartly in the shins and been out of there. But in an effort to make the best of it, I never quit trying to be nice, to seem interested, to keep up with his killing, disjointed, cardiovascular leaping around that hellish dance floor. And the reward for such charity? My endurance was anaphrodisiac, for God’s sake. The man was like an Elk in heat.

I let my exhausted head rest on the back of the car seat and tried not to put any weight on my wounded feet as we made our way back thru the endless suburbs that surround Chi-cago. While Walter droned on about enflamed passions, I focused silently on bolting my apartment door — if we ever got there — and lighting a candle to mark my solemn vow: to never go on another blind date — to never date again period — to never LOOK at man or boy again as long as I lived!


Creative Voices

Hokey PokeySam Hollingsworth

ZebrasJanice Alvarado


Creative Voices

“Where you goin’?” Henry called down the basement stairs.

Guess he didn’t see my darn note, Ann thought. Almost made it. Another second and she would have been in the garage, gently pulling the car door closed so as not to make a sound then out and away, flooring the gas as she sped down the long driveway and into the crisp fall morning in Shandon, Ohio.

Last month when Henry took an early buy-out from his job as Branch Manager of the Okeana Post Office he became Ann’s constant companion. Twenty-four-seven, day in and day out, joined at the hip, me and my shadow, Ann’s frustration grew. She thought of never having a single moment to herself, no solitary mornings laugh-ing out loud reading Janet Evanovich, no afternoon naps, no bubble baths while listening to NPR, no walking around naked wearing nothing but a cucumber-avocado face mask while eating chocolate chip cookie dough, no more cranking her IPOD up as high as it would go and dancing through the house behind the vacuum cleaner with the Beatles and the Beach Boys. This new reality washed over her like ice water on a humid August afternoon in the Ohio River valley.

Ann waited, “Want some com-pany?” She sighed and turned to face Henry who stood smiling at the top of the stairs.

“Well,” she hesitated, thinking fast, “I’m picking up Bonnie and we’re go-ing to the mall — shoe shopping,” she added maliciously, a tiny smile on her lips as she said it. “You’re welcome to come along. Afterwards, we’re going to get pedicures,” she added as extra insurance.

“Oh,” Henry said, the disappoint-ment in his voice and sagging shoul-ders caused Ann a twinge of regret. “I think I’ll just stay here and work on cleaning up the garage. I better keep at it. You two have fun,” he smiled at Ann

For Better or RetirementKandy Witte

making her feel even guiltier. “Okay, then,” Ann called hoping

she didn’t sound too cheerful. “See ya.’”Ann and her best friend Bonnie

drove to Nordstrom’s where they lost themselves in soft cashmere sweat-ers and the lightest of wool skirts that swirled with the slightest move. Burberry coats, St. John cruise wear, warm Ugg boots, they tried them all then told the saleswomen they’d ‘think about it’, fooling no one but enjoying the fantasy nevertheless.

The friends decided on lunch at Sol, a casual Mexican place known for its giant Margaritas as well as its proximity to Graeter’s, home of the most decadently delicious ice cream in town.

“Umm,” Ann leaned back, closed her eyes and relished a sip of her ice cold drink. “Boy, I needed this,” she said.

“So tell me, how’s life with a retired husband?” Bonnie grinned, bringing a huge glob of guacamole teetering on the edge of a nacho to her mouth. She wiped a drip of the green stuff from her white blouse and licked it from her finger.

“OMG,” Ann answered. “Just you wait,” she took another long drink. “I love Henry, I really do but he’s always — well,” she paused, “there. Not only that but he wants me to go with him every time he runs an errand. Yes-terday we spent the better part of the morning at Lowes looking for light bulbs! I mean just buy the freakin’ bulbs already. But no, we had to read each box, something about energy levels, I don’t even remember. I was in a trance after the first half hour.”

“And you know the real kicker?” Ann was on a roll, the drink, although mild, taking effect. “The light bulb takes twenty minutes before its bright enough to even see anything,” she couldn’t help laughing. “It’s like peeing in a cave,” she shook her head.

Bonnie smiled sympathetically, her

teeth green as she waved to the server for another bowl of guacamole.

“On the way home, I suggested we stop somewhere for something to eat,” she shook her head, “do you know what he said?” a swallow of her drink. “He said he didn’t have his coupons with him! We couldn’t get a stupid fast food hamburger because Henry left his coupons at home. I mean Jeez Louise!”

“I’m glad I have another year until Ray retires,” Bonnie shook her head.

“Maybe you should go back to work,” Bonnie suggested. “The hospital is always looking for experienced nurses. You could check out your old job in ER.”

Ann shook her head remembering that she’d hated leaving but when nei-ther she nor Bonnie could keep up the pace, they decided to retire together. That had been two years ago and for the first time in her forty-two years of married life her time was her own. No job, no kids. Freedom.

She thought about how quickly she’d gotten into a routine. Talks with Henry over breakfast then straighten-ing up after he left for work. Mornings she’d plan what they’d have for dinner, then take a leisurely drive to Jungle Jim’s, often stopping at the library to catch up on the latest magazines or pick up a movie. She loved dreary winter days and pouring over gar-den catalogs that came in the mail daily, ordering seeds, imagining neat rows of tomatoes, green beans and peppers, the warmth of August sun and the scent of the rich dark soil as she worked. She delivered Meals on Wheels twice a month for the Senior Citizens Center and still had plenty of time to enjoy her Book Club, lunches with friends or simply the solitude of being at home. She loved every minute of it. But, she knew, life was about change.

Ann sighed, “Shall we move on to Graeter’s?”

Bonnie scraped what little remained


Creative Voices

of her Turtle Sundae from the dish. “That was orgasmic,” she giggled.

“Speaking of which,” Ann said ris-ing, “I’m going to take a pint of the Co-conut Chip home with me. Viagra for him, ice cream for me,” she grinned.

“Did you hear about Nancy?” Bon-nie said on their way to the car. “She kicked Dick out. Happened over the weekend. Seems he’s been having an affair with his trainer from the gym.”

“I can’t believe it,” Ann exclaimed. “I was always jealous of Nancy because Dick would send her flowers for no reason, buy fancy lingerie. I thought it was so romantic. I think Henry bought me a four pound bag of M&M’s once when I had my gall bladder out but that’s about it. Wow, you never know.”

The garage door was open when Ann pulled up to the house. The boxes and clutter that had turned the garage into a storeroom were gone. Tools were arranged neatly on hooks above the workbench, rakes, shovels and gar-den equipment all neatly stowed out of the way. Henry came up to the car and bowed deeply, his hand making a sweeping motion for her to pull inside.

“I can’t get over it,” Ann said. “It’s a miracle. How’d you do it?”

Henry answered with a rare chuck-le, “Thought it would be nice for you to have your car inside for a change. Of course, if you miss having to scrape off the ice and snow when you want to go out, I can put everything back.”

“No thanks,” she said handing him the sack from Graeter’s.

“Great,” Henry said as they went in-side. “Now we have dessert. Hungry?”

Ann looked around the small kitchen in shock. The sink overflowed with pots and pans, spoons and uten-sils were piled on the counter and red and green goo caked every horizontal surface. There were even splatters on the ceiling! A large stockpot simmer-ing on the stove gave off an aroma of basil and garlic mingled with tomatoes fresh from the garden. A bread maker beeped ‘ready’ and the scent of warm bread melded with that of the soup.

Ann closed her eyes, held her

breath and mentally counted to ten then twenty. She was her way to thirty when Henry interrupted.

“I found the bread maker I gave you a couple Christmases ago in one of the boxes in the garage so I pulled it out,” he said. “Then I thought soup sounded good so I pulled up what was left of your garden and used the last of the tomatoes and there you have it. Din-ner,” he said proudly.

Ann went into the family room and plopped down in Henry’s chair. The old recliner was shabby and worn and the mechanism that once made it recline hadn’t worked for years. Henry, normally an easy going man, stood fast when Ann suggested they replace it with a newer model. He’d reminded her that it was in this chair with Ann sitting on his lap that she announced that they were going to be parents, of twins no less. In this chair they

had taken turns with night feedings, comforting small and sometimes large, bruises to small bodies and later the broken hearts of teenage angst. When the time came, much too soon and the kids left home for good to start careers and families of their own, it was here Ann and Henry had comforted each other.

Henry came in and sat on the floor beside Ann. “I know it’s a little messy,” he said, referring to the kitchen. “But I’ll clean it all up.”

“You big galoot,” she put her arms around his neck. “It is messy, alright,” she kissed him hard, “but we’ll clean it up together ’— later.” She winked and took Henry’s hand, pulling him toward the bedroom adding, “Bring the ice cream.”

After all, Henry was always there. And she would be too.

Wednesday bridge group ladies, a peek still beats a finesse Jeanne Crandell

at the University of Cincinnati Creative Voices 2010 13

Creative Voices

As Don and I have gotten older we have bought progressively remote homes up increasingly treacherous driveways. When our son’s girl friend heard that we were moving again she asked “How far away is this one from the nearest hospital?”

Our house is perfect for us — all except for that driveway thing. My first reaction was, “We’ll never see another Jehovah’s Witness.” but I was wrong. In fact they practically plague us since Don — generally stern and unyield-ing — actually answered the door and congratulated them on making it up our hill. UPS won’t even try. They leave all packages at the bottom wrapped in weather resistant plastic. We see no sweet cherubic faces on our doorstep selling Girl Scout cookies, wrapping paper, or raffle tickets for things we absolutely don’t want.

I remember being concerned that there were so few parking places by our house. It never occurred to me that no one would want to come and see us. Some of my faint-of-heart friends have been known to quit in the middle of the driveway. One backed down and into the woods. Since the AAA tow truck driver refused to come up our hill I had to tow her out myself. My cousin simply gave up, stopped in the middle, and walked the rest of the way handing me her car keys in defeat.

What I have described so far hap-pened in the summer. Things get dicier in the fall when the wet leaves turn the driveway slick adding a greater degree of difficulty to the challenge. Occasionally I hear grinding wheels in the distance and then nothing. I always fantasize that it’s Publisher’s Clearing House. If the dogs bark I know it’s a meter reader getting his exercise as he hoofs it up the hill. I must schedule workmen carefully and tell them not to come if it’s raining.

What’s difficult in fall is impossible in winter. I do have a full chest freezer in the garage just to brace against

Our Road Less Traveledby Dottie Rockel

disaster. Fortunately our compassion-ate neighbor is a gimmick guy. He has an ATV with a snow blade on the front and a whirly gig on the back that broadcasts salt. He has been a God-send.

Don and I each have 4 wheel drive cars and can usually make it in and out unless conditions are icy. Then our driveway becomes a luge run. It’s hard not to think of Sonny Bono if we try to go out on icy winter mornings.

For Christmas I gave Don some Yak Trax. Those are rubberized crampons that you can stretch over your boots for traction. The weatherman issued an alert. No one was to go out in the dangerous ice storm for any reason.

Don is German and not easily swayed by such threats. I suggested he put on his Yak Trax. He defiantly went outside to check conditions for him-self. He inched his way Yak Trackless to the crest of our hill with a bit of that “I’ll show you” look on his determined face. Then as if by magic his upright frozen form began to slide down the driveway. He fell on his rump and continued to slide carried by his own momentum. I heard him yell “Don’t come out on this ice. It’s perilous.” Who knew? I went into the garage to rummage around for the rope tow. When I came back he was crawling up our driveway on his hands and knees. When he got within range, I tossed him the rope and hauled him in the rest of the way.

“Don’t even think of going out there without your Yak Trax.” he said.

We’ve always said that we’d like to leave this house feet first. If I could ask God for just one more favor I’d put in a request for summer.

Haiku: Winterby Rose Bianchi

decemberblusters and blowsher way into the new year.

burnt silhouettes of winter treeslean against the amethyst blushof a morning sky

cold, dark mornings,frozen sunrise,icy winter’s theme.

heavy with new snow,the low bough of the great pinebrushes frozen earth.

icicles form on bare branches:crystal landscape,steeped in silence.

my spirit, like my back yard,littered with the detritusof winter.


Creative Voices

Magnolia in Spring Grove Cemetery Rosemary Deitzer

FlowerRosemary Deitzer

The Child Withinby Daphne Williams Robinson

Anna became my best friend, the day we first started school.We laughed and played togetherAs good friends should and do.

We were never mean to each other;We lived by the golden rule.That’s how it was with Anna and me;my very best friend in school.

We didn’t care ‘bout our differences,Each saw the child within.We didn’t care that Anna was white;nor that brown the color of my skin.

But one day Anna said to meGee! I can’t play with you.because your skin is dirty,Maybe this is what you can do.

You can rub and scrub; scrub and rub;until you’re white like me.But Anna, I said, that really won’t help,I was born like this, you see.

I take a bath every single dayAnd still my skin remains this way.The problem wasn’t Anna; Anna was sad, The problem you was Anna’s mom and dad.

No, it wasn’t Anna, it wasn’t me,Anna and I were friends, you see. Anna’s mom and dad only saw my skin,They could not see the child within.

CREATIVE VOICES 2010 15at the University of Cincinnati

Letter from the ChairDear Members and Friends of OLLI, The academic year which is coming to a close has been another good one for OLLI at UC. Both course offerings and enrollment showed solid growth. And the num-ber of volunteer moderators continues to grow as well. What a great way to mark our 20th anniversary of offering a wide variety of classes to Greater Cincinnatians 50 and older. The year started on a high note when we received a $1 million endowment grant from the Bernard Osher Foundation of San Francisco. The Osher Foundation also has provided OLLI at UC $250,000 in operating funds during the last three years, plus a $25,000 “lagniappe” last Fall. The latter enabled us to produce and run our first television commercials, which brought many new faces to OLLI this Spring. On the following pages you will find information about the Friends of OLLI, the local donors who help underwrite scholarships, audio and visual equipment and many delightful special events such as the annual picnic and luncheons. Friends also underwrote the parking expense for those who took classes at Tangeman this Spring. Volunteers are the very lifeblood of OLLI and, again this year, more than 200 of you gave your time and effort as class moderators, trustees and committee mem-bers. Thank you, thank you, thank you! We also all benefit from the commitment and hard work of our full-time staff members, Program Director Fred Bassett and Administrative Secretary Shyra Cross. They and the administration at the University of Cincinnati provide the support that undergirds our success. As we enter our third decade I’d also like to recognize the untiring work of our founder Aaron Levine (1918-2004) and his successor as executive director, Steve Appel, who retired three years ago. With a very solid foundation, the best is yet to come! Sincerely, Tom NoonanChair, Board of Trustees

Osher Lifelong Learning Institute at the University of Cincinnati

Volunteer Contacts Want more information or ready to join an OLLI committee? Contact a committee chair:

Curriculum: Jim Goyette, 513-489-3076

Finance: Tim Langner, 513-831-7560

Friends of OLLI: Carol Friel, 513-281-3632

Marketing: Martha Schimberg, 513-821-4040

Special Events: Janet Banks, 513-281-4285

Office Volunteers: Gloria Giannestras, 513-272-8344, or Jane Veite, 513-741-3879

Wednesday WOWs: Janet Banks, 513-281-4285

2009-10 report to the membership

Rediscover the joy of learning

16 CREATIVE VOICES 2010 Osher Lifelong Learning Institute

OFriends of OLLI at UC

Helping to make your “great experience”

even greater

It would be hard to find a more enthusiastic and energized group of people than the members of our Osher Lifelong Learning Institute at the University of Cincinnati. Volunteers abound. Few ever miss a class. Participation is contagious. We really have a great thing going.

Your classmates who are members of Friends of OLLI at UC strongly agree. Their contributions make a major difference in your program’s success.

Of course, your gift to Friends is an important factor in enhancing the educational experience for everyone. For example, your

Friends contributions pay for:

• Audioandvisualequipment• Parkingexpensereimbursements

of our moderators• Scholarshipsthatallowallwho

wish to attend to be able to do so.• Supportofluncheonsandspecial

events.• Annualdonorevent

Your generous support, guarantees that OLLI will continue to offer a superb quality program at bargain prices.

OLLI is your “college in retirement.” It is important in your continued growth and enjoyment of life. Please put OLLI high on your charitable priority list. Make your gift today. Your classmates are counting on you.

What makes OLLI Great? You do!

Friends help underwrite the cost of special events.

CREATIVE VOICES 2010 17at the University of Cincinnati

PAYMENT OPTIONSq Pledge: Payments will begin And will be paid q Quarterly q Semi-Annually q Annuallyq Check enclosed (payable to UC Foundation/OLLI)q MaserCard q VISA q Discover

Card Number Expiration Date

Signature as it appears on Card Today’s Date

q My employer matches gift contributionsq My matching Gift form is enclosed

www.Giveto.UC.com

Please accept my gift for:q1,000 q$500 q$250 q$100qOther $In memory ofIn honor of

OFriends of OLLI at UC

Gifts of $1000 or more will also receive recognition and benefits through UC’s Charles McMicken Society, including free OLLI tuition, free campus parking, book-store discounts and more.

Your tax-deductible gift can be doubled or tripled with a matching gift from your employer. Many companies match gifts from retirees. Please check with your human resources department.

•

•All donors will be invited to the annual donor party in the spring.

Mr. Saul MarmerRev. Lowell G. McCoySally and John MooreMr. William S. MurphyMs. Joan MurrayMrs. Carolyn M. NightingaleMr. Thomas F. NoonanMs. Marilyn Z. OttMrs. Phyllis D. PeytonMr. Jay E. PriceMrs. Jeannette M. RamirezMrs. Sue W. RansohoffMr. Bartley L. ReitzMs. Elaine ReubelArnold Schrier, Ph.D.Mr. Peter H. SeidnerMr. Andrew D. SmithWiley R. Smith, Jr., M.D.Ethan and Barbara StanleyDr. and Mrs. Samuel P. Todd, Jr.Mr. Joseph H. Warkany

Educator($75-$99)Mr. Edward J. BredaJames M. Garvey, Jr., M.D.

Regent ($500 and up)Carol S. FrielMr. and Mrs. Joseph W. HirschhornBernard and Barbro OsherEstate of Paul L. Silverglade

Dean($100-$499)Mr. and Mrs. Stephen B. AppelMrs. Janet G. BanksRev. David D. BeranRichard C. Bozian, M.D.Mr. and Mrs. Joseph A. BrantMr. and Mrs. Thomas P. CarrollJames F. Daiker, Ph.D.Dr. and Mrs. James J. EnglertMrs. Ruth EpsteinMs. Mary Ann FielerMs. Barbara J. FitchMrs. Marie F. GallagherRoger G. Giesel, M.D.Mr. James A. GoyetteRobert J. Hasl, M.D.Mrs. Anne P. HeldmanMr. and Mrs. Timothy J. LangnerMrs. Lorraine A. LukensMrs. Genevieve Mabey

Professor($50-$74)Mrs. Ellen K. BuchsbaumMrs. Barbara E. ClarkeMr. and Mrs. W. Weller CrandellMr. and Mrs. David P. DeckerMr. and Mrs. Frederick A. FinkRichard W. Goetz, Ph.D.Mrs. Margaret J. HalberstadtMr. and Mrs. John S. HeldmanMrs. Lorraine S. HuntMs. Pamela S. MeyersMr. and Mrs. Elmer J. Obermeyer, Jr.Mr. Michael PanagopoulosMr. Morris H. PasserMr. and Mrs. Lee SchimbergMrs. Mildred J. SelonickMr. Robert P. ShanklinMrs. Elizabeth B. StewartThomas U. Todd, M.D.Richard G. Wendel, M.D.

Friend(Up to $49)Mr. Louis S. BelliMs. Mary Lou BowaldMr. Harold BrownMrs. Nancy H. GoldbergMr. and Mrs. Nicholas L. HoeslMr. Charles C. Jung

Mr. Gerald M. LangMr. and Mrs. Ralph J. LowensteinMr. William F. MerusiMs. Patricia M. MonteithMrs. Eunice H. MurphyMr. Charles B. Nuckolls, Jr.Ms. Gwen PeerlessHon. and Mrs. Jack RosenMrs. H. Diana SchmidtMrs. Joyce E. SeegerMr. and Mrs. Haskell SimpkinsMr. Robert Orr SmithMr. and Mrs. Thomas TerwilligerMs. Ruth E. WarnerJoel Weisman, Ph.D.Mrs. Joan C. WilkinsonSanford M. Zussman, D.D.S.

Friends ContributorsJanuary 1 – December 31, 2009

Friends help underwrite the cost of special events.

This Friends Contributors list is based on outright gifts, gifts in-kind and matching gifts received between Jan. 1 and Dec. 31, 2009. Only

gifts designated to Friends of OLLI or Lifelong Learning

Institute; not all gifts to UC.

18 CREATIVE VOICES 2010 Osher Lifelong Learning Institute

Volunteer moderators are the glue that holds OLLI at UC together. Without these talented people who donate their valuable time, expert knowledge, teaching skills and good humor, there would be no

Scott AikenCliff AtkinsonJanice AlvaradoEd ApfelSteve AppelHeather ArdenCarrie AtzingerAmy BanisterBob BarrHerb BassAdele BellTom BentleyDavid BezonaRichard BlumbergSandy BolekChuck BoltonRichard BozianJoe BrantJim BridgelandElaine BrownGreg BrownHal BrownEd BunchDarlene BuntonBob CarrollTom Carroll Desiree Carter-JonesCarol CartwrightJames CissellJohn ClarkJim CooganPat CulleyJohn CunninghamJim DaikerEmil DanskerBill DeitzerRosemary DeitzerJim DempseyClyde DialBob DreyerMarsha DruckerJohn DukeJim DurhamHoward EcksteinKaren EverettSharon Faust-DykeEvelyn FitzwaterTom Flautt

OLLI moderators

Salem Foad, MDAnnie FoersterMuriel FosterKent FrielMary FruehwaldPatti GainesTed GardnerPatricia GarryJane GarvinJosephine GatelyJanelle GelfandGloria GiannestrasJohn GilliganFrank GirolamiFran GoldmanLinda GoodhewMarilyn GrismereRichard HamiltonTom HarshamBob HaslTom HawverGary HaylesRobert HaynesBrian HeinzGerri HendersonPaul HendrickMary-Pat HesterJoe HirschhornKirt HoblerStella HoldingGary HollanderSam HollingsworthDon HordesJody HowisonDick HulswitDeanna HurtubiseJoe IavicoliDon JacksonDan JacobsNeal JeffriesFred JoffeAmy JonesCharles JungEd KatzBen KaufmanLinda KeggDennison Keller

Glenn KingKarol KingJudy KirznerCarol KormelinkWalter LangsamGail LenningDick LenzEd LevyKaren LewisNancy LippincottSaul MarmerKeith MarriottDan MarshallBruce MartinMary MarxMaureen McPhillipsAaron MilavecFr. Frank MillerDean MooreSally MooreArnold MorelliIrwin MortmanJoan MurrayDavid NilandEverett NisslyTom NoonanCharles NuckollsPhil NuxhallYve ParnesCharles ParsonsMary PearceAlan PearsonLynne Pettys-RothDenyce PeytonLeroy PeytonBunny PhelpsMark PlagemanIna Price-SchwartzCharles PuchtaJeannette RamirezJim RaufBarry RautDon RhoadGreg RhodesHarold & Audre RiceRon RiemanDottie Rockel

Wolf RoderJanet Kate RomerKaren RosenthalNeil SchaperaMarie ScheponickDavid SchielMartha SchimbergKen SchonbergNancy SchpatzDick SchwartzHerbert SedlitzPeter SeifertBob ShanklinMichael ShryockDon SiekmannDick SiningerRoger SmithRufe SmithTom SmithJudy SnydermanGrace SpencerJack SpilleEthan StanleyTony SteerJay StengerFlo Sterman-SchottFrank StewartKelly TharpPat ThomasPhil ThompsonHoward ToddSam Todd, JrConnie TrounstineAnne Von HoeneMike WaddellDick WallerGeorge WeberDick WendelDon WenkerMartin WhiteBrandon WiersBetty Ann WolfLeon WolfBill WoodsRollin WorkmanDavid YockeyDiane Young

Thank youOsher Lifelong Learning Institute at the University of Cincinnati. We thank these moderators for their enormous contributions this academic year.


Creative Voices

Bart stretched his back as he removed a stack of pictures from his printer. “I’m bushed.”

His roommate glanced up from the magazine he was reading. “What have you been up to all day?”

“I’ve been to all the tourist spots in town, shooting the tourists with land-marks in the background. I told you about it. It’s a freelance job for Cincin-nati Magazine . It’s more like a tryout. I’ve applied for a staff job.”

Harry waved his beer. “Yeah, you told me. I just didn’t realize it was today.”

Bart showed him the stack of prints. “I took over a hundred shots. I have to select about twenty to show the editor.” He started spreading prints on the table in the tiny kitchen.

“Hey! We need the table. I ordered a pizza.”

Bart continued spreading out the prints. “Eat it in front of the TV. You always do.”

“I got a fourteen-inch. It’s for you, too.”

“Oh, thanks.” Bart gathered up his prints and took them to the sofa.

“Least I could do. You’re paying for it.”

Bart shrugged and started sorting through his pictures. After a couple of minutes, he stopped and started over, separating them into two piles. He searched through his desk and found a magnifying glass.

Harry stopped reading to watch him. “Found something?”

“Yeah. Come look at this.” He handed Harry a dozen prints.

“What? I just see a bunch of goofy-looking people standing around. And there are some places in the back-ground. There’s the suspension bridge, and the Museum Center, and Fountain Square. And I guess that’s the overlook in Eden Park.”

“Look at the blonde in the Reds T-shirt.”

“Okay, she’s a looker. But I don’t see

what’s to get excited about.”“1 took pictures allover town today,

and she’s in twelve of the shots.”“So you were following her around.

So what?”“1 never saw her. 1 wasn’t looking at

individuals.”“Maybe she was following you

around.”Bart threw up his hands. “Don’t

be stupid. Look at the pictures. She isn’t looking in my direction in any of them.”

The doorbell rang. Bart went to the door and came back with the pizza.

Harry put a couple of plates on the table. “Want a beer?”

“We have any of that chianti left?”“Yeah. Good idea.” Harry brought

the bottle and two glasses.As Bart finished his first slice of piz-

za and reached for another, he asked, “Don’t you think it’s strange that the same woman is in so many of my pic-tures? We weren’t following the Queen City Tour, or anything like that.”

“Coincidence. This is a pretty Sun-day in June, and you were going to the tourist spots.”

“1 guess you’re right.” Bart finished his pizza and went on with his work.

He didn’t think about the blonde again until a couple of weeks later when he was sorting through his mail. A post card ad he would ordi-narily have thrown away caught his eye. “Have you seen this child?” He thought he had. Not in person. A photo. Maybe she had been in one of those crowds of tourists he had photo-graphed that Sunday. He examined the stack of prints.

There she was! Not only that; in one of the two shots that included the child, the blonde appeared to be talk-ing to her.

He called the telephone number on the card. After being handed back and forth a few times, he found himself talking with a police officer who was very interested in his information.

The officer came to the apartment to interview him and to get the pertinent prints.

Two days later, he received a tele-phone call from the police officer. “We haven’t had any luck in locating your subject. The family of the missing child didn’t recognize the woman, which is what we were hoping for. Now we want to run an ad in the newspaper, asking for information about the woman, us-ing her picture. Can you make a good copy for me?”

“Sure. How about if I mask out the crowd and make a blowup for you?”

“Great. When can I get it?”“I can have it for you in an hour.”When the police officer came to

pick up the photo he handed Bart a card and told him to send a bill.

Bart shook his head. “No charge. But I would appreciate a credit when you run the picture.” He handed him his card. “I’m trying to get started as a photographer, and that would help, especially if you are successful in find-ing the child.”

Bart was gratified to see the ad in the next edition of the paper, with the credit, “Photo by Barton Menzies.”

He expected to hear from the police officer if there were any results from the ad. Instead, he had a call from a woman whose voice he didn’t recog-nize. “Are you Barton Menzies?”

“Yes.”“The one who took the photo of the

woman the police wanted to find in connection with the disappearance of that little girl?”

“Yes. Are you interested in having some photos made?”

“No, I’m the woman in the picture.”“Look, I didn’t mean you any harm.

I was just trying to help.”“You did. I recognized the picture

myself and called the police. The little girl’s been found, thanks to us.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Thank you for calling me.”

“There was a reward. I want to

Photographic Memoryby Bruce Martin


Creative Voices

share it with you.”Bart gulped. “That’s very generous

of you.” He thought it wouldn’t be be-coming to ask how much. “Since you found my phone number, I assume you have my address.”

“But I want to meet you and give it to you personally. I work in town. How about meeting me by the statue in Lytle Park at six tomorrow evening?”

Suddenly cautious, Bart decided he wanted a more public place. ~Make it the lobby of the Westin.”

“How will I recognize you?”“I’ll recognize you.”“All right. Six tomorrow. And my

name’s Dawn.”When Bart told Harry what had

happened, Harry grinned. “Looks like you’re in clover. A good-looking woman wants to give you money. I’ll bet she was looking at you that Sunday. You just didn’t catch her at it.”

“Harry, I probably got her in trouble with the police.

She wants to get even. I don’t like it. That’s why I made the meeting in the lobby of the Westin.”

“I think you’re paranoid, but if it’d make you feel any better, I’ll go with you. I won’t have to be obvious.”

“I’d sure appreciate it. She may be entirely friendly, but I’m uneasy about it.”

The next evening, Bart and Harry were in place early Bart standing con-spicuously in the middle of the lobby and Harry pretending to be look-ing into a shop window. She stepped through the front door about five min-utes late. She paused to look around, and Bart crossed over to her.

“Dawn?”“Yes.” She smiled, and Bart lost

some of his anxiety as he noted that she was even more attractive in person than in his picture. “You must be Bart.”

“Right. Shall we go in and have a drink?”

“That would be nice.”When they were seated and had

given a server their orders, Bart saw Harry hovering and waved him off. “You said the child has been found.”

Dawn nodded. “She’s home safe. A former baby-sitter had abducted her. The family recognized her picture, and after that it was simple.”

“I don’t get it. The family looked at my pictures and didn’t come up with anything.”

“No, but you took my picture, and I recognized myself.”

“I’m totally confused.”“When I went to the police in re-

sponse to your picture, they explained the situation to me. I went home and got the pictures I had taken that day. The little girl and the baby-sitter were in my pictures.”

“Say, we make a good team.”She smiled. “Are you looking for a

partner?”“Not for photography.”

The Hidden Trilogyby Joan Murray, Summer, 2009

Psyche’s TruthThe slow and steady beatOf a pulsating sorrowHidden insideA most fairly featured faceOne couldIf onlyWhile casting a passing glanceCatch the vibrationIf they were in harmonyWith their own pain

The Broody HenShe sits patientlyOn the egg of her marriageCracks hiddenBeneath her soft underbellyThe embryonic creature withinWarmsStirsWakesAmazed at its own beating heart

Word BirthTime for wordsLong hiddenShamefully shoved downInto the drawerOf unacknowledged valueDog-eared cornersOf yellowed pagesThrust sharp edgesThrough narrow openingsSeeking the lamplightOf her writing table


Creative Voices

Receptionby Frank Taylor

Training preference?” he asked. “Computers.” I said, and he marked

a box on the form. “Duty station preference?” he asked. “Germany.” I said, and he marked

another box on the form. With that I became a Private in the

United States Army. It was October 10, 1961. The Chinese call it “double ten day”. Six months later I am using a typewriter to transcribe Morse code and I am stationed on Taiwan, an island 80 miles from main land China and 5,569 miles from Berlin.

By the summer of 1962 I had settled into a daily routine at Shulinkou Air Station in the mountains northwest of Taipei, the capital of Taiwan. “Work” meant hours of boredom interrupted by minutes of frantic searching for signals, locating them and then tran-scribing their messages. We worked in shifts. Like a production line, each of us did a small part. My part was to transcribe the code, the dots and dashes, as they were being sent. I was not allowed to see what the encrypted messages said. One could be a practice message used to train the operator. The next could be an order to go to war. But I would never know.

On our free time we could taxi into Taipei where there was ample enter-tainment. Restaurants, bars, theaters, sex, everything was available. I didn’t go there often because I was trying to save money. At Shulinkou the recre-ation facilities were sparse. There was a swimming pool and a small theater that constantly ran those ridiculous Godzilla movies from Japan. I was in that theater one afternoon when Godzilla, standing somewhere beyond the horizon, began to shake. The entire theater was shaking. It was one of those frequent Pacific Rim earth-quakes. That quake was more exciting than the movie but it stopped before we could evacuate. And Godzilla rumbled on.

I was really bored; so one night as

our shift was ending I asked if any-one wanted to go for a hike. Five of the men joined me. The next morn-ing, dressed in civilian clothes, we started out. From near the main gate we followed a gravel road that led us northwest toward the coast. The winding road twisted down and around hillsides covered with rows of tea plants. Women were picking tealeaves. Occasionally we would pass a kiln where charcoal was made for cooking or heating. Some of the more gentle slopes had terraced rice paddies fed by mountain streams. Women were planting rice. A few miles later our road merged into a paved one. From there we could see the northwest coastline and the mouth of the Tanshui River as it flowed into the Taiwan Strait. We walked in silence until we stopped at the entrance to a large white building with well-manicured grounds and gardens. A sign at the gate written in Chinese and English told us that it was the “LoSheng Sanatorium a Refuge for Lepers.” Near the building was a wooden pole that had cracked off about five feet from the ground. Frayed wires were dangling from it. It had been a television antenna.

I wanted to visit the place but the others were not interested and went on without me. They went their way and I went in a direction that would change my life.

I open the gate, walk in and close it behind me. I walk to the main door of the building, open it and step from a bright sunny porch into a darkened room. I am blinded by the darkness and it takes a few minutes for my eyes to adjust. I hear a soft beckoning voice say something in Chinese. I look in that direction and ask, “Speak Eng-lish?” The soft voice speaks again but not to me. I hear footsteps then a boy, maybe ten or twelve years old stands beside me.

“I learn English school!” he says with pride. “I am Yu Chen Lin.” (His

names means happy morning, gem.) Then the soft voice speaks to the

boy. He tells me that she is his sister, Ya

Ming Lin (Her names means “elegant bright gem”.) She wants to know why I am here.

Now accustomed to the darkness, my eyes meet hers. Her eyes. Those beautiful, dark mysterious, eyes. My gaze starts with her eyes and then expands to her face, her raven black hair and her silken complexion with a touch of almond. She wears the white dress and white shoes of a nurse. Lost in the beauty of the girl my mind ran-domly picks words that try to answer her question. Words like “TV” and “pole” and “antenna” are randomly falling from my lips.

I finally stop muttering, take a deep breath and begin again, using my best pigeon English. “My name Paul Mitchell. I walk here friend. I see television broken. I fix?”

The boy translates my words for her. I think he gets it right because she smiles.

Through the boy, she asks me to wait while she goes into a nearby of-fice. Moments later she returns and speaks to the boy who translates her question for me.

“No money. You pay?” He asks. “You no pay.” I say, “But tell me

more your sister?” The boy grins broadly, enjoying

the moment as he relates at length my words to his sister.

Clearly she understands. She smiles and covers her face with her hands in embarrassment.

I apologize profusely and promise to return soon to see what was needed for the repair.

I did return. Every time I had a free day or even just a few hours, I walked to the Sanatorium. I found more reasons to visit that place than there are words in Webster’s. I had to measure for the wire. I had to check


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the TV hookup. I had to measure the pole. Then I had to do all those things over again. Yes my visits were frequent and they always ended with an hour or two in her company, with the boy, Yu Chen, there to translate.

The United States Army is a strange organization. Sometimes it has no heart at all. Other times, when people need help, it steps up to help. Not only did my CO offer the tools and parts to replace the antenna but he also or-dered a duce and a half (a large truck) to haul a new pole to the Sanatorium and a backhoe with a drill to dig the hole and set the pole. I am ordered to coordinate the project, on my days off.

The day of “Operation Pole” finally arrives. I proudly display my authority in front of Ya Ming. Yu Chen begins calling me Big Boss. Now I’m embar-rassed.

As the work begins, several of the residents come out of their rooms or cottages to observe. As a child I had seen the stereotypical victims of leprosy portrayed in films and on television. They are even dramatized in that playscript called the Holy Bible (2 Kings Chapter 5 for example). I had heard the awful jokes about “fall-ing apart” and “giving an arm and a leg”. But as I meet these people I learn that they are just that. People. I do not speak their language but we make each other smile and laugh and even cry. As the old television set in the great room comes to life many of them weep with joy. They are now connected again with the rest of the world.

In the great room, Ya Ming takes my hand and leads me to an old gentleman sitting in a wheelchair along the wall. His name is Huan Jin Lin (It means “happy gold gem”). He is Ya Ming’s father. Her mother had died years ago. He holds out the stubs where his hands had been. We take those stubs in our hands to comfort him. He speaks in Chinese but as the tears form his emotions can be un-derstood in any language. He loves Ya Ming and now he knows that I do too. He fears I will take her from him.

It’s now evening. Ya Ming and I sit on chairs in the garden. Yu Chen rubs his sleepy eyes and she sends him off to bed. She spreads a blanket on the ground and we lay on our backs look-ing up at the stars.

Lying there I realize that it doesn’t matter that I am half a world away from home or that she is working at this Sanitorium to give her father a decent life. It doesn’t matter that her young brother is already showing signs of the disease. At this moment it only matters that we are going to make love, now, here on the ground, in a colony of lepers.

We speak to each other with our eyes and our hands.

I turn to use my hands to free the buttons on her dress as she pulls away my army uniform. We lie there bathed in starry light and feel our hearts begin to yearn for more than eyes and hands alone can give. Yet our hands search naked bodies for the places we have dreamed of and they find them firm but yielding to our touch. The dreams are not enough and now our yearning hearts are throbbing and that raging rhythm races with a flash of pulsing ecstasy that explodes as it penetrates our souls. We are outside ourselves. We linger there.

*** Now I would prefer to tell you

about that evening over and over again. But I know that as you read this story you expect it to have an ending. All stories do. And so, reluctantly, I continue.

I finished my tour of duty in Taiwan and was transferred to Thailand to complete my three-year commitment. In September of 1964 I was discharged from the Army. My security clearance prohibited me from traveling any-where outside the USA for two years after my discharge. I used that time to earn an associate degree in nursing at a local community college. The day after I graduated I said goodbye to my mom and dad and headed for the airport. I was going back to Taiwan. I wanted to use my new skills there.

During the three years we were apart I wrote Ya Ming frequently. The few replies I received had been writ-ten by a Methodist missionary living in Taipei. He provided few details so I still didn’t know what to expect as the plane touched down at the Taipei airport. I took a taxi from the airport to the pier at Tanshui. I then took the ferryboat across the mouth of the Tanshui River where it flows into the Taiwan Strait. From the landing on the other side of the river I slowly walked up the road preparing my self for disappointment. Finally, after three years, I again stood at the gate of LoSh-eng Sanitorium. The sun was setting and they were all inside having their evening meal.

I see the boy Yu Chen as he sits staring into the evening sky out of an open window in the great room. He yawns and then watches me come through the gate. As I stride toward the main door he recognizes me. “Big Boss!” he shouts and then jumps out of the window running to find Ya Ming.

I am only half way to the door when I see her. Ya Ming, the nurse in white, standing in the doorway with tears in her eyes, still waiting for me. “


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Beauty and the Beast: A Love Story by Barry Raut

Fourteen days in the City of Light and I come away seduced by the living, breathing organism that throbs be-neath the concrete carapace of the city.

The creature stirs before sun-up and promptly sets about the act of whisk-ing countless souls on missions untold through its pitch-black maze. Its lair is a tangle of tubes linking grottos, passageways and shafts through which those self-absorbed beings tear like ants racing for a few crumbs of Petit Gâteau .

This is the Métropolitain. A century-old feat of engineering wizardry whose pulse keeps perfect time with the city beat above. To the casual eye, any hitch in its miraculous performance could seriously bollix the cosmos and bring the city to its knees. But for reasons known only to Parisians and to God, it never happens. C’est la vie .

Like Siamese twins, there may be a common heartbeat with the over-world, but in the odd spaces below lives a culture unique. As my bride and I feel our way through the burrows of this extraordinary dig, we stumble on what seems to be the world’s largest floating concert hall: Near the platform in the crosscuts of Chatelet, a burly accordion player with a face like a bar-room thug rips off Toccata and Fugue with a virtuosity that would have left the Master of Leipzig genuinely moved; a young violinist negotiates Brahms in clear, rich tones that glance off the arched ceiling of the Sorbonne stop and drift pleasantly down the white-tiled corridor; a silky alto horn syncs with the click of the moving car, sum-moning Paul Desmond’s blessed soul with a bar or three of Take Five. Coins clink in cups, hats and instrument cases as passersby reward them.

The denizens of this underground matrix, transients all save the beg-gars, move along in a kind of rodent choreography. Clad uniformly in haute couture black, they scurry through the

corridors, crowd into cars, sway on sea legs to the rhythm of the rail-bed. There are lovers, nose to nose, oblivi-ous. Academics in tattered tweed, lost in the pages of irrelevance. Crones with red knuckles and parchment faces. Bureaucrats with war-torn at-tachés. Working stiffs just trying to get the hell home.

Save the beggars, who are home. Rumpled against walls, quick-scrawled pleas on cardboard, stepped over and around, covered against the cold, ex-cept those parts marked for sympathy. Fewer coins clink in their cups.

The Paris Metro. Its map is a rainbow circuit board hard-wired into the Parisian mindset, more recogniz-able to them than the Mona Lisa, as essential as the breakfast croissant. It’s a palpitating abstract in five dimen-sions, a simplistic rendering of layered conduits, over-passing and intersect-ing, ticking the urban-beat like the metronome on my childhood piano teacher’s old upright. It’s Blackbeard’s map flipped upside-down, where the paths are buried and the treasures are on top.

One such gem is the fan-shaped art nouveau kiosk which shelters the entrance to the Abbesses stop, a worthy pay-off for our breathless climb up the corkscrew stairs to the light. These fairyland glass and wrought-iron structures once dotted the cityscape; now only a few remain. The music topside comes from a carrousel and children’s laughter, the purest of all the sights and sounds of Paris.

A short distance from the kiosk is the city’s beloved funicular. Its matched pair of glass-enclosed cars ferries passengers non-stop to the worn summit of Montmartre, afford-ing still another glimpse of The City of Light in spectacular panorama. Like a frosty, triple scoop of glace vanille, the Byzantine domes of the Basilique du Sacré-Coeur are the tasty prize at the top.

Forsaking the easy way, we choose to hike the steep and twisting side-walks as the sun dives for the horizon. We pass among the haunts of Vincent and his brother Theo, Toulouse and his squealing entourage, Picasso and the others, almost tip-toeing past the very doors by which they came and went for fear of waking them. Near the crest, the eerie outline of the windmill La Moulin de la Galette materializes from the half-dark, its four skeleton arms aching for long-gone sails to catch the breeze.

At the foot of the broad church steps we watch darkening streaks of orange paint a Monet sky for the solitary silhouette of the Tour Eiffel, its Erector Set persona softened by the evening haze and a killer sunset. The lighted funicular cars pass each other like two shoeboxes with cut-out windows, and I recall the candle-lit cardboard streetcars my father once made for me to pull by a string along the sidewalk on summer nights. I trace the track downward to the twinkling merry-go-round at twilight, still spin-ning for a fare-thee-well. It’s been a long day; we skip the steps and opt for the shoebox.

Paris is good in November. The tourists empty out, the lines grow shorter, the hotels are cheaper, the bistros cozier. It’s a little nippy, a little wet, a lot gray—which makes the rare sunny day so exhilarating. It’s what we feel as we emerge from the Metro’s convoluted Chatelet hub, look up from the breezy stairwell, and see the cloud-less blue sky above us. Our treasure map leads us to one of the few bridges known by name throughout the world — a stunning cornerstone in the epic of France.

Pont Neuf, the “new bridge,” is, ironically, the oldest bridge on the Seine. This elegant structure joins the Left and Right Banks, touching down halfway across the western point of the Ile de la Cité, the diminutive piece of


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land in the middle of the river which anchors the world’s most storied house of worship, the Notre-Dame Cathe-dral. Ile de la Cité is a ship-shaped little island so modest in size relative to the monumental events played out between its shores, it seems a miracle that the sheer weight of French history hadn’t long ago sunk it to the bottom of the Seine like a leaky canot. But the legendary patch remains afloat for the ages.

At the ship’s prow, directly be-neath the majestic Pont Neuf and the equestrian statue of the high-spirited Henry IV, lies the single most sparkling jewel in a city encrusted with them. The Square du Vert Galant. The square that’s actually a triangle. An emer-ald wedge of grass, flowers, wooden benches and overhanging elms that bisects the river’s swift westward flow. We climb down the steep stone steps and through the narrow passageway which opens onto the “square.” Now, at eye-level, we’re consumed by beds of white, yellow and rust-colored chrysanthemums, still bombastic in early winter, yellow-centered daisies, a tawny oak dropping its leaves that cover the ground like a thousand gold coins.

At the very tip, a couple sits cross-legged on the stone. The man twists the cork from a bottle of champagne, fills a pair of crystal flutes, they toast, they kiss, and the river Seine, brown and high from the late autumn rains, rushes to either side of them only a few feet away.

We walk along the quai below the level of the garden and look across at the black-hulled river barges tied to the far bank, lace curtains at their windows, decks still ablaze with the geraniums and ferns of summer. We meander out to the point, then dawdle back through the mums and falling leaves to the base of the bridge. Vert Galant, in French, means Gay Blade, the people’s special sobriquet for the frisky Henry IV. In this simple garden triangle he called a square, under a cobalt sky, I imagine the Vert Gal-

ant kicking back on a bench, ankles crossed, arms folded, eyes closed, catching the rays and smiling smugly.

We take our sweet time wandering back through the block-long flower market swarming with shoppers, fresh baguettes under their arms, taking up fistfuls of color to brighten their supper tables. Near the entrance to our St. Paul Metro station, warmed by air gusting up through the grate under our feet, we watch with amusement yet another carrousel on the wide, tree-shaded traffic island which divides Rue de Rivoli east and west. Its predictable up-and-down horses, zebras and tigers had been retrofitted with a star-fleet of dented aluminum spaceships aimed slightly skyward, their multi-colored lights blinking furiously in an empty threat to snap the surly bonds of Earth, urged on by a trio of chattering munchkins.

There are more days with new serendipities. Now as facile as na-tives with the marvelous conveyance beneath the street, we rumble out of St. Paul: Destination, Jardin du Luxem-bourg . Through the iron gates and down the wide, pea-gravel walkway, one of the great gardens on the planet suddenly rises like Brigadoon, stretch-ing behind the palace like a contented tabby oblivious to the bite of the weather. We’re suddenly surrounded by sixty acres of manicured lawns and hedges, beds and urns still abloom with deep red, copper and gold-colored autumn flowers, statues of kings and queens, reflecting pools and dry fountains, the last of the dropped leaves floating on their dark surfaces or gathering in their empty basins.

Lingering in the palpable damp-ness are the squeals of the summer children crowding around the puppet stage, queued up for the carrousel and the pony rides, the thunk of tennis balls and sharp metallic clicks echoing from the boules courts, all shrouded now for winter. But still open for business, to our surprise and delight, is the octagonal Grand Bassin, the large sailboat pond in the center of

the garden. A dozen toy boats skim the water, ably skippered by children in heavy coats who, with long sticks, direct their numbered crafts back into the breeze as they bump ashore against the concrete rim.

The garden’s toasty bistro, a bright, free-standing structure reminiscent of a Japanese teahouse, offers us snug sanctuary. We sip wine and watch through the tall windows the bundled-up souls who were somehow drawn to this special place in the near-dead of winter.

And so it goes. Our days crackle with discovery. We pass block after block of bistro tables, two, sometimes three deep, woven-backed chairs fac-ing the street, rippling plastic wind-breakers separating establishments as patrons hunch shoulder to shoulder in their heavy black coats and stub-bornly sip their steaming espressos, determined not to succumb to the cold and retreat inside. Chestnut vendors break the sidewalk flow, hawking their deliciously burnt morsels from metal roasting trays set on large tins of glowing coals, all nested neatly in rusty wire grocery carts.

Our excellent adventure has coincided with the annual hoo-hah which borders on a genuine religious experience: Le Beaujolais Nouveau est arrive!” the ubiquitous banners proclaim. “The Beaujolais Nouveau has arrived!” On this glorious night, all hell busts loose and the good times roll. Crowds jam every café and bistro large enough for a table and a few chairs. Music cascades into the streets and mixes euphoniously with the wine and the humanity. We taste the new ambrosia at a happy-priced little café at the tip of Ile St. Louis. Afterward, warmed by the wine and unfazed by the cold, we hold hands in the middle of Pont St. Louis and look up the Seine toward the illuminated white wedding cake known as the Hotel de Ville. The cathedral towers over us at the far end of the bridge, breathtakingly lit for our personal pleasure.

Evenings find us in the Place St-


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Welcome to my houseKathryn Hinkle

Spring is here Kathryn Hinkle

Catherine, a secluded, brick-paved pedestrian square around the corner from our tiny hotel in the Marais. The square is blessed with a handful of exquisite, small restaurants, any one eminently equipped to satisfy my passions. Where there is tender duck, succulent mussels, a good red wine and a good-looking woman to share it with, there is my heart also.

As we leave by taxi for Charles-de-Gaulle and pass our now-familiar St. Paul Metro station in the early-morn-ing darkness, I remember the beast below, flexing itself for another day of unrequited caring for the many, un-like ourselves, who will never give the steadfast creature a second thought.


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It had stopped raining less than a half hour earlier. Walter Billings pulled over to the curb and parked in the relative darkness between two street lights. He shifted into park, switched off the engine and doused the lights. In the sudden, still silence he could hear a high-pitched hum in his head. He’d been driving for nearly eight hours, stopping only once, for gas. His body seemed to be vibrating. The illumi-nated digital clock on the dash gave the time as 2:45 a.m.

It was too dark to see much detail in the houses along East Chestnut Street in Knoxville, Tennessee. Most of them were brick and they were solid, sub-stantial, mostly two-story structures. They sat well back from the street. At least that’s how he remembered this neighborhood. He had actually been born in a house a half block away, the house where his family had lived until he was eleven years old. But admit-tedly he had not set foot in this town for some thirty years. So probably, in the light of day, one would notice that a few things had changed. In thirty years, he thought, some things change.

He sat there in the car for perhaps five minutes, marshalling his resources and mulling over the difficult busi-ness that had brought him back to this place. He had a plan that would occupy the next two hours. The details were important. Once the plan was complete he would be driving north-east, back out of Knoxville, again on Interstate 81. He’d drive a couple hun-dred miles then find a room, probably somewhere around Roanoke.

He was startled when somebody rapped sharply on the car window, just inches from his head. It was not the sound of knuckles hitting automotive glass, but rather something hard, prob-ably metallic. He jerked his head to the left just as a flashlight was switched on. It was aimed directly at his face and it nearly blinded him.

In a swift, powerful motion Walter

Old Pals by Tony Barga

opened the car door and thrust it sharply outward. He launched him-self out of the large sedan and sprang into a crouch, balanced on the balls of his feet. About six feet away stood a uniformed police officer, a heavy, gray-ing, balding man. The policeman had nearly been knocked off his feet by the car door. He had dropped his flashlight and was fumbling to pull his weapon from its holster. Walter quickly as-sessed the situation and raised his hands. “You won’t need that, Officer,” he said.

But the policeman ignored the unsolicited advice and pulled the silver finish automatic anyway. “You can’t never tell,” he said. “I just might need it. I might need it any second, now. Turn around and put your hands on the car.” He spoke with calm authority, assuming command of the situation. “Move slow. I been drinking coffee for the last eight hours and I’m a little jumpy.”

Walter turned and did as he was told. The policeman gave each of his ankles a sharp kick, on the inside, spreading his feet farther apart and back farther from the car. He did a quick pat-down and satisfied himself that Walter was not armed, finding only what felt like a wallet in a back pants pocket. “You got I.D. in this wal-let, Bud?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Walter replied.“I’ll just ease it out and have a look

at your driver’s license then.”“OK.” Walter replied.The policeman unbuttoned the

pocket and pulled out a brown leather wallet. “Just you stay put, now,” he said, as he walked around to the front the big silver Mercury Marquis. He positioned himself immediately in front of the left headlight. This put him in position to keep his eyes on Walter, who was still spread-eagled against the back door. He laid the wallet on the wet hood.

The scene was bathed in a weak,

bluish, high-contrast glare from the mercury-vapor street lights. The recent downpour was still draining audibly into a nearby sewer grate. There was no traffic of any kind on the street. Walter was able to turn his head and observe the cop, who made sure that his gun, which he kept trained on Walter, was visible. He flipped the wal-let open and shined his flashlight on it. He could see the edge of a New York driver’s license. He laid the flashlight down and pulled the plastic-laminated card out, placing it beside the wallet. All the while he kept the gun, a nine millimeter automatic, leveled unwav-eringly at Walter’s torso. He picked up the flashlight again and shined it on the driver’s license.

The policeman studied the infor-mation minutely, glancing up several times to study Walter’s face. And at length he chuckled. “Well I’ll be god-damned. Walter Billings. Jesus H. Christ, Walt. How long has it been?” He returned his side arm to its holster. “It’s me, Walt. Jimmy Wilson.”

Walter straightened up and ap-proached the police officer. He looked into his face and smiled. “Booger Wilson, how he hell are you, you son-of-a-bitch?”

Officer Wilson assumed the same aw-shucks posture that Walter remem-bered him displaying as a twelve-year-old, with downcast eyes, a goofy grin and actually kicking his foot at an invisible dirt clod. Both men reached forward for a hand shake. Walter stepped closer and, as men sometimes do when shaking hands, used his left hand to grasp the policeman’s right forearm, giving it a two-handed pump. Throughout this ritual they were both exclaiming inanities such as “Why, look at you!” and “Who would a thought?” and so on.

When the two men relaxed their grip, ending the handshake, Walter held on to the cop’s arm with his left hand for an extra instant. Abruptly, he


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yanked the man toward him while he drove the palm of his right hand upward into his nose. His follow-through crushed the bone structure supporting Officer Wilson’s nose and eyes, driving splinters and fragments up and back, into his brain.

The man’s legs instantly lost their ability to support his 260 pounds. He went down as though poleaxed. He ended up on his back and appeared unconscious. Walter walked to the back of his car, opened the trunk and got out a full-body rain suit and rubber gloves. He donned these items, then rolled Officer Wilson over onto his ample stomach. He placed his right knee on the cop’s spine, right below his neck. Pulling off the policeman’s distinctive hat and laying it aside, he then reached down with both hands and took a firm, practiced grip on his head. One hand actu-ally extended into the cop’s mouth, improving his grip on the lower jaw. He then bent the head back while twisting it. He leaned into the task, using his weight and his considerable upper-body strength. In just a few seconds he heard Booger Wilson’s neck snap. Remarkable, thought Walter, that a man who cheerfully embraced a nickname like “Booger” could have managed to stay alive this long.

In just a few more minutes Walter Billings had “cleaned up” the body of Patrolman James Wilson. This es-sentially consisted of bathing certain portions of his body and clothing with chlorine bleach, hopefully destroying any traces of DNA that Walter may have left. In his trunk he carried a Spic’n’Span spray bottle, filled with bleach, for this purpose.

He then concealed the police-man’s remains in a nearby clump of dense shrubbery. He was breathing hard from the exertion of having to move the big man’s body some thirty yards. The shrubs provided good

concealment, though. It occurred to him that the slack-jawed yokels on the local police force might not find their fallen comrade until he began to stink up the neighborhood in a few days. He noted with some satisfaction that the rain was kicking up again. Maybe a good drenching would wash away evidence that the police would otherwise find useful.

He saw no sign of a patrol car on the street, but was mindful of the possibility that the cop may have left one parked somewhere nearby. The policeman did not have a two-way radio on his person, but he may have radioed his position in to a dispatch-er from that car before beginning his ill-fated stroll down East Chestnut Street. Another patrol cruiser might be sent to investigate if he failed to check in again.

Walter did not want his own car, with its out-of-state plates, to be ob-served and noted by any such search-ers. So once he’d stowed the rain suit, gloves and bleach back in the trunk, the first thing he needed to do was to move his car out of this neighbor-hood, which he proceeded to do. As he drove to a new parking spot some ten blocks away he cursed his bad luck. This unexpected encounter with his old pal had placed an ad-ditional element of time pressure on Walter that he did not welcome. But he would deal with it.

Wish You Were Hereby DonWenker

On the back of our farmThere is a hidden pondIts waters are sky blue.

On the stony shoreThere is a picnic tableWhere I sit and write.

In the noon day sunThere is a peacefulnessthat descends upon me.

I sit in the shadeOf a giant oak treeWatching nature unfold.

Patches of black-eye susansSway in the summer breezeA wood thrush sings its song.

A spotted bass twists and turnsBefore disappearing in a splashEnlarging ripples flow outward.

A school of striped minnows swim pastAn egret stands on one leg in the reedsWaiting for the minnows to approach.

A bull frog plunbs into the deep its legs stretching out in strange anglesThe vitality off life is all around me.

On the edge of the plowed fieldNear the old wooden vine-covered fence,The orange chested robins listened.

Two large swans glide upon the waterTheir black eyes always on the watchThey seem half mortal and half angelic.

The goldenrod glistens in the noonday sunThe water lilies ride the crest of the ripplesA gentle breeze caresses my parched lips.

A hawk hidden high in a tree watching allA flock of wild geese circle high aboveLooking for that perfect feeding pond.

And here I sit and observe all of natureWatching God create all in perfect harmonyAnd wishing all the time you were here.


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Bounty and Graceby Alice M . Mesaros October 2009

When I was a child living with my widowed grandmother, putting food on the table for eight of us was more than just hard work, it was warfare. The garden and its bounty was under constant attack. Each morning Gram and I waged war with the weeds then each evening we carried heavy buckets of water to the garden knowing full well that we were not only feeding the crops but also feeding the enemy.

fruit found lying on the ground. But, a greater threat than rot or bruising were the web worms that could leave the trees a barren waste. As soon as the webs would appear, Gram turned Old-West vigilante, hell-bent on eliminating the evil-doers. She would wrap a cloth around a long stick, dip the cloth end in kerosene and set a match to it. Weapon in hand, off she would go in search of their lairs. My cousins and I would fol-low her like helpless unarmed towns-folk as she set about peering up into each tree for signs of the enemy. Once found, we’d cower behind her as she set the webs on fire. The webs would flare then melt releasing the roasted worms like spent fireworks falling to earth. Gram gave no quarter. Both survivors and wounded were disposed of quickly under the heel of her shoe. We watched in utter fascination.

The vegetable garden and trees were sources of nourishment for our bodies year-round but it was the beauty found in floral sanctuaries that fed our spirits. Winter found my grandmother and me watering poinsettia, Christmas cactus, and geraniums that graced our window niches. We found the promise of spring in the yellow crocuses that flowed from under winter’s last islands of snowy ice crystals. In the summer there were chapels of day lilies, daisies, and petunias followed by autumn chapels of salvia, lavender, and chrysanthemums. Churches of lilacs, Rose of Sharon, and tall red cannas offered nature’s refuge; but, the most inspiring were the cathedrals with their arches of red and pink climbing roses. Each garden had a choir of bees and evening services were attended by children and fireflies. Not a season passed that we weren’t blessed with flowers.

It was a childhood of bounty and grace.

Sketches Jeanne Crandell

When the battle took place during a dry spell, it was brutal. The weeds be-came entrenched and we had to ration water to our plants, one dipper at a time. Invading garden pests like snails and beetles were disposed of with salt, soapy sprays or immersion in tin cans of oily water.

The fruit trees also suffered attacks and casualties. Each day we would gather the wounded or fatally ripened


Creative Voices


Creative Voices

When three African men jumped onto and then over the 7 ft. concrete wall surrounding the upscale house of the friends I was visiting in Johan-nesburg, not one of us reacted. The intruders landed a few yards from where we were sitting on the patio sipping sundowners and just strolled towards us. One was very tall and thin, and he seemed to be running the show. The second man was shorter and rounder but with a less assured demeanor and he was holding a small gun. The third man was well built and muscular. None of us said anything. We just sat there, astonished. When they reached the patio, the tall man broke the silence.

Very quietly, without threat or bravado he said:

“We are sorry we have to steal from you. We are refugees from Zimbabwe.

We have no work. We can’t get jobs because we are refugees. We have to do this to make money to feed our families. We won’t hurt you, we want only your money. Your jewelry.”

Neil took off his watch and put it on the table next to his cell phone.

The tall one reached out and picked up the cell phone and watch and held his hand out for the wallet that Neil had taken from his back pocket .

He looked through it. Then he looked at Neil who realized he was disappointed with the few bills inside.

Neil said: “I don’t carry much money — I use credit cards.”

‘We don’t want credit cards. We want only cash.” He pocketed what he took. Then he opened the cell phone, removed the SIM card and returned it to Neil. “You look like a business man. You probably need this.

Please, your wedding ring.” Neil took it off and gave it to him. The tall man reached for the assortment of bracelets, watches, rings, earrings and cash that Neil’s wife Adele, his Aunt Maureen and I had placed on the table, and stuffed them into a plastic shop-

Goodwill in Johannesburg — December 2007 by Stella Holding

ping bag.The man with the muscular body

asked: “Is there a safe in the house?” No. “Who is in the house?” The

maid. “Let us go in and see. I will go in with the lady of the house.”

Neil stood up whether to protest or accompany them it wasn’t clear, but the tall man pushed him back onto his seat. “You stay here. Don’t worry.

He won’t hurt her. We won’t hurt anyone. Don’t be afraid.” He took the gun from the smaller man, pointed it at Adele who had risen, and gestured for her to accompany his companion who was already explaining he wanted only money and jewelry. By then my paralyzing panic had subsided suf-ficiently for me to hope that the maid had the sense to pick up the phone and call the police.

When the tall man looked into the plastic bag Neil said: “Small pickings I am afraid.”

The tall one replied: “It is enough. It will buy food.”

The next few minutes didn’t seem like the proverbial eternity. It was over quite quickly. Adele came out and with a nod assured us that she was okay. The muscular man followed a few steps behind holding a brightly colored beach bag holding money and jewelry.

The tall man threw the gun to one of his two companions who were back-ing away towards the wall. Once again he apologized for putting us through the ordeal, and extended his hand to Neil. It struck me as ludicrous that af-ter stealing from us he wanted to shake Neil’s hand, and I was puzzled by his motive. After a moment’s hesitation, Neil reached for and shook his hand. When he turned to walk towards the wall, Neil stood up.

“Look, there is no need for you to jump over the wall. I will unlock the gate.” He was already punching a code into the automatic gate opener that he had taken out of his pocket. Just as they reached the slowly opening gate,

the maid came running out holding a shopping bag. She thrust it at the smallest of the men.

“The madam said to give you this food. It is for your family. Eat well.”

The man hugged her.And then they were gone.


Creative Voices

My dad was a long-pants guy who used to hoist me aboard the Traction Car going twenty miles to Brighton, and Cincinnati, for Sunday Reds’ gamesl when I was too small even for wearing knickerbockers. That’s small! My dad was an out-of-work guy who, in 1933, smoked 5-cent roll-your-own Ripple cigarettes. He could hold his rifle, take the packet from his shirt pocket with his other hand and roll one, cinch the packet by his teeth, re-stuff the shirt pocket, and light a match on the seat of his pants, and the cigarette.

So: he’s standing there with his rifle, smoke curling against his face, back against the wall, next to an opened screendoor, in our little Ohio town. He doesn’t like the idea of three G-men in suits standing on his front porch with Tommy guns. They are. It’s September, 1933. Across the street, he can see still more of them, more men with Tom-my-guns in Mrs. Gregg’s, the colored lady’s yard, behind some trees. G-men on your front porch, with guns, are ap-parently a bad example for a small boy on his way to school: me.

I just walked past them. They don’t speak a word to me. Their eyes are fo-cused on Almer Wooten’s house across the street, next to Mrs Gregg’s, the col-ored lady’s. A school pack is about my neck, on my back, with used books in it. This is all quite new to me. I mean, this is the first week of school. I finger the strap nervously as I go, feeling the bag bump against me. I am five. I shall turn six in November. If these finger-itchy guys don’t shoot me, I shall.

They didn’t ask to stand on my front porch. They assume they had that right. They are G-Men. I am too small to challenge them. But, I guess my dad felt differently. He was fond of George Raft movies.

This in mind, and once I was out of sight, cigarette dangling from his lips, he faced the screen-door and — “Damn Republicans!” he growled in

his best George Raft impression, shot a hole through it. It wasn’t a Long — it was a .22 Short — that struck the G-Man on his big-toed foot, so that while he whirled his Tommygun in dad’s direction Dad leaped, his back against the wall, and the G-Man’s Tommy-gun sprayed its nervous reflex over the linoleum, nine or ten rapid firings, through the front screen-door and out the back one two rooms away, but for that one which struck the bottom of the back door itself. Unfortunately, another of them struck our pet dog, ‘Hoover’, beneath his left eye as he slept on his back, paws up, in the dining room. Dad said, ‘Hoover’ leapt from his deep sleep to discover himself in a living nightmare. He danced on his snout as one eye-ball showed white, the other whirling every which way as ‘Hoover’ tried getting a paw on it. He couldn’t do and eventu-ally reduced himself to whimpering in pain and hard breathing. Dad said he desperately wanted to kill ‘Hoover’ but couldn’t. His own hands trembled so much, he wouldn’t insert another .22 Short bullet into the chamber. If he had managed to do so, he thought he would miss with his crooked-barreled gun and scare ‘Hoover’ to death. He said he didn’t wish the dog’s dying in belief that the whole world had turned against him.

My mother is up in bed, because I am a block away at St. Joseph school, and she has been up late canning pic-calilli — the proper term is ‘putting up piccalilli’ — but more often with dad out-of-work and around the house half the day it was a matter of mom’s put-ting up with dad — the G-Men are on my front porch looking the other way, but my dad is shooting at them from inside the front doorway.

Dad’s two brothers got sent to Dartmouth College and to Syracuse U./ respectively, and Dad got sent to hell, or rather to Second Ward — the same thing — because he dated his

family’s white maid, my Mom, right through high school. Then he, a Protestant-Republican, married her, a Catholic-Democrat, and made prom-ise to raise all subsequent children Catholic-Democrat, and to go live in Second Ward until he was dead. THAT is purgatory. But my mom by and by lost her girlish beauty. Dad lost his job (his father fired him), and by 1933, there he stands inside the doorway, back against the wall holding the .22 rifle, bought with Green Stamps or Tobacco Coupons with which he used to shoot rats at the City dump, not to curb the Black Plague, but merely to keep active.

Boy oh boy! How swell for me. I was the lone child to result of this union. I was a Catholic-Democrat, as he had promised. At least, they told me I was a Catholic-Democrat. “Go to St. Joseph school,” my folks instructed. “They will provide further informa-tion.” And, the first week it was fun. On the second day, being my father’s son, I kissed a little blonde girl in the classroom.

“Whoah!” spoke the nun softly. “That behavior is unacceptable. No sex until you are married.”

You will note the name Dillinger, in the title. The name hasn’t come up yet. That’s because nobody on the scene had mentioned it. Now, old John Dillinger rests, one presumes, comfort-ably in the 58th Street cemetery over at Indianapolis, but back then, when he didn’t break out of prisons or go robbing banks allover the country, he made periodic visits to our small town at southwestern Ohio for his R&R, that is, in the arms (as they say) of his honey. Whoever she was. Almer Wooten didn’t have much older sisters, or younger aunts, so far as I knew. Why G-Men were fixed on Almer’s house beats me. But G-Men always know best. Don’t they? Warden Louis E. Laws of Sing Sing Prison invariably said so, and he was on the radio every

My dad nearly shot John Dillingerby George Weber


Creative Voices

week, in “Gangbusters”! In fact, Almer Wooten went to St. Joseph School. If I thought of it at the time, I should have asked him. That day I didn’t know John Dillinger was part of the equation. They wouldn’t send twenty G-Man with Tommy-guns to Second Ward, in Ohio, to remind Almer Wooten he belonged up at school, not at home. But twenty G-Men with Tommy-guns aimed at you is enough to keep anybody home. I should have made that deduction. Though if I remember rightly, I couldn’t yet read. That was why I went to Catholic-Democrat school. That was why the nun in Sec-ond grade wrote all the letters of the alphabet, large and small, above the blackboard, and along the wall. I can see them there, in perpetuity.

Dad was let forty more years of it, hating Republicans, hating his father, advising my mother and me of his importance, working such jobs as he could get, shooting rats at the dump, smoking roll-your-own cigarettes. You think you got it hard?

Dad never owned a car. Dad never drove a car. Dad didn’t think they particularly helped, unless you needed to get somewhere fast. Fast hadn’t yet come into it. Now cars go more than 200 m.p.h. — but in squashed ovals (sometimes in squashed cars). People by the hundreds of thousands pay to watch them do this. We call this progress.

If Dad had known that day that the G-Men were on our porch hoping to kill, or to wound John Dillinger, boy —l think he may have shot a second G-Man in the steel toe-capped foot. Or one G-Man in both feet. Dad loved John Dillinger! Dad said he wanted to volunteer, go and be John Dillinger’s buddy. Dad said he couldn’t go on ac-count of he had a Catholic-Democrat wife and kid. This held him back.

“Who the hell’s in there?” called the G-Man.

“Dammit, I own this place!”

shouted Dad from behind the wall. “Sort of.”

“Have you got a weapon?” asked the G-Man.

“Yeah — I guess I do,” said Dad, considering his puny rifle.

“Throw down the weapon!” “Get off my porch,” replied Dad,

pitching his weapon to his feet. It clat-tered about the dining room, adding a final injury to ‘Hoover,’ who lay by now sightless, on the point of dying. “You killed my dog. Damn you!” said my Dad.

“Are there any more kids in the house?” said the G-Man.

“More kids? called my dad. “Jesus, is that all you Catholics can think of?”

My mom came down the stairs wearing a house-robe and her hair up. “Did you go to the dump yet?” she wished to know of my dad.

“Do I look like I’m at the dump?” said Dad. “I got four guys on my porch with Tommy-guns.”

“Did you ask if they wanted tea?” “No. I didn’t ask them! You ask… .” “Come out with your hands up,

Mister,” said the G-Man on the porch. “My God, you’ve shot the dog,”

shouted Mom. “I didn’t hear him bark-ing.”

“Yeah, sure. My gun is on the floor,” Dad said, beginning to roll another cigarette with one hand.

“I’ll give you three,” said the man on the porch. “Ready — one, two … .”

My Dad raised a leg, swiped the match-head across his butt, lighted the cigarette.

“Are you coming out?” said the G-Man.

“Yeah, I’m coming … ,” said Dad, inserting the packet of Ripple into his shirt pocket.

Dillinger, who wasn’t in the neigh-borhood that day, would have been proud of Dad. Dillinger was shot to death the following spring, by at least twenty GMen, up at Chicago.

“Where’s Dad?” I asked my mom.

She headed out the back door and up the dirt alley on way to her night-time job as cook in a neighborhood saloon.

“Your father?” she said. “Oh, he’s at the dump.” Mom paused. She couldn’t have been a whole lot past thirty. “Yes, he’s looking, no doubt, for — what’s- his-name … ?”

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OLLI contactsProgram Director Fred Bassett, [email protected]

Chairman Tom Noonan513-556-9186

Administrative SecretaryShyra [email protected]

AddressOLLIUniversity of CincinnatiPO Box 210093Cincinnati, OH 45221-0093

Web sitewww.uc.edu/ce/olli

Mission StatementThe mission of the OLLI is to provide opportunities for lifetime learning and social interaction to the matureresidents of Greater Cincinnati.

Vision StatementTo be the premier organization offering educational and social experiences to mature residents of Greater Cincinnati by:• Nourishingintellect, expanding knowledge and exploring new ideas • Sharinginterestsandexperiences• Cultivatingfriendships

Board of Trustees ChairTom Noonan

Board of Trustees Vice-ChairJim Goyette

Curriculum ChairJim Goyette

Finance ChairTim Langner

Friends ChairCarol Friel

Governance Chair Donald Hordes

Marketing ChairMartha Schimberg

Board of Trustees Janet BanksFrank BloomHarold BrownDiane DeckerRosemary DeitzerCarol FrielRichard GoetzJim GoyettePamela GribiRobert HaslRichard HellmannDonald HordesNeil JefferiesFred JoffeTim LangnerTom Noonan Marilyn OttJay PriceJeanette RamirezMartha SchimbergNancy SchpatzCandas Stacey Joe Warkany

Ex OfficioStephen AppelFred BassettMelody ClarkGloria GiannestrasJoe Hirschhorn

Advisory CommitteeBarbara Bardes Jeanne BonhamRichard FriedmanHon. John GilliganRichard HaitSr. Jean Patrice HarringtonMarjorie MotchKenneth SchonbergGreg Warshaw, MDHenry Winkler

Founder Aaron Levine (1918-2004)

University of Cincinnati Osher Lifelong Learning InstitutePO Box 210093 Cincinnati OH 45221-0093

creativev oices - university of cincinnati content... · p .10, jeanne crandell pp .12, 28, ......

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