BY
TATIANA EROHINA

The two-story house was the last one on the top of the hill. There was an open space behind it that extended for about half-a-mile or so. Our pet goat, Katjka, had a great pasture there. In addition to our Katjka, there were two little pigs, chickens, and a wolfhound dog, Reenty. This was a wonderful world of friends for a four-year-old girl.

The pigs lived in a square-shaped enclosure built by my father. The wooden deck all around the inside of the enclosure had a roof over it, but in the center the pen area had a concrete and a drain. The pigs never dirtied the dick. Who said that pigs are dirty?

One clear, hot summer day the vet came to vaccinate them. When he stuck the needle on their still pink skin, they began to squeal so loudly, that their friend, Katjka, ran from the hill as fast as a goat can run. She stuck her face with large eyes that went out of orbits, looking at her distraught friends. My little heart went to the pigs, too. I was explained that the shots were necessary to keep the pigs healthy, but I could hardly hold my tears back.

The wolfhound, Reenty, was vicious to strangers, and there was a case when he had broken off the chain, but I used to play with him. I would order him to sit down and be still while I would put a morsel on his nose. Then, I would slowly count to three. As I shouted the number three, he could jump and ketch the treat. This was the happiest period in my life.

Ebbets Field—1945

What I remember most about seeing the inside of Ebbets field for the first time was the grass. It was bright green, thick and neatly manicured. Although I had seen grass before and, yes, even trees (for despite the myth there is more than one tree growing in Brooklyn), my imagination had not prepared me for this broad emerald expanse. Nor had I envisioned the blue seats (much narrower than seats today), the red railings and the many colored signs on the outfield walls. As a ten-year old growing up in a concrete city, I dreamed in shades of gray. When this unexpected array of colors assailed my eyes, I felt as if I had entered a kaleidoscope inhabited by the Brooklyn Dodgers.

Stephen Robertson

It was one of those rare bright mornings on the East Coast of Scotland. The sun was out and he soaked in its warm rays -- something different from the constant damp that he had to put up with in the winter. He couldn’t even feel the chill of a northeast wind -- it wasn’t there. The North Sea must be asleep, he thought, as he walked down the road to his home in the village of Forfar. He and his mother lived in a whitewashed cottage for all of his 14 years. He was the last of 13 children and he hoped his mother appreciated the care he gave her. He spent most of his time killing mice and rats that lived in the rafters of their cottage. He would spear them with a sharp stick, he had the eye for it, and he had no qualms about doing it. He’d make her tea when she wanted it. He’d rub a medicinal ointment on her shoulders to help her with her arthritis. These were tasks she enjoyed having her son do. When she was out in the village, she’d tell anybody she met that her son was “a good boy…the best child she had ever reared.”

As he walked to the stoop, he was surprised to see a tidy little bundle by the front door. He wondered what it was and, when he got close enough, he saw it was his belongings. It perplexed him -- he had no idea why he’d been put out, but there was no doubt it had happened. He tried the front door but it was locked. He knocked on the door but there was no answer. He peered in the window and he could see his mother, her back to him, sitting in a rocking chair in front of an empty fireplace. She was looking at a framed picture of Queen Victoria which sat on the mantle above the fire. She gently rocked back and forth in her chair. John thought he could hear her chuckling, but he wasn’t sure.

“Mother,” he called out, must keep it polite, he thought. “Ma, what’s wrong, why is the door locked? Why is my stuff out here on the stoop?”

There was no answer from the woman. She just kept slowly rocking back and forth, and she continued to chuckle. John tapped on the door again, hoping she would open it. He needed some explanation for what had happened -- he knew if he could see her face, get a chance to talk to her, he could find out what was wrong. He looked in the window. She hadn’t changed her position, she continued to sit by the empty fire.

John turned away from the cottage and looked out into the street. Raindrops had begun to splatter the cobblestones. The weather had shifted, typical of the fickle nature of the Scottish climate, and dark clouds had begun to envelop Forfar. He knew the rain would soon be a deluge, and here he was without shelter, apparently banished from his home.

He picked up his bundle and started to walk down the street. His choices were limited. He could hike all the way down to Dundee and get a job in a jute mill or he could lie about his age and join the army. He had to be 16 to do that, but the more he thought about it, it was an adequate solution. He’d become a soldier for the British Empire -- his mother and Queen Victoria would be proud.

Assignment # 4

Reiss J. duPlessis

“Hello!” Breathlessly I speak into the phone as I place the bag on the bed. Someone always seems to know exactly when I walk into the house after a weekend away from home.

“Is this Reiss?”

“Yes it is.”

“I’m Lee Rotter, Irv’s son.” A deeply inhaled breath. Hold it. I’ve never met Irv’s sons. I’ve not seen Irv since the kids were born and they are both grown, successful adults. A call from him cannot be good news.

“Is there anything wrong with your father?”

“I’m afraid he passed away yesterday. A letter from you was on the top of a pile of papers on his desk, so I am calling you to notify you of his death.”

“What happened? When I spoke to him, he seemed well and we were planning lunch together.”

After the expressions of shock, offerings of condolences and sympathy, I sit and stare at the wall. Another of my generation, my friends, gone. Sad, very sad, we never had our lunch and I never had a chance to share this little piece with him. Now, on September 8, 2007, his loss is another addition to the story

The Yarmulke
Reiss DuPlessis

Sheesh, I’ve gotta be sensible and throw away some of this junk. I have not seen the contents of this old box since the hippie years. It had been pushed to the back of the large walk-in closet all those years ago and it had not seen the light of day since. I
should, if I’m sincere about wanting to get rid of useless things and not be burdened by them in the new, smaller place, trash this box without opening it or looking inside. No way! There might be some good things in there.

The program from Hair, keep. The Las Vegas key chains, dump, The peace symbol appliqués, keep. I understand they’re collectables now. The pay stubs from Pickwick Bookshop, dump. The hippie beads in the decoupaged wooden box, keep. Anthony and Michelle think all my Sixties clothes and beads hysterical and will want them for costume parties. What’s this? A soft, shapeless parcel. It might be some patches like the ones that were sewn to strategic places, on my bell bottomed pants. Hummm.... What is it? Slowly and carefully, I unwrap the little package that had been clumsily wrapped in white tissue paper. The paper has yellowed with the years and I wonder what might it be. What is it? I peel away the layers of yellowing paper very carefully. Finally, there it is, the discolored white satin yarmulke. Ziona’s Wedding! Wow! What year was that? It had to be, at least, the mid-Sixties. Without consciously dialing, I have the phone in hand and after one one ring...

“Hello.”

“Hey, Ziona what year was your wedding? “

“What? What in the world brought that up?”

“I’ll tell ya after you tell me what year.”

“It was August 2, 1958.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding. It can’t be that long.”

“Oh yeah. It sure is that long! Why? ”

“I just found the white yarmulke I wore in your wedding!”

“Whew! You still have that kippa ? How come?”

“I’m cleaning out the closets. There it was.”

A half hour of laughter, disbelief and reminiscing flies by, “ Gotta get back to this madness. Talk to ya later on line.”

Folding the little cap back into its paper time capsule, I remember the wonderful time we enjoyed that evening, all those many years ago. A lot of youthful laughter because the candles that lit the path for the bride could not withstand the evening breeze. The
white dinner jackets we shed to dance the hora. More laughter. Fun.

Gotta arrange a lunch with Doris who was the bridesmaid I escorted down the aisle and with whom I danced that night away.

That was a lifetime ago. I sat looking at the yarmulke that had survived the years, even though Ziona and Irv’s marriage had not. Suddenly, I was back, sitting in the courtroom waiting to testify at their divorce. Wonder where Irv is and what he’s doing. Gotta check
on him.

Without the benefit of a gentle segue, my daydreaming goes to another time, another day, another yarmulke, one I had not saved. It was not soft, shinny, and white. It was a dull, lifeless black. I sat on the floor remembering the pain, the loss and the sadness I felt that day when I unfolded the black yarmulke I was given to wear at Sue’s funeral. I was so miserable, so shaken so determined to maintain the macho role that demanded I not cry. It
was a futile exercise because the tears had a mind of their own when I saw her devastated husband and remembered the beautiful little daughter they loved so much who was God knows where, in the care of God knows whom, as her beautiful, thirty five year old, mother was buried on this sunlit hill. Little did I ever think I’d be standing on a spot in view of that magnificent monument to Al Jolson I admired every time I drove southward on the San Diego Freeway. Where was the fairness in this? Why this vital, intelligent, lovely young woman who had helped to make my experience as the new first level supervisor in the Santa Monica Office, a positive one? Why were the doctors not able to save her?

I am comforted, to this day, that I believed her when she complained about her headaches and, as her immediate supervisor, was able to shield her from the unyielding demands of upper management and was able to allow her flexible hours, and workload. I was taken to
task by management for my “sympathetic attitude” toward her. “It was not,” I was told, “... the supervisors place to be involved with his employees’ personal life and problems.” Luckily for me, I had resisted and ignored that admonition and pressure, weathered the heat and had given support and understanding to this bright young woman who was to
die months after I was transferred to another office. I will never forget how she showed her appreciation by lovingly arranging my goodbye luncheon from Santa Monica. It was a party to remember, one of elegance, mixed emotions and shared affection. Wonder whatever became of Sue’s pretty little girl? She must be in her late twenties by now.

“Hey Pops, the truck is full. Ready?” I am startled back to reality by Anthony who wants to get on the road with my first load of things to be moved. “Want me to throw that old box of junk away?”

“No. I think I’ll keep it.”

“What’s all that stuff?’

“Memories.”

*****************************
Three years have gone by since that move. The box resides in a new closet. New friends, new adventures, new joys and new woes have joined its bank of memories. Life goes on.

Shanah Tovah

******************************
Another year has gone by since this was written. Ziona, my lifelong friend, lost her valiant battle with breast cancer and died on September 24, 2004. I decided to find her husband Irv, with whom we had lost contact and had not seen in many years. It was surprisingly easy to find him through the Internet. He was stunned to hear my voice after 45 years and we found it surprisingly easy to talk as we had done all those years ago as college students and friends. I was sorry to be the bearer of sad news but learned he had been married twice since his failed marriage to Ziona and both wives were deceased. Sometimes, life does not go on.

Dave Blodgett

I sit on a warm flat rock ten feet above the sea with a short length of broomstick wrapped in fish line, dangling a spoon-shaped silver lure armed with triple barbless hooks and no bait into the blue-green water. Instantly, a two-pound rock cod chomps down on the lure. As I haul it in, a sea gull dives at me trying to steal my catch. I quickly flip the thrashing fish into a gunny sack half full of flopping cod. The sea gull screams its frustration.

Bounding behind me in a thick grove of twisted red madrona trees is a an enormous Belgium blue hare I shoot with my .22 caliber rifle and later skin, gut and impale on a spit over an open campfire. With no predators on this horseshoe-shaped island, the hare population is dense and needs thinning.

An inquisitive harbor seal with its bulging eyes breaks the surface and into my gun sights. I wait patiently until if fills it lungs with air before driving a bullet into its skull, so it will float, not sink. As I am about to pull the trigger a violent explosion of salt water drenches me as a huge black and white Orca killer whale swallows the seal in one gulp and disappears into deep, black water.

On a nearby sandy beach huge geoduck clams are pissing and inviting me to dig them up, toss them into a bucket of salt water for shucking, boiling with corn meal, tenderizing, slicing into thin strips and sautéing as an appetizer for a rabbit roast and a cod feast.

At 16, the first time away from the landlocked state of Minnesota, I get my first intoxicating taste and smell of salt water and its bounty on this enchanted Orcas Island tucked in the upper reaches of Puget Sound. I climb 2,400-foot tall Mt. Constitution. From its pinnacle I look down. I can’t believe my eyes. Below me is a lake. In the center of the lake is an island. In the center of this island is another lake, and in the center of this other lake is a little island. It’s magic.