SENIOR STORIES WEHO A collection of writings by Seniors sponsored by the City of West Hollywood Senior Advisory Board In commemoration of Senior Month May 2018
SENIOR STORIES WEHO is a project of the City of West Hollywood s Senior Advisory Board, published in commemoration of Senior Month, May 2018. CITY OF WEST HOLLYWOOD 8300 Santa Monica Blvd. West Hollywood, CA 90069 (323) 848-6400 www.weho.org TTY Line (for hearing impaired) =(323) 848-6496 WEST HOLLYWOOD CITY COUNCIL Mayor John Heilman Mayor Pro Tempore John Duran Councilmember John D Amico Councilmember Lindsey Horvath Councilmember Lauren Meister SENIOR ADVISORY BOARD John Allendorfer, Chair Bernice Levin, Vice-Chair Esther Baum Pat Dixon Sofia Gelman Michael Hollingsworth William McNeeley Joy Nuell A. Lee Walkup For additional copies of this publication and information about writing classes available in the community, please call (323) 848-6510 2
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TABLE OF CONTENTS SENIOR STORIES: AN INTRODUCTION 6-7 Kim Dower (City Poet Laureate of West Hollywood) FOOD BANK 8-9 Charlie Becker ARRESTED 10-11 Gordon Blitz POEMS THROUGH THE YEARS 12-14 Carleton Cronin WHAT S IN A NUMBER 15-17 Pat Dixon UNTITLED 18 Martin Gantman ОДА АССОЦИАЦИИ РУССКИХ ВРАЧЕЙ 19-20 (I SING A SONG TO RETIRED RUSSIAN DOCTORS) Sofia Gelman ИСПОВЕДЬ (CONFESSION) 21-24 Nina Geshel MY HOME CITY 25-26 Tamara Gurevich TAKING THE BULLET 27-29 Pamela M. Komac MY EARLIEST MEMORY 30-31 Muriel Mines ОТКРЫТОЕ ПИСЬМО ПРЕЗИДЕНТАМ (OPEN LETTER) 32-35 Evgenia Mirzoyan 4
TABLE OF CONTENTS BUTTER BEANS N GRITS 36-37 Stephen Myrick SCORPIO S SERENADE 38-42 TODAY is the TOMORROW YOU VE HAD in the BACK of your MIND. GET BUSY!! Scorpio Pecorino A HALF CENTURY TO EUREKA! 43-45 Johanna Pick VANISHED 46-47 John Simons THE NOOK 48 Sue Tanner THE PACIFIC OCEAN 49-50 Leonid Vaysman 5
SENIOR STORIES WEHO: AN INTRODUCTION by Kim Dower City Poet Laureate of West Hollywood We ve all seen the slogans and tag lines: You are what you eat, You are what you read! But of course, the truth is, we are how we ve lived we are what we ve lived. We are our stories the combination of facts, memories clear and blurry - images that stay in our conscious and unconscious minds. And, the longer we ve lived the richer our stories, the more important they become, not only to ourselves, but to those who read them. What we choose to remember and retell is significant. Vital. Energized. Not only for the writer, but for the reader. This is why, very often, the best stories are told by those of us who ve lived the longest. I remember as a child loving it when my grandmother or grandfather would talk about the old country, would tell me about riding horses into velvety fields in faraway lands I would never get to visit. I loved hearing about adventures coming to a new country, hearing how life was before telephones! And I don t mean cell phones! Before air travel, school lunches! We learn about history, real history, as it was lived by real people, not how the textbooks refigure the facts, or add editorial notes. When our beloved senior citizens write down their thoughts, turn them into art, their pieces carry with them the heavy load of years of experience, particular and personal memories of times they ve chosen to recollect, and in turn for us to enjoy and cherish. 6
How wonderful that West Hollywood -- vibrant, eclectic city filled with all kinds of people of all ages that it is -- can create Senior Stories for all to enjoy. In this publication there is no young or old. The storyteller is ageless! Aren t all artists and writers young no matter what our age? Creating something on paper that s never been created before -- giving birth to an idea keeps us young. Words are ageless. Enjoy these they come from the minds and hearts of writers who speak from experience and lives well lived. They jump off the page. They remind us that we all have stories to tell, and the longer we live, the more stories we will have, and the better our stories will be. Kim Dower is the City Poet Laureate of West Hollywood. She has published three collections of poetry with Red Hen Press: Air Kissing on Mars, Slice of Moon, and Last Train to the Missing Planet. Her poems appear in several anthologies including Wide Awake: Poets of Los Angeles and Beyond, Beyond Baroque Books, as well as journals including Rattle, Barrow Street, Ploughshares, Garrison Keillor s, The Writer s Almanac, and Poem-A-Day. She teaches workshops Poetry and Dreaming and Poetry and Memory at Antioch University. 7
FOOD BANK by Charlie Becker If I ran the foodbank there d be really no excuse for borrowing and garnishing sublime old Dr. Seuss except to say with no dismay, In my foodbank store, you d fill your hands and make those plans to come and ask for more. Yes, yes, our lucky stars would thank the cirrus clouds above like doves obsessed with wearing best and vested clean white gloves, serving up each house a douse of sugars years supply or cream of cream and grand esteemed, heated apple pie. The list would be just endless, then, of cakes and tarts, ice creams nutty breads, those things I ve said, desserts for children s dreams, or pizza pie for breakfast, why, hot soup to keep us strong and buttered nuts with jellied whats for when the day s too long, hot sauces made with nachos or grilled cheeses in a pan waffles mixed with French toast, too, and syrups from a can. Oh yes, and if I ran the foodbank, donuts would go free so why, why not, and please cry not, just listen up with me: There are two ways to do this since it s money that s the bump the first, I tries to penalize, our nemesis, Donald Trump, 8
each time he speaks those words he does that overly offend he must tell us he is sorry plus, pay millions back, to spend on hot meals for the needy, good fine folks who still need jobs sharing of his wealth and stuff, we know he s just got gobs! Of course it s true, with tongue in cheek, is where our Don belongs expecting any kindness is a lame and tame last song. But I leave you all at last with my best thought for now how fund our near, dear foodbank here with money s cash green cow? It s our California Lottery, it could surely purely be for moms and dads and girls and lads and all the needs they see, whoever wakes and quakes those mighty morning hunger aches drum-tummy feeling numbly cause there s barely food to make, the money goes to all of them, for them we serve it up and puts the cash in their foodbank to fill in their big cups. And so you see for you and me I hope you liked this spin cause if I run the Lottery next, you know for sure who ll win. Charlie Becker has been living in West Hollywood for more than 25 years. He is a retired speech pathologist who is now studying and practicing creative writing. He also helps bring poetry to under-served high school students in Los Angeles through the Living Writers Series. Charlie's first book of poems and drawings, "Friends My Poems Gave Me", was published by World Stage Press in July, 2016. 9
ARRESTED by Gordon Blitz As we drove along Crescent Heights and Fountain the dusky sun was setting. Scott was driving his chunky red Volvo. I sat uncomfortably. Ever since I had anal warts I suffered from hemorrhoids. They were my reward from my first anal intercourse experience. The boy from Hollywood Towers had a bad boy quality that enticed me. Weeks later I was seeing blood in my stool. The doctor used electrical current to burn off my warts. I vividly remember the striking pain for the series of sessions before they were eradicated. At least my refusal to ever have anal sex again saved my life. Lights began flashing behind us. A police car pulled us over. The officer got out of his menacing vehicle. Did you know your lights should be on? Scott was angry. Why did you stop us?. This triggered the policeman to make me get out of the car. Walk in a straight line. I was scared shitless as I attempted to walk straight. My memories of my father using the same phrase threw me into a panic. My ass hurt as I tried to walk. I wasn t driving so couldn t comprehend why I was questioned. Repeat the alphabet backwards. I stuttered and stumbled. The policeman handcuffed me. My wrists immediately went into shock. They threw me into the back seat of the patrol car. We were off. I saw Scott hollering and shouting. Suddenly, the car radio shouted Go to Gardner and Santa Monica. The siren started blaring as we sped through the street. It felt like we were driving 100 miles an hour. When we arrived, they jumped out with fully loaded ammunition. Petrified, I held my screams inside. Would I be shot? Flashes of my life zoomed by. I laid down cowering in the backseat hoping to avoid bullets flying. The moments felt like hours until they returned from the scene. We headed to the police station. I was finger printed and photographed. They called me fag. They giggled and poked me. I began waiting on a dank hard-metal seat surrounded by criminals. Taunted and humiliated. 10
I had my one phone call. I contacted my Uncle who rescued me with $5,000 in cash bail at midnight. My brain kept churning during the four hour wait. I couldn t breathe. Anxiety flourished. I would have a record. Never able to get a job. An attorney turned this into a false arrest and it was expunged from my records. This was 1973 sexual harassment. I realize now what it must feel for an African- American to be stopped. Edward M. Davis was chief of police. The vice squad were responsible for active policing against the gay community. Officers were purported to have dangled a youth over a cliff to try to make him reveal names of a pedophile ring. Later in Ed Davis s career he changed and actually supported a homosexual rights bill in Congress. Now, I always turn on my auto lights the second the sun drops. Gordon Prescott Blitz retired in August 2017 after having joyously worked for the same company for 39 years. Poetry helped him through the painful and miraculous life events during his 65 years. He recently began the What s Your Story workshop at the Village writing personal narratives. 11
POEMS THROUGH THE YEARS by Carleton Cronin WALKING TO SCHOOL (1943) By the street with no cars, By the dirty-brown dirt oval, By the Convent quiet, By the poplars nested full, By the smoking dump depression, By the slow tread hill, By the railroad bridge, By the acrid fumes discharging, By the Polish deli, By the dead cat, By the silver bullet cruising, By the crowded triples, By the gates of iron, By the greasy staircase, By the dank coatroom, By the teacher s smile By the bully s stare To my seat - refuge at last! WILMA (1995) Willow strong and light as air with eye calm at dawn and fire at sun s down, bright eye that sees yet wonders why and answers all. Cornflower dry with core sap abundant and tall, above the horizon s thrust to know from whence the rivers come and to where they flow - and why. From prairie s roll to mountain s call, an answer and a need - and a reason - for all to remember. 12
HOUSES, AS I PASS BY (2007) Something there is about small white houses clapboard neat with sharply peaked roofs, pasted with green shingles to cover and shield those within. Something there is about snow that gathers atop or rain which washed clean the daily grit and char from industry s immodest nearby belch. Something there is about the orange glow that hidden lamps produce behind the midnight window panes to guide the eye through the gloom of roads at night. Something there is about a houses alone in woods quiet, some old -I know their feel, their aroma, their old patterned wallpaper and creaky floors. DID I MISS YOU? (2016) Had I a dream? - I did of interesting proportions, of such as Enid Bagnold in tights. and Henry Clayhanger banging on a drum he stole from that German scribbler. But, why, for the sake of Heaven did they appear from The haze of my jumbled youth, when I read everything I could find from that golden age of writing for the simple sake of writing; to tell a tale. was the prize itself. I searched in that dream for a Place to hide while you were Away from me and us. Where Else to go but to the Trusted friends who never Allowed me to abandon them? Who can construct dreams? We lie in wait for them. If they are to come at all it is always a surprise party for one - Something there is about street homes crowded with chirping children soon put to bed to dream of other magic lands and of days yet to come. Something there is about others houses where I have never been where I send my mind to peer in imagination - a Prowler passing by. 13 -yet, they are random pages turning in the breezy chambers and dark corridors of memory. Disturbing, rewarding, reminding: Did I miss you? Indeed I did. Now I can sleep undisturbed.
BOULEVARD (2016) Dreams in a bag, fears in his bedroll, secrets demanding to be told, he comes to the Boulevard where some pilgrimages end and some begin. What is this place? he asks himself as he wanders along the street. Eyes everywhere offer signals but he does not yet understand them; his own eyes wide open, yet avert. Frightening. Enticing. Not yet engaging. The Mother Lode Reads the sign. Mother Perhaps a good omen, he thinks and enters. Bright faces see him as he swigs the door wide. A beer. A nod. A chat. His bedroll is taken by a stranger whose smile welcomes. His secret revealed without a word, The dreams he has carried so long touched, shared. Suddenly the bag is clutched. frightened by its rapid opening, He picks up his bedroll, his bag of dreams - but leaves his secret behind in The Mother Lode where it is spoken of amongst strangers who understand, who know they will see him again. Carleton Cronin and his wife Toby have lived in West Hollywood since 1974, raising four boys here while establishing wonderful, endearing friendships. Currently Carleton continuing writing projects for the stage. 14
WHAT S IN A NUMBER by Pat Dixon Eighty. Three zeroes configured to make two numbers, an 8 and a zero. My ex-husband wrote the number eight by drawing two circles, one on top of the other. I thought that was very creative of him and most likely it was probably the way he was taught in school. I never did tell him I thought it was clever and interesting. Maybe that was my problem. Eighty. I never thought that number would apply to me, the eternal optimist living in a world that never got old, either in spirit or in flesh. A hip replacement and a spinal fusion and a few breaks here and there remind me that there are times when fragility is not just for crystal. But yes, there it was, 80. The only other people I actually knew who turned that number were graying aunts and sometimes (if they were lucky) uncles, wearing outdated clothing, eating food they learned to cook as children, sitting in plastic covered furniture, reading the The Daily Forward (a left wing newspaper popular when I was young). The approaching number occupied my mind constantly. My birthday was January 10, and for the two months preceding that date all I was able to think about was the number 80. I heard that 80 was the average life span for most people. I gave that some thought. Perhaps I should change my spending habits. I began to buy six eggs instead of a dozen, a small quarter of a pound of butter instead of a pound. I began to investigate what was in my refrigerator thinking that the expiration date on the food I froze was probably later than my own. So I began to eat out of my refrigerater, and discovered that yes, ice cream does lose its flavor about three years in freezing cold temperature. I was not having a good time. The days clicked by and I saw my life as a 1940 something movie, with the pages of the days flipping over. Oy vey, I was thinking, I ll never make it. Eighty. So what is one to do when one has reached that number, it was never a goal, never really thought about. 15
Move up north, my son and his wife say to me. Move into this wonderful (very expensive) retirement community where people drive around in golf carts and go to the many and various activities during the day. They even have a library, a movie theatre, and not to be believed, but a big Safeway which is outside the gates of the Rossmore Retirement Community (this was in response to where is the Whole Foods and TraderJoe s?). And, can you believe the luck, this place is only 30 minutes from where my son and his wife and my precious grandson live. I d probably see them just a little more than I see them now, life being what it is. Even their offer of giving me the down payment on the town house didn't move me. I put the kibbosh on that idea for all the reasons above and many more. I am active in my community; I go to Pavillions which is an extended visit because I stop and am stopped by the many people in West Hollywood that I ve come to know and mostly love. I serve on the Senior Board (and I say Senior with a bit of pride, not to be outdone by the precious Older Americans that is trying to take its place in some communities). Also, not to be forgotten are my doctors, not that I go to many, in fact I hardly go, but when I go see a doctor it is someone with whom I ve had a long relationship. And can I mention teeth? More going out than coming in, but he s my dentist and I could never find another. And the museums and films are a big part of my life. I was and am still vey active. My favorite day of the week is Tuesday where it is my honor to be a volunteer at the Friends of the West Hollywood Library Bookstore. We have a group that comes in just to chat and we talk about old Broadway shows and have what we call Show and Tell. Rick, one of our many steady visitors, brings his latest catch of old playbills, some dating back to the 40 s; he takes them out and we talk about the play, the stars, the non stars, and all the rest. And the beauty of it all is that we know of those we speak about. Eighty. How do I celebrate 80, three zeroes configured to form a two digit number. Two friends in one week told me they had given up driving ( both younger than I), and were going to take the bus and Lyft. (they used the term Uber but I keep saying Lyft). Another friend went through a red light without thinking and turned her car in and has been using the bus ever since. So What to do. How to honor this number. 16
Move up to Northern California where my daily outing to the Safeway will be as interesting as the sale of pork rinds in their Safeway. I could also visit and perhaps stay in Palm Springs where a lot of my friends have grown fat (not that there s anything wrong with that), quiet and sad no matter how much golf they play. So I did the next best thing, or the thing that forced me to celebrate my continuing hope in this life, no matter how awful the politics, the hope that people find happiness no matter where (Pavillions works if the bookstore doesn t). So I went out yesterday and bought me a souped up Kia Soul with all the bells and whistles. Yes, I ll tuck the bus pass in the glove compartment, yes, I ll put plastic wraps around the books that we treasure, but no, I m not moving; I m staying right here and I will be at my Whole Foods, Trader Joe s and Pavillions at least 5 times a week greeting my trudging buddies with a smile across my not terribly lined face which is underneath my oh so gray hair, and my now pudgy body will haul itself in the car and head out for some fun!!! And then I ll sit in the bookstore on Tuesdays with our interesting collection of friends and books and find something dear and wonderful about that day. Welcome to 80. It s just the beginning. 17
UNTITLED by Martin Gantman It was 1945 or 6. I lived on Bronson Avenue, near Robertson Boulevard and, I think it was Greta s Steak House at the time, later to be a Hamburger Hamlet (though I might have that order wrong) and is now the location of the Leica showroom. We used to have to walk across the railroad tracks on what is now San Vicente Boulevard to get to and from our classes at Rosewood Avenue School; always, in our young eyes, watching out for the gigantic speeding railway trains or the red cars, feeling each time like we had barely escaped dismemberment or even death once we finally made the other side. I don t remember a roadway then, just the two lines of track and dirt on either side, between the rows of fences and back and side yards that faced onto the railway. One day, in an impulsive fit of mischievousness, I can still envision the devilish look in my very own eyes, I placed a penny on one of the tracks. I had no idea what might happen, just thought the penny would get flattened, but I worried about the effects that penny might cause during that entire school day. I didn t see any signs of a debacle on the way home, nor did I ever find the penny, but it took many years for me to get over that 6-year old s guilt that I might possibly have caused a major, catastrophic accident. Martin Gantman is a West Hollywood based artist and writer who has exhibited in galleries and museums in the United States and Europe. His published work includes several articles and short stories that have been included in magazines, such as Art Journal, and in books, such as Benjamin s Blind Spot: Walter Benjamin and the Premature Death of Aura. He has recently published a book about his art work, Black Box: Decoding the Art Work of Martin Gantman. He also serves as a commissioner on the West Hollywood Arts and Cultural Affairs Commission. 18
ОДА АССОЦИАЦИИ РУССКИХ ВРАЧЕЙ by Sofia Gelman За годы нашего совместного бытия В нашем обществе произошли важные события, Наши понедельники нас не только сплотили, Они как воздух нам нужны, они нас подружили. Интересные доклады и научные лекции Продлевают нашу жизнь луше чем иньекции. А встречи с работающими врачами Напоминают нам какими были мы сами. И то как работали, не щадя своих сил, мы Особенно в годы Великой Войны Без рентгена и МРИ надеясь на самих себя, Мы лечили раненых, как герои, совершая чyдеса. Конечно же мы стареем и уже не процветаем, Но благодаря нашим стараниям ещё не увядаем. Мы соответственно часто бываем тайред И уже навсегда относимся к категории ретаиред. Но мы не унываем, в етом можно убедиться Так как знаем что можем даже очень пригодиться В семье, в работе с внуками, в совете, Кому же как не быть за здоровый быт вответе. Давайте сохранять нашей молодости традиции, И пусть навсегда остануться наши амбиции. Пожелаем себе не терять ннтереса к всему, Чтобы не было мучительного раскаяния-почему? 19
I SING A SONG TO RETIRED RUSSIAN DOCTORS by Sofia Gelman Dear retired Russian doctors, What are we now worth? We feel like aliens in a new society, And we live in a lack of varieties. *** Who knows how many times? Looking into our patients' eyes, We were responsible for their lives While listening to their silent cries. We didn't care about money, It would even sound to us funny, If a patient needed an operation, Who could think of having a donation? *** We didn't have a great deal of prosperity, But we did have a big human charity. We didn't have any sophisticated equipment, But our patients got the best treatment. *** Analyzing that you can be aware, That in the new society nobody would dare To think of us in a bad way, Our patients worshiped us and even pray. *** Let us be self-respectful for our past, Be full of enthusiasm and be able to adjust To American life which we have admired, Although as doctors we can't be hired. 20
ИСПОВЕДЬ by Nina Geshel Существует розовый закат, Есть на свете белые туманы, Мир цветами радуги богат, Но бывают черные обманы. Вера в человека голубое небо, Радость в жизни свежее дыханье, А любовь какого цвета? Какого цвета расставанья? Дети наши солнечные зайчики. Девочки смешинки-хохотушки, В ссадинах и шишках чаще мальчики, И шумны, как новогодние хлопушки. Почему же с каждым днем острее Ощущаю красоту природы? В запахе цветов и буйстве суховея, В необъятном небе звездном? Почему же в этом мире стало одиноко? В мире, где полным-полно людей. Словно вся я соткана из стонов, Словно очутилась в логове зверей. Как-то сердцу тяжело и страшно, Горечь горькая, душа-сплошная рана. Будто по глазам меня хлестнули дважды, Будто я вернулась к жизни своей старой. Подарил бы кто лихого скакуна, Я б тогда умчалась в горы снежные, И в горах осталась бы одна, Остудив морозом чувства свои нежные. 21
Шла к любви годами трудными тропинками, Увязая не в грязи в людской холодности, Душу придавили грубою холстиною, А потом поставили на краю, над пропастью. Но была подхвачена я руками сильными, Отогрета ласкою я твоей мужской, И глаза блестнули васильками синими, Встрепенулись птицы от любви такой. Увеличьте на любовь ассигнованья, Сведя на «нет» расходы по измене, Чтоб не было печальных расставаний, Чтобы любовь была как воскресенье. Слёзы женщин застывают звездами, Годы жизни безвозвратно пройдены, Бок о бок жила с людьми я черствыми, Ты, нечаянно на сердце мне уроненный. Живу я словно на одном дыхании, Светла и горяча моя любовь, Любовь расцениваю как призвание, А для меня любовь была свекровь! Я словно нелюбимое дитя, Как яблоко надкушенное брошена, За что так искушала жизнь меня? И я, как поле, раньше срока скошено. Жаль, что жизнь короткая, Как речка быстротечная. Может, нужно к жизни проще относиться? Распустить все мысли, погасить все свечи. Позабыть о долге, пить и веселиться? 22
Ну, а если грустно от пустых забав? Не могу себя я затолкать в рукав. Нет, я не сумею жить как в скорлупе: Мне мила дождинка в утренней росе. Кланяются травы в гуще, у дороги, И целует ветер мои босые ноги. Радуют лягушки пеньем незатейливым, Дорога прохлада в зное полуденном. Жду с тобою встречи с нетерпеньем, А разлука словно провод оголенный, Ты моя надежда, ты моя проталинка, Ты моя бесценная звездочка хрустальная. Жизнью мне дарованный, росточек мой зеленый, Солнцем коронованный, судьбою разделенный. Благодарю свою судьбу и ей «Спасибо!» - говорю. Родная Мать-Земля! К тебе за помощью иду. Ты огради от бед любовь мою, Мою желанную последнюю весну. Своей всене я «Здравствуй!» - говорю. И сразу отодвинулись печали: Я жду тебя, как солнца в мае, Как ждут весеннего дождя, Как крика первого ребенка, Как по весне ждут журавленка... Как прометеева огня! Все дышит счастьем бытия: Травинка хрупкая и жгучая крапива, Всё в ожидании тепла, Я жду тебя, родной и милый. Я искала любви, позабыв обо всем, Спотыкалась о жизнь, о неровности кочек. Потянулась к тебе по весенней воде, Словно к жизни живой опавший листочек. 23
Земля-кормилица! Отмерь мне счастья маленькую меру. Тебя за все благодарю: за ласку, за любовь, за веру. Ты - моя зорька, ты звезда, Свети в пути, свети всегда! Ты был и есть, ты вечно будешь! Звездой на небе, облаком плывущим, Ты будешь дождичком щадящим, Растаявшей снежинкой на губах. Ты будешь ярким пламенем горящим, Ты будешь кораблям маяк! Ты будешь, будешь, будешь, будешь! Любимым будешь и родным. Промчится время, нас с тобой не будет, Но для меня ты будешь лишь один. Потухнет солнце, остановится Земля, Жизнь оборвется, или шар расколется, Зажжется небо, высохнут моря, Иль надо мною свод земной закроется... Моя любовь к тебе удвоится. Ты будешь жить! Ты будешь вечным! Как вечны жизнь, любовь, людские встречи! Как нескончаема и вечна жизнь! Как вечно небо, звёзды! Вечное Земли движенье! Как вечное желанье жить! Как вечное огня горенье! 24
MY HOME CITY - ODESSA by Tamara Gurevich My native city, Odessa, is located north of the Black Sea and in the south of Ukraine. ODESSA! A pleasant sound of this word brings a warm smile to my lips and rays of sunshine to the soul. It is named as "mother" Odessa. Surrounded by the beauty of the sea and abounding with secret legends. Odessa is known over the world. It seems as if the city has always stood on the shores of the Black Sea, evolving from it in ancient times, just like the ancient goddess, Aphrodite. There is so much truth and so much fantasy surrounding Odessa, that it is difficult to understand her real character and nature. Her hospitality is so boundless that everyone who comes here thinks that she belongs to them. And those who have lived here for centuries affirm in one voice - our Odessa, "Odessa - MAMA". Neither nationality nor religious beliefs play any role. There is only one proud name - an Odessit. Even though many Odessits are dispersed over the world, they remember their native city, like it and try to do something for it. Even second generation of Odessits, people who were born in other places, remember that they are from Odessa. Odessits share news about Odessa. We are glad when news is good and become upset when it is bad. For example, many years ago the building of the theatre of Opera and Ballet in Odessa began to destroy in some way. It needed a big investment to stop destruction. Numerous Odessits living in different countries over the world helped, gave money to make necessary alterations. All of us living in Los Angeles, even those who don't have money, gave some money for this purpose. It was a great action. The theatre of Opera and Ballet in Odessa is one of the most beautiful theatres in the world. It was created by one of the famous Italian architects in the 19th century who built the opera building in Vienna too. 25
There are many buildings created by famous architects of the 19th century. These buildings make the city look like an old European city. The streets are straight planted round with beautiful trees, in general with acacias and platans. Especially, Odessa is amazing in the spring when the sun shines tenderly, acacias blossom and smell wonderful. The architectural ensemble of Primorsky Boulevard attests to the high standards of Odessa architects. The boulevard runs along the sealine. The middle section is occupied by the semi-circular square with the monument to Rihchelien in the center. Richelien, a French duke, was a founder of the city. On the level of monument boulevard is interrupted by the vertical line of the grandiose stairs which were given the name of 'Potemkin'. The famous Potemkin stairs serve as a symbol of the city. Many famous poets, musicians, artists were born and grew up in Odessa. One of the most famous Russian poets, Pushkin, spent about two years in Odessa. To this day, the building on Pushkin street still stands, where the poet lived and created novels, poems, verses, and forever write his name into the history of our city. The grateful citizens of Odessa built a monument to the great poet in the heart of Odessa - on the Prymorsky Boulevard. In the most vital times of her history, Odessa never left behind her sense of humor and bright optimism. Odessit, Ivanetsky, humoritic writer, wrote about Odessits: "It seems that all people are witty. There are many writers because they don't need to compose. To write a story, you have to open a window and to note. For a long time and permanently Odessa exports writers, artists, musicians, and chess players. It is something in this soil that gives birth to musicians, artists, singers, charlatans, and bandits, brightly living around on both sides of elementary education." Every hour the Odessa city clock repeats a melody from the opera, "White Acacia." We, Odessits, repeat in our minds words, on which this melody was written. "You are in my heart, you are always with me, Odessa - my native city." 26
TAKING THE BULLET by Pamela M. Komac A few times, two with maybe a third, creatures have come back to life when I was holding them. I m not crazy and these weren t miracles. The first time this Bullet the Squirrel happened was with a lizard. The second time it was a sparrow. Both of the creatures were young and in good health when they were suddenly killed by head trauma. I picked each of them up immediately after their demise. Being small things, with their energy stopped so abruptly, I think that my own energy worked something like a battery charger and just zapped them back to life. Paramedics do it all the time. Because I wasn t able to rectify the underlying cause of their death, each of them lived for only a short time after being dead. Bullet was different. I came home one afternoon to see a squirrel lying in my parking space. I usually bury the dead where I find them, but my garden was close and dead things make wonderful fertilizer so that s where I took it. I was just about to put the squirrel in the ground when I noticed a heartbeat. It seems she d been revived. When she became conscious I returned with her in a carrier to near the tall Eucalyptus tree that it appeared she d fallen from. She would not leave the box. Back in my apartment I worried all night. In the morning I saw that she was ill -- very ill. I think she d been almost dead from a sickness before falling from the tree; fell and the fall finished her off. My holding her had zapped her back to life. It became, of course, my responsibility to nurse her to health. She appeared to be a few months old a teenage squirrel. Naming animals provides them a sense of self and is important in the process of saving them. Bullet seemed a good name, as I wanted her to be able to speed like one. I set her up in an open cardboard box with a heating pad and towel for her bed. 27
She had no desire to eat so I mixed up a formula of peanut butter and water laced with antibiotics, which I heated and forced down her from a tiny bottle. I fed and nursed her round the clock for the next few weeks. She got better so I took her out to where I d found her and tried, again, to let her go. She refused, again, to leave the box. It appeared I d earned myself a pet squirrel. Bullet was super neat, friendly and smart. But squirrels aren t great for indoor living. Not if you have anything, including walls and cabinets, which you mind being seriously chewed. Or you can keep them in a cage. Cages are messy, awkward and limiting not only to the cagie but to the cager as well. Nonetheless it seemed the best way to go so I purchased a rather large one and arranged it for Bullet. She seemed fine, even happy. She was interested in everyone and everything going on. Very interested. Brian and his friend would sleep on my floor after attending House of Blues nightclub concerts. It saved them late night drives home. We were eating breakfast together after one of these sleepovers when Bullet came dashing out of the bedroom. She d escaped her cage and chewed under the door to join us. That was the beginning of my learning just how much she craved company. I moved her cage to the living room but it was still no good. Locks, wires, whatever, she d get out of it. Then she d run a track from window to window letting no one stay in her way. The dog and other animals avoided her, however, once my friend Sharon was daydreaming in Bullets zone and got bit. It was the only time Bullet ever bit anyone and it was an eye opener to me. Being an extremely territorial creature, without fear of humans or dogs, Bullet wasn t releasable. I felt trapped. I ve never had a healthy animal killed but I could see no other way. 28
During a trip to Descanso Gardens I made up my mind to have Bullet put down. Returning home, fully resolved, I looked for Bullet but found instead a wire frame clown doll hanging from the top kitchen cabinet. She d tried to drag it into her nest. My resolve melted. Building management had scheduled the annual inspection of my unit and with every corner of my kitchen cabinets chewed I d be in serious trouble. Even if I had the cabinets repaired unless Bullet stayed caged she d continue ruining them. Fate stepped in, as fate so often does, right at the height of my panic. This time coming in the sadly charming form of another squirrel that wriggled, unable to walk, up to my front door. I named her Squiggles and took her in. Squiggles seemed to have a squirrel version of MS. Her disability necessitated she be in a smaller cage than Bullet. I put the cages by the bedroom window with Squiggles on a little table so they d be at the same height. Bullet settled down immediately, happy and satisfied to stay in her cage. The two of them lived contently side-by-side. Bullet loved a pecan for breakfast. Squiggles liked broken up walnut pieces. She wasn t strong enough to crack a nut, but hey, I am -- so no problem. They were interesting animals. Bullet kept pillowcases and purses stashed with nuts yet never refused more. And she d keep things in organized piles, separating by a system I did not understand but could clearly see existed. Squiggles died about six years after arriving. Bullet passed on, again, shortly thereafter. I had enjoyed their company very much but I can honestly add that the next time I find a dead squirrel I m going to do my best to refrain from holding it before I bury it. Pam Komac was born in Chicago Illinois and raised in the suburbs of Southern California. She enjoys working with animals, plants and people. When, if, she ever gets another Power Wheel chair (hers was stolen) she intends to offer her services at Children's Hospital to visit with terminally ill kids. Death bothers Pam but doesn't scare her. However she finds loneliness terrifying, unacceptable and ~~~ if loving people pay attention ~~~ unnecessary. 29
MY EARLIEST MEMORY by Muriel Mines Early Drawing by Muriel Decorating the landscape of the lower east side of New York during the hot summer of 1922 are rows of dirty buildings, peddlers with pushcarts overflowing with merchandise, shopkeepers bargaining with bosomy women whose babies nurse at their breasts, and bearded men with wide brimmed hats, making purchases for the Sabbath. The strong odors of fresh fish and dead chickens fill the air. Bartering housewives call to their children in loud shrill voices...the air is filled with sounds. Overwashed pantaloons, sheets, towels, all sizes of stockings and underwear float from clothesline to clothesline across windows from tenement to tenement. This is the apparel of the inhabitants of these miserable dwellings, who lived their lives among the throng of humanity. In the midst of this scene am I, at about two years, playing in the crowded streets with my playmates. Old cardboard boxes are my makeshift toys. We are playing "house." Within a short time a few ladies dressed in blue uniforms come by and distribute bottles of milk to all the children - a courtesy of the "Lower East Side Philanthropic Society." 30
Upstairs at 37 Orchard Street (corner Norfolk and Grand), I live with my parents and five sisters. Our dark railroad flat smells damp because water drips from the old ice-box and the pan below needs to be emptied often. In the hallway there is a smell of onions and garlic frying in oil. Challah is baking in ovens heated by coal because there is no electricity. The toilet at the end of the hall is shared by all the tenants on the floor. It smells very bad! My sisters and I sleep "zu-fussen" on a large double sized cot that is opened at night and folded away in the morning. We have only one bedroom where mama and papa sleep with my baby sister. Down the street papa has a small candy-stand where he ekes out a living, though mama says we eat all the profits. Crazy Mary Sugarbum is a homeless street person. The kids all call her bad names, and make fun of her weird appearance. She is always drunk. Word is out that she wears no underpants. Always disheveled, she screams at everyone..."shut UP!" A policeman then takes her away. I am baffled! "Where are they taking her?" I ask. "Why won't her mother buy her underpants?" No one answers my question. I go on playing. Muriel Mines doesn t try to hide her age. She proudly boasts that she s 97! Muriel starts each day by expressing her creative side through writing, which she believes is more than just words and ideas it s the physical act of putting pen to paper. Muriel shuns a computer or even a typewriter in favor of writing everything in long hand. The act of writing is so important to her that she even dabbles in calligraphy when she can. 31
ОТКРЫТОЕ ПИСЬМО ПРЕЗИДЕНТАМ by Evgenia Mirzoyan Мне уже немало лет. Я люблю эту жизнь, людей. Все, чего достигла - благодаря моим неутомимым родителям, моему незабвенному спутнику жизни, который был для меня подарком судьбы и с которым я прошла путь длиной более 40 лет. Моим жизненым кредо были слова моих замечательных наставников: "Учитель, научи ученика, чтоб было у кого учиться". И в жизни я многого добилась... А годы неумолимо и безвозвратно летят! Я - в Америке, ставшей для многих из нас второй родиной и родным домом. У нас различные верования и разные политические убеждения, разные дороги привели нас сюда. Но все мы равны, все мы унаследовали пламя надежд, все толерантны по отношению друг к другу, все мы многое пережили. Много воды утекло. Многие уже состарились, стали немощными и слишком поздно оглянулись и поняли: как слепы мы и глухонемы в этом мире! Пронесясь по жизни по будням, мы мало или почти не замечаем ни ее красоту, ни того, что мы не случайные прхожие, и что надо шире открывать свои души. Оглянитесь вокруг - как прекрасен этот мир! Сколько великолепных творений создано человеческими руками, в них вложены их любовь и душа. Да, жизнь быстротечна. Одно событие сменяется другим, как в калейдоскопе, и это очень хорошо. А какой научно-технический переворот в мире! Какая у нас умная молодежь! Мы гордимся ими, они - наше завтра. А раз они умнее нас, значит, мы не зря прожили жизнь. Всего не перечесть. Только живите, творите, дерзайте и радуйтесь каждому светлому дню. Какое счастье осознавать, что вновь приходит день, что вокруг много хороших людей, смотрящих на тебя добрыми глазами и тёплой улыбкой, что в мире много людей, которые стараются помогать, где это возможно. Они делают то, что могут. Именно их скромные дела помогают нам жить, и, благодаря им, земля вертится и меняет мир вокруг нас. Мне посчастливилось родиться и жить в мирное время. Но то, что мы знаем о войне, ввергает каждого из нас в ужас и содрогание. Ведь правду не стереть с земли, пропитанной кровью, не смыть ее ничем. 32
Я не хочу, чтоб история войн повторялась вновь и вновь. Хочется крикнуть: "Оглянитесь, люди, как много страшных бед вокруг, равнодушными не будьте, не бойтесь делать добрые дела! Пусть станет в этом мире меньше зла!" Нам, людям, не нужны президентские баталии. Зачем соревноваться в том, кто первый уничтожит эту землю. Ведь победителей не будет- одна лишь безмолвная пустыня и прах от земли. Мы не хотим жить вечно в страхе о том, чья рука первой дотянется до зловещей кнопки. Наконец, потеряйте их навсегда, чтоб мы, матери, могли быть спокойны за наших детей и наше с вами будущее. Мы родили вас созидать, а не разрушать и убивать. Ведь кровь людская - не водица! Мы говорим во весь голос:"нет новым войнам, где земля без всех нас станет безмолвной пустыней!" А почему бы вам, сильным державам, не показать пример - жить в мире и согласии со всеми. Ведь нет ни одной нации лучше другой, как и лучшей страны. Все мы равны. И все мы нужны на этом свете. Пусть ваш разум победит! Быть президентом - не просто. Здесь нужны трезвая голова и холодный ум, а не амбиции. За каждым из вас - весь ваш народ, и вы за него в ответе. Это он выбрал вас. И мы вас избирали отнюдь не для гонки новых вооружений, не для бесконечных ссор и баталий - кто сильнее и лучше. А самое страшное в том, что мы вам верим. Вы дали нам и нашим детям надежду за завтрашний день, так не отбирайте ее! Остановитесь! Мы хотим мира и счастья на планете, мы должны быть уверены взавтрашнем дне! Я желаю вам здоровья и мира! Пусть каждый новый день приносит вам радость. Желаю истинных друзей, готовых с вами в огонь и в воду. Чтоб каждый из вас мог сказать: " Спасибо, жизнь, что я перед тобой в долгу. За прошлую и завтрашнюю силу. За всё, что я ещё успею и смогу. Спасибо, жизнь, воистину, спасибо!" Спасибо Вам, мой дорогой читатель. Нелегко далось мне это письмо- ценой бессонных ночей, раздумий о том, почему наши дети идут убивать, т. е отнимать чужую жизнь - самое дорогое? И что мы, матери мира, можем сделать для мира и стабильности на Земле, во имя жизни всех людей, чтобы спасти эту маленькую и хрупкую планету Земля?...Матери Земли, давайте все вместе возьмёмся за руки и пойдём марафон мира, добра, жизни. 33
OPEN LETTER by Evgenia Mirzoyan I have been an open letter to the presidents for many years. I love this life, people. Everything that has been achieved, thanks to my tireless parents, to my unforgettable companion of life, which was for me a gift of fate and with which I have traveled for more than 40 years. My life credo was the words of my wonderful mentors: "Teacher, teach the student to study, so that there was someone to learn." And in life I achieved a lot... and years are inexorably and irrevocably flying. In America, which became for many of us a second motherland and home. We have different beliefs and different political convictions, different roads led us here. But we are all equal, we all inherited the flame of hope, all are tolerant towards each other, we have all experienced a lot. Much water has flowed under the bridge. Many have already grown old, become weak and too late looked back and realized: how blind we are and the deaf and dumb in this world! Having flown through life on weekdays, we little or almost do not notice either its beauty or the fact that we are not accidental priests, and that we need to open our souls wider. Look around - how beautiful this world is! How many magnificent creations are created by human hands, they are invested with their love and soul. Yes, life is fleeting. One event is replaced by another, as in a kaleidoscope, and this is very good. And what scientific and technical revolution in the world? What a clever youth we have! We are proud of them, they are ours tomorrow. And since they are smarter than us, it means that we have lived our lives in vain. Do not change everything. Just live, create, dare, and rejoice in every bright day. What happiness it is to realize that the day comes again that there are a lot of good people around who look at you with kind eyes and a warm smile that there are a lot of people in the world who are trying to help, where this is possible. They do what they can. It is their humble deeds that help us live, and, thanks to them, the earth spins and changes the world around us. I was lucky enough to be born and live in peacetime. But what we know about the war plunges each of us into horror and shudder. After all, the truth can not be wiped off the ground, soaked in blood, do not wash it off with anything. I do not want the history of wars to be repeated again and again. I want to shout: "Look back, people, how many terrible troubles around, do not be indifferent, do not be afraid to do good deeds." Let people become less evil in this world! "We do not need presidential battles. Why compete in who first destroys this land. After all, there will be no winners-only a silent desert and ashes from the earth. We do not want to live forever in fear about whose hand is the first to reach the sinister button. Finally, lose them forever, so that we, mothers, can be calm for our children and our future with you. 34
We gave birth to you to create, not to destroy and kill. After all, human blood is not water! We say at the top of our voice: "There are no new wars, where the land without all of us will become a silent desert!" And why should not the strong powers show you the example of living in peace and harmony with all? There is not one nation better than another, we are equal. And we are all needed in this world. Let your mind win. Being a president is not easy. Here you need a sober head and a cold mind, not ambition. Behind each of you is your entire nation, and you are responsible for it. He chose you. And we chose you not for the race of new weapons, not for endless quarrels and battles - who is stronger and better. And the worst thing is that we believe you. You gave us and our children hope for tomorrow, so do not select it! Stop! We want peace and happiness on the planet. we must be sure in the morning of the day! I wish you health and peace. May every new day bring you joy. I wish true friends ready to join you in the fire and in the water. So that each of you could say: "Thank you, life, that I owe you, For past and future strength." "Thank you, life, thank you very much!" Thank you, my dear reader. It was not easy for me to write this letter, at the cost of sleepless nights, thinking about why our children go to kill, to take away someone else's life - the most expensive? And what can we do for peace and stability on earth, for the sake of all people to save this small and fragile planet Earth?... Mother Earth, let's all take together by the hands and go marathon of peace, good, life. 35
BUTTER BEANS N GRITS by Stephen Myrick A thing has to be very near or very far before you can really see it. Right now I m seein & rememberin a long way back to 4th grade English Miss Mary Hillhouse. We wuz learn the three persons of speech. Funny how a little thing so long ago can come back to pull you to a time when desks were made of real wood and still had ink wells and teachers could still whip you with your Mama and Daddy s blessings and you d usually get another whippin when you got home. I miss those days and think those thrashins could come in mighty handy today. I also miss havin to put my nose inside a chalk circle the teacher drew on the black board when I wuz bad. Sometimes I was teacher s pet and got chosen to go outside and slap the erasers together to give em a good cleanin. Man did that make me feel special. Don t it seem the closer we get to bein gone the closer we get to rememberin a lot of things that ain t no longer with us. That 4 th grade was the time of my first true love, other than the one that dared not speak its name ; but that s another story. But Prissy, yes that was her name; in South West Georgia 1952 that name was nothin unusual nor funny. To me it was and still is as pretty a name as you ever did want to hear. Her real name was Priscilla but I don t think I ever heard that name used except on an occasional tease and then on her wedding day, sadly not to me. But that September morning and for a good long time after she was and still is for me Prissy, my beautiful silly spoiled, my wonderful little Miss Prissy. I did love her so, still do. 36
How did she look? Well to me like cotton candy. How did she feel? No. now don t you go gettin any wrong ideas, I was mature for my age but not yet in that way. That would come later on a Hayride and yes with Prissy. We grew up together and by then we were 12, she had braces and maturing early had very noticeable breasts. Boy was I quite the envy on that hayride and also I had my first hardon. No, it was not from those amazing breasts or from my kissing or nursing my tongue around in her mouth while tryin to dodge all them rubber bands attached to all kinds a metal. No, the hardon came from the hand of a Mr. John Maddox, also age 12, he had snuck his hand up between Prissy and me to see if I had one on and of course I did NOT, at least not until I felt his groping hand. And that too is another story still a long way off. But back in the 3 rd grade long before that fateful hayride, Prissy was so soft, she felt like a soft kitten when I would hold her hand as we lined up for Red Rover Red Rover send Mary On Over or when one of us would give the other a peck on the cheek. How did she smell? Like Ivory Soap and watermelon, two things I still love to this day. But my, that was a long long time ago. But this morning, it was only yesterday. Sir Stephen Myrick was born in South Georgia 1943, a Writer, Musician and Stage Actor (appearing in 35+ plays in the U.S. and Germany. This excerpt is part of a book in progress called Coffee Time In Georgia. He is also currently working on an original modern rock opera based on a Sophocles Play..working title Woman You and I. 37
SCORPIO S SERENADE TODAY is the TOMORROW YOU VE HAD in the BACK of your MIND. GET BUSY!! by Scorpio J. Pecorino Now it s time to get this really working Thoughts and dings and dongs are gonna ride right along with this newie!!!!!! If all you can see is the end of the edge, you re not looking out of both sides of your eyes Don t just look straight ahead, look out of both sides of your brain those two hemispheres hold a lot more than you can envision with just one sight wake up your mind both sides so you can see all around. Feed up, feed down, feed your way, feed mine. Memories are not only what they are they re not the plan for today much less tomorrow. Never snows at the BEACH!!! Guess again!!! SCORPIO and MOM at Point Pleasant Beach. New Jersey, January 1992 And what you do anyway? Gather up the tears and the shards to stick into a box? Why? Some of those lousy memories may have growed you up without your even ever knowing it then. Like those 11-year old boys making fun of my skinniness on the baseball field good punch eliminated a few teeth. Today we d call him a bully and he earned what he got. REUNITED after 19 1/2 years Scorpio and Ralph from Richmond, VA 38
His dad, in a rage, called my dad one of the few times my Dad stood up for me. My 6 th grade class was aghast yes and a few secretly sided with me about the jerks. How naked are the streets now with their flurries dressing up the carpet at the roots? Time to dress up again Not until their long distance flows and ebbs and pops with the brilliance of buds and birds dancing, flittering round and round. Jumping through sunlight and shade then light and darkness. SCORPIO and RICHARD all decked out with 250 hand-crocheted hats for CHILDREN S HOSPITAL LA. When is it time to blast out the bloom to shower the land with elegance and surprise? A tiny little makes so much suddenly the flutter of leaves like wings all ready to show off their beauty and charm and differences. Time has no clock Space is here right now coming and going, up and down, right and wrong, new or old. Each space wants a share; for right now or maybe domani. FRANCES and INEZ smiling their cheeks off!!! Suffer not of space not used the choice was yours. TRAIL OF TRASH and don t just sit there with your wiggled up nose like an athletic armpit just wafted by FLASH relaxing before his alteration. 39
Yeah, you re one of them staining the landscare ignoring pleas for cooperation with ENVIRONMENTAL probes, yet bastardizing the reality of decency Would you have reigned in your ideas yesterday knowing what would blow out today or didn t you have the guts? If you were standing on the shore with just the surf tickling your toes would you step into the surf and beyond the sunset or just stop and kick whatever shells rolled along? The 1996 Olympic Flag arrives in L.A. with SCORPIO. Paroxsym of joy too much for real joy or just a smartass word for this text? MEMORIES of a lovely life not lived long enough Never acted better than you, but your respect and warm smile reflected her heart and soul and respect for YOU! When is it time to say goodbye to enough of a trauma; so long sliding away wider than; the vision of ease and comfort and joy between; all those to get little lost here and there and there and here among the thoughts and hopes for; just a little way. Just a little would do it. An inch a mile adds up fast the pieces look much more together. Unity starts with each inch, each thought, each idea, each hope that hence won t mess up that salsa mix one spice at a time turns the glands into a galaxy of taste on your tongue; in your mind and thoughts. Get out of the old scope and into the new challenge Don t be afraid, it s only your life; today and domani. Time has no reign on love and kindness ANITA AGUILAR, 1956-2017 TO EDUCATE you and others around the world. AIDS ain t done yet!!!!! (2013) 40
Is INTEGRITY dead? by way of late, it s being squashed under the rug and the marble floors of the capitol. Clean orderly tables just speak of nicety, freshness and calm dirty, smelly attendees rape the purpose and propriety of decency. A scar of indignity that won t heal. Snorting and guffawing belong in the barn, not at the eating table. SCORPIO and MAYOR MEISTER packin it all up for Children s Hospital LA. Too much beauty gets trapped in every import and some menial things. And it flows in the folds of loveliness, transparency or the chasm of darkness. Am I the world s most indestructible woman? Hell no and neither are you. Hold on to it now, to remember it for then, but let it go in the flow of the STOP!! Can you do that? And watch the blue and lavender and gold decorate the sky with sunlight!?? SCORPIO and MAYOR HEILMAN join forces for West Hollywood. So lust for all that silliness and craziness or we d be sitting in a bowl of beige oatmeal mush put your cellphone in the trunk, take the City Line around town. Stuffed cabbage rolls, semi-mexicmet, vegetable kugel, fresh matzohs, ultrafabulous combo of soups, surprise combos of salmon or beef, say what? Lots of assorted Senior Meal treasures always delivered with aplomb and love. NUFF SAID! 41
Sgt. Sy (d. March 2018) at 95 and Anne at 97 kept the class in this deal. (Anne said she would not date a younger man)!!!!! Too many pix, too little space cut here, trim there somehow it all gets together, all unsquished together and shows up beautifully, just like you. Originally from New Jersey, Scorpio is a writer, artist, activist, conversationalist, and fashionista who has lived in West Hollywood for 42 years. Her generous activism includes participation in the annual AIDS Walk since 1987 raising thousands of dollars over the years. For more than 30 years she has hand crafted hundreds of items for distribution to children of all ages at Children s Hospital LA. A lover of cats, her present cat Flash is 7 years old and he doesn t have a chip on his shoulder, he has a chip under his neck! Scorpio drives a 93 Mercury Tracer and still loves the Yankees. 2017 Downtown is a drag WEST HOLLYWOOD GET THE AIDS WALK BACK HERE!!!!! 42
A HALF CENTURY TO EUREKA! * by Johanna Pick Like Julius Caesar s Gaul, the kitchen of the house in which I grew up was divided into three parts. The breakfast room, in which we ate all, except special occasion, meals, was a cheerful space, set apart from the heart of the kitchen by an archway. The largest of the of the breakfast room s three casement windows presented a head on view of the street, softly filtered through the fronds of a sturdy-trunked palm tree, which expended its energy increasing its frond count rather than its height. Entry into the kitchen was through a swinging door from the dining room that shared a wall with the stove. The kitchen sink, situated opposite the stove, was set into a tiled counter top, with windows above it and storage below. Two walls of the kitchen afforded additional enclosed shelves, plus a floor to ceiling cabinet with double decker doors bisected by a narrow counter. The cabinet s interior was roughly 12 inches square, it s shelving constructed of sturdy wooden slats, and its bottom covered by a heavy, metal mesh grating through which you could see bare earth. The purpose of this odd bit of kitchen cabinetry, called a cooler, was to bring in fresh outside air to moderate the temperature within the cabinet, which was the Southern California take on a root cellar, used to store potatoes, cabbages, and other produce which didn t require refrigeration. Abutting the cooler there was a cabinet that descended from the ceiling, to about 18 inches above the counter, creating a recess, designed specifically for a breadbox. To take full advantage of this niche, my mother had recently upgraded to a double-tiered breadbox; the lower tier easily accommodated twin loaves of bread; while the upper, smaller, tier was for pastries, which could be stored at room temperature. 43
Early one morning, not long after the introduction of the new breadbox, the stillness was shattered by my mother s hysterical shrieks. My father and I rushed from opposite sides of the house, towards the source of the disturbance. Communication with Mother was sketchy, she was wracked by dry heaves and held her hand tightly over her mouth the best she could muster was a weak gesture towards an army of ants, thick as rush hour traffic on the 405, cascading out of the slightly ajar upper door of the cooler, barreling across the counter and charging through the unprotected ventilation holes along the sides of the upper tier of the breadbox to defile, en masse, a plate of freshly baked cinnamon buns my father had brought home the previous evening. Daddy put his arm protectively around my mother and as he steered her gently out of the kitchen turned to me, saying over his shoulder, Wrap up the damn sweet rolls, put them in a paper bag and throw the package into the garbage; I ll be back to help you clean up the mess as soon as I get Mother calmed down. My father, a well built man, who stood six foot two, purchased for himself whatever he wanted or needed; furthermore he loathed surprises making him virtually impossible to shop for. That his June birthday fell near and occasionally on Father s Day further complicated matters. Immediately upon learning that the Sunday New York Times had initiated nationwide home delivery, Mother asked Daddy if he d like a gift subscription to the paper; his answer? A resounding, Yes, please! A few weeks later, I found lying at my place on the breakfast room table, a copy of the paper s magazine, open to a recipe for a brined, German pot roast, known as sauerbraten. That evening, Mother was coming into the kitchen just as my father was inquiring if I d read the recipe and did I think it was a feasible project. Is what a feasible project? Mother asked. Daddy told her. Now this brining procedure it ll take several days, right? Daddy and I nodded in the affirmative. and you ll be keeping the bowl containing the marinating meat on the back porch, right? 44
We nodded again. Have you people lost your minds? The answer is NO! EN! OH!, followed by a gruesomely detailed verbal replay of the day the ants invaded the breadbox. In deference to the symptoms of PTSD that even the slightest allusion to ants triggered in my mother, we reluctantly chucked the sauerbraten and settled instead for a classic Yankee pot roast. The third part of the kitchen was separated from those previously described by a locking door, of which the upper part was a window that overlooked a space we called the back porch. The area on the porch was roughly divided between the electric refrigerator, (which prior to our residency had replaced the original ice box ), a laundry tub and a utility closet, all topped by overhead storage. Many people with similarly configured kitchens in houses that were, like ours, built during the decades immediately following the First World War called this space either the back or service porch. There s recently been a deluge of media ads for a plethora of expedited grocery shopping services, but it wasn t until one company began offering to not only deliver the groceries but actually come in and put them away that I had my Eureka! moment. I d always wondered why the back porch door to the outside had no lock, it finally dawned on me this year! Having no lock permitted easy access for delivery men who could put the ice (for the earlier, non-electric ice-box) or groceries or dry cleaning away, on the service/back porch even when there was no one home. Eureka! 45
VANISHED by John Simons I used to say, half jokingly, that sometime in one s life a person should either restore a Victorian house or see someone through a final illness. I could never afford to fix up an old house, but I have been through the trauma of caring for someone until the end came, over five years later. I have written about this in past Senior Moments. The woman I cared for had Alzheimer s disease and would wander whenever she had the chance. So I have been intrigued by the case of Nancy Paulikas, 55, who wandered away from the Los Angeles County Museum of Art after using the restroom. She was captured on surveillance video walking on Wilshire Boulevard, and then she vanished. That was on October 15, 2016. Kirk Moody, her husband, has made heroic efforts to find his wife. He even ran an advertisement in the Los Angeles Times a month after she disappeared. It had two photos of her, described her, gave contact information and offered a reward of $1,000 for information leading to finding her. The bottom of the ad said, Please cut out and post this notice. Early on, homeless camps and shelters were checked and a private investigator was hired. Kirk has contacted thousands of hospitals and assisted living facilities in case Nancy has become lost in the system, perhaps as a Jane Doe. He keeps in touch with the police, coroner s office and many other government agencies. Flyers were posted in English, Spanish, Tagalog and Korean, and an agedenhanced photo was circulated to aid in identifying her. Articles have appeared in various periodicals. Television programs have featured her case. Hospitals and residential care facilities have been visited multiple times by family members and volunteers. None of this has provided any clue to her whereabouts. Even upping the reward to $30,000 has not led to finding Nancy. Kirk Moody can be reached at 310-650-7965 or NancyIsMissing@gmail.com. A blog was set up at NancyIsMissing.BlogSpot.com. 46
In the blog I saw the surveillance images of Nancy. I was immediately struck by the purposeful way that she walked. From my own experience I realized that the wandering of those with Alzheimer s is not random as they go where they think they are expected, to the other place even if there is no such thing. Fortunately in my case, I enrolled Dorothy in the Safe Return program run by the Alzheimer s Association. She wore a bracelet that she couldn t remove that had engraved on it her name, a serial number and a phone number that anyone who found her could call. Then Safe Return would alert me, tell me where she was, and I would pick her up. This sounds simple enough, but the whole episode was always stressful as I never knew if she was in any danger. For Nancy s family and friends the crisis never ends, and all they can do is hope that she is safe and that she will return to them someday. John Simons is happily retired. He enjoys working on his latest literary effort Atheist Wisdom. This follows upon his earlier work entitled The Atheist Coloring and Activity Book, meant for adults. 47
THE NOOK by Sue Tanner Up a steep and narrow stairway they climbed, cumbersome and validating, weaving and gripping, forward and easing. Suddenly, not bright, not shining, but revealing, receding, revelling, misting, prolonging, fogless, YET! Suddenly, just enough light. And, of course, the securing, ever familiar skylight pouring down upon the hall of the library. The ever familiar room. Long! Ever so long! Yet, just seemingly so. Enough, perhaps, for five on each side: five little nooks - a semicircle of shelved books. Perhaps six shelves high. Eighteen books round the curve: with a little bitty table, and two little bitty chairs. Facing each other. And as such, as they had ever, leaning right. Enough room. Yay! And a muse. LOOK! BOOKS! This time! Sure! FUN! The usual. Three books apiece: one familiar, one unfamiliar, and one for the denoument and the finale.-- A good start; a conundrum; and a little chuckle. A pastime - A created pastime, woven from the source of curiosity; woven from the rewinding pattern of repetition; and a BOO of culmination. A happy ending indeed! Sue Tanner is a military brat and all that it entales (sic). The best of all possible worlds? WeHo, of course! 48
THE PACIFIC OCEAN by Leonid Vaysman Nearby borders of mountains are not in sight yet the Sun shines through a dense haze too gray. Thus the Pacific Ocean which was sleepy met, from a morning, this new summer s day. Ocean s breakers that calmed down barely rustle here gradually on sloping sand-dunes, and their unhurried rollers persistently steer waves, and our world hears amazing tunes, like something or someone softly croons. It is not only a water space, the huge ocean. Yes, we know this place, an abyss in the absence of bottom and edges, can bring sometimes joy and at times misfortune to us all who live under the Moon so attentively, listen to what these arcane ripples sing. Not by chance, you, the bondless precipice, became gray and darkened your impassive brow: many centuries had vanished as in some game. Who could explain what had led their flow? You were skilled by millenniums that are so long and must know what our future will bring, when one day, we will hear that implacable gong and will sense an awful pain so sting this time, we won t have the second string. It is not only the water space, the huge Pacific Ocean this place, an expanse in this absence of bottom and edges, can bring tranquil calm and sometimes cruel storms, ruthless frost or at times pleasant warmth so attentively, listen to what these tireless ripples sing. 49
But a flurry grows stronger and boils up with waves, the drowsy surf comes to life again, bearing vast crests. And the slopping shore gently braves this waves pressure, protecting our plain. And steep rollers roar as the high seas try to tell what we are fated to find in life. Who can understand you? Once we ll hear a stern bell of fortune or of a nice soft fife Maybe, rollers say: Lives are the strife! This great sea is not only the space with salt water. We know well this place, the grand breadth in the absence of bottom and fixed edges, brings sometimes joy and at times misfortune to as who live under the bright Moon so attentively, listen to what this tremendous chasm sings. Leonid Vaysman is a physicist by profession, a PhD specialist in the field of electrical insulation. He is the author of more than 450 scientific works, including monographs, patents, etc. He has been engaged in literary work from the age of ten and has been published in periodicals in English, Russian, and Ukrainian in USA, Ukraine, Israel, Russia (in Seniors Moments since 2005). He is author of 39 books of poetry, prose, songs and romances and a member of some literary associations in several countries, including Poetry Nation (USA), Union of Writers Organization of Israel, Russian literary Club of West Hollywood (USA), etc. He has been in USA since 1998. 50
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City of West Hollywood Social Services Division 8300 Santa Monica Blvd. West Hollywood, CA 90069 (323) 848-6510 Jewish Family Services West Hollywood Comprehensive Services Center 7377 Santa Monica Blvd. 52