"Sometimes it strikes me that the writers of free verse got their idea
from incorrect proof pages."
"I am against all the isms as being merely ideas in and out of favor.
The latest ideologies are formidable equations that resolve themselves
into nothing more startling than that nothing equals nothing."
Friday, March 21, 2008
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Revenge, by Arthur Yuwiler
"It is not to be endured," Zhou Chen said to himself. He glanced across the boat at the top of Sung Yun's head even as he plunged his long pole deep into the muck of the river bottom and pushed. The flat boat slowly slid forward over the brown oily waters of the Great Canal as the four men, one at each corner of the barge, pushed in unison, their movements coordinated by long practice.
He had no idea when the captain told him he hired a new man named Sung Yun that it would be the man disgracing his family. He shot another venomous glance at the other side of the boat although he could scarcely see over the pile of long bamboo, destined for the water pipes and scaffolding of Cheng Du.
The Grand Canal, less than a hundred feet wide, was grand only in name. Too small for more than one barge at a time, the barges stretched ahead and behind in a long single file and all maintained the same pace so that it almost seemed the barges stood still while the river bank and its row of whitewashed houses moved slowly past.
Sung Yun, face serenely untroubled, seemed unaware of the hatred directed against him. Placidly gazing at the houses and the river he leaned on his pole, raising it and letting it fall rhythmically and effortlessly while his face basked in the warm sun and the occasional fresh breeze.
Zhou Chen turned back to the muddy waters flowing past. A fresh orange rind of mango disturbed by the pole floated to the surface then fell, twisting, to become lost again in the brown waters and a sudden flash of ripples on the surface marked the violent struggles of the fish below. They mimicked the violent rages in the dark mud of his soul.
With his own eyes he had seen his younger sister, Li-hwa, plum-flower, walking beside this man, this Sung Yun, last week and talking; not walking with hands folded and eyes to the ground but walking beside him and talking as though to another girl. Yet Sung Yun had not come to the house and asked permission from father nor had he brought a gift to the family -- a chicken or a quail's egg.
He pictured Sung Yun's face in the water as he raised his pole again and struck viscously at it and into the mud. They should have stayed on the farm, he thought grimly, or at least stayed until the waters began to approach and his sister was older. The farm sprawled hidden between low hills a good two weeks climb from the great cities of Wuhan on one side and Chunking on the other. It lay nestled and protected by two small hills, like a child between its mother's breasts, hidden from the traffic flowing along the great river and from the political winds that swept across the land. So hidden and so protected they did not even know of the official decree on children until the family was already twofold blessed. Surely the farm stood far enough away from the river that waters would not reach them even after completion of the dam. They should have stayed but his father listened to the officials and took the official's money for the land. But money disappears while land endures and, as eldest and only son, the land would have been his while the money was his father's. They should have stayed.
He sighed. At least he had only one sister to guard. He remembered how the others had mewed and the sacks wiggled each time his father had to throw one into the water. It did not matter much for they were girls too but he remembered his mother's eyes when they returned home. Yet what else could his father do? The law said one child, and he already had two. Yet, they should have stayed on the farm. That land belonged to his family since the beginning of time, so long ago that no one knew who started to dig the well or to cut the terraces on the hill or build the first part of the big stone house. Surely his ancestors would be angry to see all their work go under the water. He hoped they understood it was the officials and not himself.
Here everything seemed different, the food, the customs, too many men and too few women and the women were brazen. At home, even after 20 years of marriage his mother would not dare walk beside his father but rather humbly walked five steps behind as custom demanded. Here his only sister walked side-by-side with a man unknown to the family and surely scarcely known to her. He did not like this different life. Yet he had to admit that traveling by boat up and down the river, meeting many people in many towns gave him more pleasure than standing half bent in the water of the rice fields each day and waking before the sun to milk the cow each morning. But still, land was solid and something to hold while no man could grasp water. It merely slipped through the fingers.
He shook his head. None of this helped. As elder son he must uphold the honor of the house of Zhou. But how? Broad of shoulder and muscled after working on the farm he was still no match for Sun Yun, a head taller and with arms thicker than Zhou's thighs. Not only might he be beaten in a direct attack but he might be shamed as well. He gave one more thrust of the pole into the water then pulled it back into the boat. They were passing under the great curved bridge now, and they rested on their oars while floating under its high arch. The river widened just beyond the bridge as it joined a branch of the Li tumbling down from the mountains and hastening the current. It made going downstream easier and faster but it took more work going back.
Before leaving, the captain, Xang Gi, told him that the boat docked at Tugow to take on three bales of rope and unload the mound of fresh cabbages stacked next to the bamboo. Perhaps they could stop for a minute and go to the bar. Perhaps he could get Sung Yun drunk enough to kill him.
Just as Xang Gi said, the raft tied up to the broken wooden posts at Tugow and Xang Gi began shouting at the dockman. "Where are the bales of rope?" The dockman merely shrugged.
A thin young boy waiting on the pier jumped onto the bobbing raft, balancing for a moment with outstretched arms. Then he briskly walked to the pile of cabbages and began throwing them one-by-one to his partner on shore who caught and stacked them in the small wagon.
"We can't stay here all day," Xang Gi, shouted to the dockman. "Three bales of rope bound for Kusan should be sitting on the dock. You're the dockman. Where are they?"
The dockman shrugged again. "See for yourself, they are not here. I'm only responsible for what's delivered not what is to be delivered. Perhaps they are coming. Perhaps they are not." He turned his back to the raft and walked into a little shed.
An old skinny man in short pants and a torn shirt squatted down and called to them. His thin face tapered like his graying beard. "How much would you charge to take a dozen geese to Yuan down the river?"
"Are all the geese in one box?"
"No, two boxes."
"Ten yen a box"
"Too much. I'll give you six"
"Nine"
"Seven"
"All right, you drive a hard bargain, eight"
"Done. I have them just up the road. Wait for me." As the man hurried off Xang Gi winked to Sung Yun. I would have taken five, ten for them both." He laughed. Sung Yun, also chuckled before turning back to look at the river.
This was the opportune time Zhou Chen decided. Head bowed, he walked forward.
"Sir, since we must wait anyway for the geese and the rope, may we refresh ourselves at the bar on shore before going on.?"
Xang Gi frowned, then suddenly shrugged and smiled. "Why not? The river would wait and they should make good time with the current. Sure." He squinted up at the sun. "But be back before the shadow of that post moves to the dockman's hut and do not get so refreshed you cannot pole the boat." He laughed again.
Zhou Chen ducked his head in thanks and walked to the edge of the raft where Sung Yun stood watching the way the reflections of the docked junk on the other side of the river wiggled in the water. He almost jumped at the sound of Zhou Chen's voice.
"Would you care to join me in a drink?"
Sung Yun looked at him, still startled.
"A guilty conscience," thought Zhou Chen, but he only said in a most polite voice "I will pay. Working companions should be friends. My name is Zhou Chen." He watched carefully as he said his name and caught unease in the other's eyes. Hah, I am right, he thought, This one has been trifling with my sister. Surreptitiously his hand brushed the bulge at the back of his pants. He had taken the cutting knife from its nail on the post in back. It would cut things other than rope today.
It did not take long for them to settle at a back of the bar. The funny brown pinched bottle of Moutia sat on the table near Zhou's hand and a small glass of the vile smelling but potent liquor lay before each of them.
"Shall we drink to our voyage?" Zhou asked raising his glass. He would only sip but act like he downed the whole thing.
"I'm not much for drinking," Sang Yun confessed sheepishly. "I mean I can drink but it gives little pleasure."
"Come, come, for comradery sake. Drink up." Zhou tilted his glass up and pressed his tongue against the rim to hold the drink back but the joint leaked and half the contents burned down his throat. No matter, it was still less than the whole glass.
Sang Yun shrugged, tilted his head and downed the contents of the glass in a gulp. He had scarcely lowered it again before Zhou pretended to fill his own glass and then refilled that of Sang Yun's.
Though he had only a little of the liquor, Zhou felt the warmth creep up his face. Sung Yun must be even more affected, he thought, though he could see little change. "You seemed startled by my name," he said smiling at Sang Yun. "Have we met somewhere before that I have forgotten?"
"No, no. It is just that I have heard others speak of you."
"They speak well I hope. Come. Drink up again."
"No, really, I should not waste your liquor."
"Forget it, Drink up I say. Those who spoke of me, did they speak well?" Zhou tried the tongue trick again, with the same results, as he watched Sang
Yun toss off the liquor.
"Very well. With much respect and honor."
"Ah yes, honor." Zhou paused a moment as he refilled the glasses. It was unseasonable warm, he thought. "Perhaps you have met my sister, Li-hwa."
He could see the flush rising in Sang Yun's face. The liquor was working. Or
was it the liquor?
Sang Yun suddenly gulped the contents of the glass then leaned forward and gripped Zhou's arm. "It has been driving me mad. Perhaps you could...perhaps you would help." he bumbled earnestly, "I know that I have nothing now, that I am merely a worthless wandering poet but my elder uncle has no wife and no sons and I am his only nephew and he has promised me his land when he dies if only I will do his spirit the honors that befit a dead father. But until then I have nothing but my back and my hands. With so many men and so few women, I know your sister must have a thousand suitors and that, as you are from an old and honorable family, your father has likely already betrothed Li-hwa to another. I, I have no right to speak, I know, but is there any chance, --do you think--I mean would your father take it as an insult if I who have nothing spoke to him of Li-hwa--." He squeezed Zhou's arm even tighter and drew his face closer. Zhou closed one eye and tried to concentrate on what Sang Yun's words. What was he saying? It was all very confusing and the weather had become so warm.
"I am unworthy I know and I do not mean to be forward but your sister is as the hummingbird, delicate and beautiful and as sweet as that upon which she dines. I can promise you I would treat her as the rare jewel she is. I may not be the best of suitors but I will be the best of husbands and when I receive my uncle's lands, wealthier than most." He stopped then as Zhou's head dropped forward and began to snore. Sung Yun looked at the sleeping man for a moment and then sighed. Had he heard anything, Sung wondered. Will he help me win the hand of Li-hwa? He sighed again, corked the bottle, wedged his shoulder beneath Zhou's inert body and stood up. As he walked out the door lightly bearing the dead weight of Zhuo on his broad back, he hoped the captain would not yell at him for getting Zhou drunk. "Why is it," he mused, "that those who cannot hold their liquor are so insistent on drinking?"
He had no idea when the captain told him he hired a new man named Sung Yun that it would be the man disgracing his family. He shot another venomous glance at the other side of the boat although he could scarcely see over the pile of long bamboo, destined for the water pipes and scaffolding of Cheng Du.
The Grand Canal, less than a hundred feet wide, was grand only in name. Too small for more than one barge at a time, the barges stretched ahead and behind in a long single file and all maintained the same pace so that it almost seemed the barges stood still while the river bank and its row of whitewashed houses moved slowly past.
Sung Yun, face serenely untroubled, seemed unaware of the hatred directed against him. Placidly gazing at the houses and the river he leaned on his pole, raising it and letting it fall rhythmically and effortlessly while his face basked in the warm sun and the occasional fresh breeze.
Zhou Chen turned back to the muddy waters flowing past. A fresh orange rind of mango disturbed by the pole floated to the surface then fell, twisting, to become lost again in the brown waters and a sudden flash of ripples on the surface marked the violent struggles of the fish below. They mimicked the violent rages in the dark mud of his soul.
With his own eyes he had seen his younger sister, Li-hwa, plum-flower, walking beside this man, this Sung Yun, last week and talking; not walking with hands folded and eyes to the ground but walking beside him and talking as though to another girl. Yet Sung Yun had not come to the house and asked permission from father nor had he brought a gift to the family -- a chicken or a quail's egg.
He pictured Sung Yun's face in the water as he raised his pole again and struck viscously at it and into the mud. They should have stayed on the farm, he thought grimly, or at least stayed until the waters began to approach and his sister was older. The farm sprawled hidden between low hills a good two weeks climb from the great cities of Wuhan on one side and Chunking on the other. It lay nestled and protected by two small hills, like a child between its mother's breasts, hidden from the traffic flowing along the great river and from the political winds that swept across the land. So hidden and so protected they did not even know of the official decree on children until the family was already twofold blessed. Surely the farm stood far enough away from the river that waters would not reach them even after completion of the dam. They should have stayed but his father listened to the officials and took the official's money for the land. But money disappears while land endures and, as eldest and only son, the land would have been his while the money was his father's. They should have stayed.
He sighed. At least he had only one sister to guard. He remembered how the others had mewed and the sacks wiggled each time his father had to throw one into the water. It did not matter much for they were girls too but he remembered his mother's eyes when they returned home. Yet what else could his father do? The law said one child, and he already had two. Yet, they should have stayed on the farm. That land belonged to his family since the beginning of time, so long ago that no one knew who started to dig the well or to cut the terraces on the hill or build the first part of the big stone house. Surely his ancestors would be angry to see all their work go under the water. He hoped they understood it was the officials and not himself.
Here everything seemed different, the food, the customs, too many men and too few women and the women were brazen. At home, even after 20 years of marriage his mother would not dare walk beside his father but rather humbly walked five steps behind as custom demanded. Here his only sister walked side-by-side with a man unknown to the family and surely scarcely known to her. He did not like this different life. Yet he had to admit that traveling by boat up and down the river, meeting many people in many towns gave him more pleasure than standing half bent in the water of the rice fields each day and waking before the sun to milk the cow each morning. But still, land was solid and something to hold while no man could grasp water. It merely slipped through the fingers.
He shook his head. None of this helped. As elder son he must uphold the honor of the house of Zhou. But how? Broad of shoulder and muscled after working on the farm he was still no match for Sun Yun, a head taller and with arms thicker than Zhou's thighs. Not only might he be beaten in a direct attack but he might be shamed as well. He gave one more thrust of the pole into the water then pulled it back into the boat. They were passing under the great curved bridge now, and they rested on their oars while floating under its high arch. The river widened just beyond the bridge as it joined a branch of the Li tumbling down from the mountains and hastening the current. It made going downstream easier and faster but it took more work going back.
Before leaving, the captain, Xang Gi, told him that the boat docked at Tugow to take on three bales of rope and unload the mound of fresh cabbages stacked next to the bamboo. Perhaps they could stop for a minute and go to the bar. Perhaps he could get Sung Yun drunk enough to kill him.
Just as Xang Gi said, the raft tied up to the broken wooden posts at Tugow and Xang Gi began shouting at the dockman. "Where are the bales of rope?" The dockman merely shrugged.
A thin young boy waiting on the pier jumped onto the bobbing raft, balancing for a moment with outstretched arms. Then he briskly walked to the pile of cabbages and began throwing them one-by-one to his partner on shore who caught and stacked them in the small wagon.
"We can't stay here all day," Xang Gi, shouted to the dockman. "Three bales of rope bound for Kusan should be sitting on the dock. You're the dockman. Where are they?"
The dockman shrugged again. "See for yourself, they are not here. I'm only responsible for what's delivered not what is to be delivered. Perhaps they are coming. Perhaps they are not." He turned his back to the raft and walked into a little shed.
An old skinny man in short pants and a torn shirt squatted down and called to them. His thin face tapered like his graying beard. "How much would you charge to take a dozen geese to Yuan down the river?"
"Are all the geese in one box?"
"No, two boxes."
"Ten yen a box"
"Too much. I'll give you six"
"Nine"
"Seven"
"All right, you drive a hard bargain, eight"
"Done. I have them just up the road. Wait for me." As the man hurried off Xang Gi winked to Sung Yun. I would have taken five, ten for them both." He laughed. Sung Yun, also chuckled before turning back to look at the river.
This was the opportune time Zhou Chen decided. Head bowed, he walked forward.
"Sir, since we must wait anyway for the geese and the rope, may we refresh ourselves at the bar on shore before going on.?"
Xang Gi frowned, then suddenly shrugged and smiled. "Why not? The river would wait and they should make good time with the current. Sure." He squinted up at the sun. "But be back before the shadow of that post moves to the dockman's hut and do not get so refreshed you cannot pole the boat." He laughed again.
Zhou Chen ducked his head in thanks and walked to the edge of the raft where Sung Yun stood watching the way the reflections of the docked junk on the other side of the river wiggled in the water. He almost jumped at the sound of Zhou Chen's voice.
"Would you care to join me in a drink?"
Sung Yun looked at him, still startled.
"A guilty conscience," thought Zhou Chen, but he only said in a most polite voice "I will pay. Working companions should be friends. My name is Zhou Chen." He watched carefully as he said his name and caught unease in the other's eyes. Hah, I am right, he thought, This one has been trifling with my sister. Surreptitiously his hand brushed the bulge at the back of his pants. He had taken the cutting knife from its nail on the post in back. It would cut things other than rope today.
It did not take long for them to settle at a back of the bar. The funny brown pinched bottle of Moutia sat on the table near Zhou's hand and a small glass of the vile smelling but potent liquor lay before each of them.
"Shall we drink to our voyage?" Zhou asked raising his glass. He would only sip but act like he downed the whole thing.
"I'm not much for drinking," Sang Yun confessed sheepishly. "I mean I can drink but it gives little pleasure."
"Come, come, for comradery sake. Drink up." Zhou tilted his glass up and pressed his tongue against the rim to hold the drink back but the joint leaked and half the contents burned down his throat. No matter, it was still less than the whole glass.
Sang Yun shrugged, tilted his head and downed the contents of the glass in a gulp. He had scarcely lowered it again before Zhou pretended to fill his own glass and then refilled that of Sang Yun's.
Though he had only a little of the liquor, Zhou felt the warmth creep up his face. Sung Yun must be even more affected, he thought, though he could see little change. "You seemed startled by my name," he said smiling at Sang Yun. "Have we met somewhere before that I have forgotten?"
"No, no. It is just that I have heard others speak of you."
"They speak well I hope. Come. Drink up again."
"No, really, I should not waste your liquor."
"Forget it, Drink up I say. Those who spoke of me, did they speak well?" Zhou tried the tongue trick again, with the same results, as he watched Sang
Yun toss off the liquor.
"Very well. With much respect and honor."
"Ah yes, honor." Zhou paused a moment as he refilled the glasses. It was unseasonable warm, he thought. "Perhaps you have met my sister, Li-hwa."
He could see the flush rising in Sang Yun's face. The liquor was working. Or
was it the liquor?
Sang Yun suddenly gulped the contents of the glass then leaned forward and gripped Zhou's arm. "It has been driving me mad. Perhaps you could...perhaps you would help." he bumbled earnestly, "I know that I have nothing now, that I am merely a worthless wandering poet but my elder uncle has no wife and no sons and I am his only nephew and he has promised me his land when he dies if only I will do his spirit the honors that befit a dead father. But until then I have nothing but my back and my hands. With so many men and so few women, I know your sister must have a thousand suitors and that, as you are from an old and honorable family, your father has likely already betrothed Li-hwa to another. I, I have no right to speak, I know, but is there any chance, --do you think--I mean would your father take it as an insult if I who have nothing spoke to him of Li-hwa--." He squeezed Zhou's arm even tighter and drew his face closer. Zhou closed one eye and tried to concentrate on what Sang Yun's words. What was he saying? It was all very confusing and the weather had become so warm.
"I am unworthy I know and I do not mean to be forward but your sister is as the hummingbird, delicate and beautiful and as sweet as that upon which she dines. I can promise you I would treat her as the rare jewel she is. I may not be the best of suitors but I will be the best of husbands and when I receive my uncle's lands, wealthier than most." He stopped then as Zhou's head dropped forward and began to snore. Sung Yun looked at the sleeping man for a moment and then sighed. Had he heard anything, Sung wondered. Will he help me win the hand of Li-hwa? He sighed again, corked the bottle, wedged his shoulder beneath Zhou's inert body and stood up. As he walked out the door lightly bearing the dead weight of Zhuo on his broad back, he hoped the captain would not yell at him for getting Zhou drunk. "Why is it," he mused, "that those who cannot hold their liquor are so insistent on drinking?"
Monday, March 3, 2008
Old Age
Old Age, a quote by Deanne Levitt
Old Age isn't what it once was...
It once belonged to other people!
Old Age isn't what it once was...
It once belonged to other people!
Art
"Art is not a material thing. You can’t see it, but it stays in your heart. Keep going no matter what happens." A quote from a newspaper article in The Jewish Daily Forward, written by a Japanese dancer named Mutsuyo who lost her entire family in the 1995 Kobe earthquake.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
"Lodged," a poem by Robert Frost
The rain to the wind said,
‘You push and I'll pelt.’
They so smote the garden bed
That the flowers actually knelt.
And lay lodged — though not dead.
I know how the flowers felt.
‘You push and I'll pelt.’
They so smote the garden bed
That the flowers actually knelt.
And lay lodged — though not dead.
I know how the flowers felt.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
I just heard a great quote that I'd like to share...
What is the difference between prose and poetry?
Prose is whining; poetry is poignant
Prose is whining; poetry is poignant
Thursday, January 3, 2008
A Year Remembered, by Jeri Sutherling
As I sat in the outpatient recovery room watching the nurses scurry back and forth taking blood pressures, I wondered how my family would get through this tragedy. I could not, would not, cry in front of my brother. A routine exam discovered the lump in his abdomen. I knew the prognosis of pancreatic cancer was bad, but the nurse inside of me began making lists of things to do and people to call. His doctor came and told me I could go in. I put on a neutral face, walked in, stared at Larry’s 6 ft. 2 inch frame sandwiched into a 5 foot hospital bed, and began the longest year of my life.
He stared at me with an expression that told me he knew. I reached for his hand, swallowed back my tears and said, “We can beat this Larry. I don’t care what they told you.”
In his macho bravado, he laughed, “That jerk told me to go home, and get my legal papers in order. Surgery might be a possibility, but only if it hasn’t spread. Funny thing is… I feel great.”
While waiting for him to be discharged, I paced back and forth worrying about what to do next. As a critical care nurse for 20 years, I knew that time was of essence with this particular type of malignancy. It took only a second before the organized professional in me took charge. I went to the pay telephone in the sterile hospital corridor, picked up the receiver, and called the radiology department. In a very quiet and controlled voice, I told the receptionist that I needed a stat spiral Cat Scan. She made the appointment without question as to who was ordering the test. I had circumvented at least a week in the red tape of medical no- where land. The next call I made was to the surgeon to schedule a consultation. As long as I had tasks to be done, then I could function. I felt the blood starting to warm my body and my step quickened.
I told the nurse to take my brother to the discharge ramp, while I went to get the car that would carry him home.
I found explaining the diagnosis to his wife very difficult. Ignorant about disease and Western medicine, she immediately pulled out a book on herbal remedies. Being educated in medicinal herbs, I explained that we needed more effective treatments. Then suddenly, an idea came to me. As a scientist and doctor, my husband might be able to get Larry into an experimental drug trial. My brother needed to consent to be a guinea pig in order to be cured.
Their new house, barely christened, now became a prison. The ecstatic couple had moved in only three weeks prior to the dreadful news. They’d waited eighteen years until they could become homeowners. Now that their dream was finally realized, their cute little house was quickly becoming a financial burden. While waiting for the day of surgery to arrive, we played Crazy Eights, and tried to be upbeat. The surgeon assured me that waiting 3 weeks would not diminish the patient’s chance of survival. In my heart, I was sure he was wrong. Delayed diagnosis and treatment for pancreatic cancer meant certain death.
At first, my brother was vehemently against taking any action. He, with his gallows humor, provoked me, “I’ll just paint my pictures and count down the days. Why try to change my fate?” His artistic talents adorned the walls of the new house. Recently he had computerized his photographic pictures on 7 ft. by 7 ft. canvases. Using acrylic paints with the tiled images, he created unique modernistic paintings. His agent from New York called, and left a message while we argued softly. “Although statistics are slim, some patients’ live 5 years with the surgery,” I briskly quoted his surgeon. After much debate, my exhausted sibling decided to give life another try.
Larry complained about the cocktail of electrolytes and laxatives required for surgery for the following day. I hung up the phone, and put away the dishes when the phone rang again. The voice asked for Mr. Nichols. Confused, I replied, “I believe you are looking for my brother. You have called me by mistake but can I help you?” The surgeon identified himself, and then quickly got to the point. “We are canceling your brother’s surgery tomorrow. We think we found a metastasis in his lung. After reviewing his x-rays this afternoon we saw a questionable spot. It may or may not be something.” The shock made my knees buckle. I sank into the closest chair. “What do you mean may or may not be something? Why cancel the surgery after we waited for weeks? Why tell us this now?” My words wavered at first, and then grew loud with anger. The emotionless voice ignored my questions, and continued with instructions instead, “Your brother will need a biopsy of his lung. Please make an appointment with this pulmonary specialist for a consultation.” The tears blinded me as I punched in the numbers to my husband’s office. My throat felt tight and dry as I begged him to come home immediately. Next, I made the most difficult phone call of my life… to my brother.
Larry spoke with short breaths as he reiterated the message that I was already too familiar with. He struggled to come to terms with what the doctor had told him. While silently swearing at the insensitive surgeon, I reassured Larry that everything would be ok.
When my Bill, my husband, entered the house, I deluged him with pleas to find a way to get Larry help. I knew we did not have time to wait for another consultation. My loving husband agreed. After several phone calls to colleagues at the hospital where he practiced, he shook his head yes, put down the phone, hugged me tight and said, “I’ve got him scheduled for a lung biopsy tomorrow.”
The mass was smaller than a pencil eraser. The pathologist called it adenocarcinoma. Because the tumor traveled to the lung, Larry was no longer a candidate for surgery.
The oncologist painted a dim outlook. I immediately tuned him out and planned my own ending.
During the past weeks I’d researched for hours nonstop looking for what might defy the odds. I narrowed my choice down to two treatments. Both were experimental. A new chemotherapy drug protocol tested with good results in Houston, Texas. I felt this would be a good choice since they agreed to let Larry enter the trials and still remain at home in California. My second choice, an autoimmune stimulating drug found in Canada, had just begun testing as well. Since it was not yet known in the U.S.A, I would need approval from the Canadian Food and Drug Administration (F.D.A.) first. Bill agreed to help me. He wrote a tedious investigational protocol to his hospital’s Investigational Review Board. The hospital passed the request in record time knowing how urgent it was to start the drug quickly. I contacted our country’s F.D.A. with the procedure for compassionate use; within 2 weeks, they approved it. The North American company worked diligently with me to get the shipment through customs. Meanwhile, I arranged our trip to Houston. It looked like our bad luck was beginning to change.
Traffic crawled as Larry and I rushed to the airport to catch the plane to Houston. We would stay overnight, see the oncologist, and then return home. “Don’t change your mind now, Larry! Everything is arranged and you can’t have anymore delays if you want to get results.” He snapped back, “I don’t want to spend the last days of my life in another city. I want to be home, with my wife and family!”
I stomped on the break for emphasis, “I told you already that Dr. Sands has agreed to let us do the trial from Los Angeles. All we need is the routine blood tests every two weeks to make sure your counts are stable.” He muttered under his breath something inaudible. “I promise. You’ll be able to take the pills that kill the cancer cells from the comfort of your own bed, and I will give you the autoimmune stimulating shot every other day.” As traffic cleared, I stepped on the accelerator. “We’ll do self visualization, exercise, and a little change in your diet… I know this is the best combination for you!” He glared at me relentlessly before finally saying, “Ok, I trust you, but I just don’t want to think about this anymore, so can we change the subject?”
Larry sat at the kitchen table waiting for his chicken noodle soup to get hot. He reminded me of our trip to Houston and we chuckled. In my increased state of anxiety, I’d left my purse in the taxi with my credit cards and instructions on how to get to the clinic. Exhausted, and frantic, I willed myself to be strong when what I really wanted to do was scream. My brother, recognizing my state of dismay, calmly suggested we go in and explain the situation to the hotel manager. When we did, the manager traced the taxi from the airport, and the lovely driver returned my purse tact. That night gave us many hoots when we were having a bad day.
Larry responded well to his cocktail of meds. The killer drug annihilated the cancer cells, and the immune shot kept him healthy. I arrived at his house daily by 7 A.M. when his wife left for work. It had to be this way in order for them to keep his insurance coverage. His Health Maintenance Organization (HMO) became the supreme word.
We were cautiously excited. My anniversary was quickly approaching. Since everything was running smoothly, I decided to plan a four-day getaway out of town for my supportive husband. I wrote detailed instructions for the shots and medications. I taught Larry’s wife, Janine, how to give them. I left feeling confident that everything would go well.
Utah’s Sundance Resort captured the essence of tranquility. The birds chirped welcome as we drove into the tree-lined parking lot. The receptionist told us to wait with our luggage, and a driver would take us to our secluded dwelling. I kissed my husband hello. I felt we had grown apart during these past months. Each of us, tired from our own stresses of the day, fell into bed every night with only sleep on our minds. Now, my skin tingled with excitement as Bill took my hand, and we climbed in to the golf cart on our way up the mountain.
The weekend refreshed us. We enjoyed walks along candle-lit paths, lay on a blanket one star laden night to watch a summer musical, dined in cozy restaurants, and even spotted a few celebrities while shopping. Driving from the airport, we decided to stop, and deliver our presents to Larry and Janine.
We pounded on the door, excited to share the weekend with our best friends. I sensed immediately that something was amiss. Janine pulled us in immediately before we could utter a word. “Larry is really sick,” she said with urgency in her voice. My stomach tightened into a familiar knot. We hurried to the bedroom where my brother lay. I felt my heart quicken. A crumpled yellow mass groaned at me. “He started throwing up right after you left. He didn’t want to tell you he felt bad for fear of ruining your trip.”
We knew there was something terribly wrong. We loaded him into the car, and drove him gently, but quickly, to the hospital. Thank goodness it was only a few miles from his house. Once there, we waited silently, staring blankly at each other, while the doctors ran a series of tests.
We were able to take him home after a few days. The vaccination that he had received a few days prior to our leaving had given him the flu. Since his body was compromised he developed a bacterial infection, and was bleeding from his stomach. The recovery took several weeks. Meanwhile the chemo stopped and the bad cells began to multiply. We no longer touted victory. Much like bacteria’s reaction to antibiotics, cancer cells also learn, by mutating, to outsmart the medication that kills them. We searched for another miracle. Lucky for us, we discovered a kind and caring oncologist who supported our ideas. He suggested a new drug that was being used. He could not promise us that there would be no side effects or that it would be a silver bullet. We no longer smiled, our demeanor defeated, but hope could not be eternally extinguished. We reorganized and started again.
Larry’s face red and blotched screeched hot, but his body shook violently with cold chills. He no longer wanted to even taste my homemade soups or recipes. When he needed to drink fluids I made popsicles out of Kool-Aid. Everything tasted bitter to him and his throat hurt. His 6 ft.2 inch frame at 220 pounds changed weekly. He seemed to melt before my eyes. The once muscular man now looked like a stick figure. He walked from bed to sofa, and sofa to bathroom clutching the walls to keep from falling. The lovely little house became cramped with hospital equipment: IV poles, pumps, bedside commode, and people. Friends called, and arrived from all parts of the country. Larry had established friendship as a priority in his life. Now close acquaintances came just to sit, and talk with him about their crazy escapades as youths.
Every day the torch passed between Janine and me. She took the night shift, and I took the day shift. I left one house, and traveled 5 miles to enter a completely different environment. My husband’s partner of 4 years became increasingly erratic and was now leaving the practice. Instead of parting amicably, he spewed anger and threats. My husband, a peaceful and kind man, already stretched to the limit, now seemed anxious about the future of our medical practice. When we thought life could get no worse, we were saddled with a lawsuit brought by the surgeon we had helped to support, and thought was a friend.
I don’t recall the last time I smiled, an expression long removed from my life since that first hospital day. I remember the nights where I lay awake thinking…and thinking what to do next. When no answer came, I buried my head in my pillow, not wanting to awaken my already exhausted husband, and muffled my sobs. The next morning I rallied once again, sat down and searched the Internet looking for another treatment that would help to make a miracle happen. We chose another chemotherapy drug.
Our days of playing Crazy Eights dwindled. Instead, Larry watched the television like a programmed robot. It was a continuous downer. Everything I heard from the outside world came over the tube. I found it impossible to be upbeat when all I heard was doom, and gloom coming from the droning box inside the living room. My voice whined as well, “You need to drink or you’ll get dehydrated. Can’t you turn the channel to something other than that depressing news? It’s time for your pain medication…” I felt an invisible wall being erected between my brother and me. Weekends, once spent barbequing outside by the pond, were now filled with loneliness, as we all hurried to our separate niches in the house looking for solitude. Janine showed signs of battle fatigue. The daily grind of working, and acting as caregivers, strained our easy going relationship. A year had passed since our anniversary weekend when Bill and I spent time alone. We needed to take a break from the sickness that surrounded us both in our personal and professional lives, but I could not give up even one day from being with my brother. I knew that his days were numbered, and each moment together felt like a small treasure to be cherished.
The relationship between my parents and my brother, difficult even in the best times, was strained even more. Larry, a unique and creative soul never fit into their mold of a stable family man. Instead of business suits, he wore jeans and T-shirts. His long, uncut, graying hair screamed hippy era. Rather than put money away for that rainy day, he preferred to invest in the future with electronic gadgets. When my mother announced her trip out to California with her sister, Larry grumbled loudly. My father was unable to travel, and Larry always loved Aunt Jimmie. For some strange reason they got along, even thought she was just as strict as my mother. My aunt acted like a buffer, and my mother and brother accepted this because they both loved her.
I wanted to bring my brother and mother closer, knowing that it would be the last time they could put aside their differences, and accept each other for who they both were. When Larry and I were together prior to my mother’s arrival, we discussed his repressed feeling since childhood. Primarily, the problem stemmed from my mother’s strong belief in religion and my brother’s lack of it. Brought up as a strict Southern Baptist, she dragged us to church every Sunday from infancy on. Drinking, smoking, and partying meant certain damnation. A highly charged testosterone teenager dressed in his Sunday best, didn’t suit Larry. The day after my brother graduated from high school, he joined the Air Force to become a Russian language specialist. The rift between my mother, and him never got resolved. I mediated between the two during his years away, but how would I intercede between them now when they were sitting across from each other?
The roses bloomed even though it was early spring. Although in their late 70s, the sisters still retained their natural red hair. Mom had the fiery temperament to match, or so my relatives used to say. Aunt Jimmie, soft spoken with that unhurried Southern drawl, became the slow wave that ebbed and flowed though out the house. For the first time in a year, I felt relief that someone else took charge. Although there were no outward arguments between my mother and brother, a dark cloud always hovered over the house. Never good at confronting issues with deep meaning, my mother kept busy chattering about her life back home. Perhaps it was just as well that the disagreements of the past did not surface during this week of her stay. Knowing it would be the last time we had together, I asked a friend to take a photo of us out on the patio. It turned out to be a very sad remembrance. My bald, thin, brother slumped in a chair looking angry, and sad at the same time. He sat surrounded by the rest of us, who with our false smiles tried desperately to portray a picture of happiness. The week ended with hugs, kisses, and false promises to get better. I still cherish my picture of the two elderly ladies, standing hand and hand, surrounded by red and pink roses, smiling at the camera as if they had not a care in the world. Their visit added a distraction to the routine of my gloomy, routine days, and so I became depressed knowing that I would once again be the “officer in charge.”
The chaos resumed quickly. Larry required more care. His body failed him terribly. The insurance company refused medicines that would make him comfortable. Once always good at arguing, I lost my will to fight with them. My husband never wavered about paying for the expensive drugs. “What is ours is theirs…” he said. The character of a man is in his deeds. I realize how rare it is to have a husband who can share with others when he is going through financial difficulties himself.
Larry spent more time in bed. Weighing only 103 pounds, I could not take proper care of him by myself. I hired a licensed male nurse to help. Janine became more discontent with the situation. Once we called ourselves sisters. Now few words passed between us. One night as we got sheets from the hall closet and readied ourselves to change Larry’s bed she uttered to me words that I will never forget. “You should have let him have his way. You pushed the treatments on him and made this a year of hell. His death was inevitable. He should have died as he wanted, naturally and without all of these chemicals,” The words struck like a dagger to my heart. I felt mortally wounded. Our friendship ended that day. I not only lost my brother, but I lost my only sister as well.
The nurse, Steve, consoled me and listened to my problems. Both Larry and Janine disliked him because he was a devout Christian. Again, the past childhood issues about God resurfaced. I didn’t care anymore. I knew only that I needed help, and Steve was reliable. He showed up, and worked extra hours if I needed him. Having been a supervisor with a home health agency, I realized how rare those qualities were. It was even rarer to find a male nurse. I refused to fire him because of his religious zeal. My strength waned. My friends thought I might die before my brother. I lived every pain, every angry word, and every fear with my brother. I lost 20 pounds that year.
Those last months seemed like endless years. His stomach grew swollen, and if you did not look under the covers you would think a child would soon be born. I recognized him from his soulful brown eyes. I talked more now, and he listened. Those last days are memories that I cannot describe. I never wanted to show him that I had given up, because he looked to me for hope. As he struggled with each breath now, I acknowledged the end of his life was approaching. Still a tormented man about his ideas on religion, he had not resolved his belief in whether or not God existed. He teetered between life and death. We could not discuss beliefs because to him I still represented our mother’s religion. Then one day, he asked for Janine’s sister-in-law Maryam. A lovely and giving person of the Bahá’í faith, she agreed to come. Behind a closed door, words and discussions transferred softly between them. It was after this time, that I saw the change. A quietness that had not existed before now seemed to settle over the house. A different aura came over Larry. He began to smile. The angry scowl that was once etched on his face disappeared. We sat and held hands. He told me he loved me. I no longer squinted to keep the tears from streaming down my face. Much of the time I just talked quietly about our childhood. Being latchkey kids long before the term became popular, he took care of me as a big brother should. My mother told the story of when I was four years old, and how my brother wanted to take me to the playground to show me off as his baby sister. He was eight at the time. My mother dressed me in a frilly polka dotted dress for the occasion. On the way back to the house, I fell and cut my knee, getting blood on my dress. My brother carried me all the way home. Mom said he cried more than I did over that mishap. Another time, I brought letters he wrote to me when he was in the Air Force and stationed in Japan. During my high school years I began to question the worldly issues of drugs and sex. His letters were big brotherly and comforting. I found it ironic that he had been branded the outlaw of the family; yet his letters revealed a rather sage Ann Landers approach to life. I told him I was sorry I had failed to save him. The hardest thing for me to do was to let him go. I knew he was waiting for me to release him from his promise to live. Every night I slept over in the guest bedroom. Janine did not want to be by herself when he passed away. Neither of us wanted him to be alone for a single minute of the day. We hired a night nurse to be with him while we caught short snippets of sleep. It was September 4th. I remember the time well because Princess Diana had just died. I sat by his bed and stroked his hand. I told him how much he meant to me; that he would always be with me and that I would never forget our life together, but now it was time for me to release him. He was the best brother I could have ever wished for. I kissed him goodnight and told the night nurse to come and get me if anything happened.
I barely had time to fall asleep when Larry’s favorite cat Harry jumped on the bed and woke me up. The cat sat on my chest and meowed urgently for me to follow. At almost the same time, the nurse burst in to the room and asked me to come quickly. Janine and I arrived together at the foot of his bed. With one look we knew it was over. There were no tears left for either of us. Guilty with relief, we called the hospice nurse to tell her to set the arrangements in motion. I couldn’t help but laugh when the hearse they sent for his body was a SUV. I saw Larry chuckling down at us as if he was calling the shots until the very end.
Larry didn’t want to be buried or have a proper funeral; yet Janine, and I both agreed that his life needed to be celebrated. Her house was too small to accommodate the vast number of friends who wanted to contribute to his memorial service. Bill and I had a very open and private home that would work well for what we wanted to do. Janine’s cousins jumped right in to help make it perfect. They made collages of his work as an artist and of his life as a husband and friend. His favorite music played in the background and people gathered to laugh and talk about their many experiences with this avant-garde man who died at fifty. As the afternoon sun filtered through the branches of our California oaks, we all bowed our heads and said words of thanks for having known such a good and kind person. It befitted the man who never talked badly of anyone.
It took a year to decide what we would do with his ashes. Janine did not want the urn at her home because it reminded her of death. I did not attach myself to it in the same way. To me it was just a reminder that no matter how much you want something, you can’t always change what is to be. During that year I came to the realization that sometimes death is better than life. I look at things much more differently now that I did in that year. I see that life continues to march forward, and it is the quality of life that is important not the quantity. With my patients, I try to really listen to what they are telling me. No longer do I feel powerful enough to change the cosmic forces, nor do I even want to. The voices of the wind and the chatter of the squirrels make me quiet, for it is then that I feel my brother is close.
And it was after much thoughtful waiting that the decision to set Larry’s ashes free came to me. It was so …Larry. I knew he would love it. Janine agreed, as did Bill. The three of us walked with backpacks miles into the Santa Monica Mountains carrying trowel, water and a seedling oak. We bowed our heads and each said a few words. The small tree represented his life and memories never to be forgotten. The bluebirds chirped chur-lee, chur-lee and quarreled over freshly fallen acorns on the ground. The ending fitted the man; a free spirit who lived life in the moment. I looked up, squinting from the bright sun. I felt his spirit there in this lovely place and realized he would always be with me.
He stared at me with an expression that told me he knew. I reached for his hand, swallowed back my tears and said, “We can beat this Larry. I don’t care what they told you.”
In his macho bravado, he laughed, “That jerk told me to go home, and get my legal papers in order. Surgery might be a possibility, but only if it hasn’t spread. Funny thing is… I feel great.”
While waiting for him to be discharged, I paced back and forth worrying about what to do next. As a critical care nurse for 20 years, I knew that time was of essence with this particular type of malignancy. It took only a second before the organized professional in me took charge. I went to the pay telephone in the sterile hospital corridor, picked up the receiver, and called the radiology department. In a very quiet and controlled voice, I told the receptionist that I needed a stat spiral Cat Scan. She made the appointment without question as to who was ordering the test. I had circumvented at least a week in the red tape of medical no- where land. The next call I made was to the surgeon to schedule a consultation. As long as I had tasks to be done, then I could function. I felt the blood starting to warm my body and my step quickened.
I told the nurse to take my brother to the discharge ramp, while I went to get the car that would carry him home.
I found explaining the diagnosis to his wife very difficult. Ignorant about disease and Western medicine, she immediately pulled out a book on herbal remedies. Being educated in medicinal herbs, I explained that we needed more effective treatments. Then suddenly, an idea came to me. As a scientist and doctor, my husband might be able to get Larry into an experimental drug trial. My brother needed to consent to be a guinea pig in order to be cured.
Their new house, barely christened, now became a prison. The ecstatic couple had moved in only three weeks prior to the dreadful news. They’d waited eighteen years until they could become homeowners. Now that their dream was finally realized, their cute little house was quickly becoming a financial burden. While waiting for the day of surgery to arrive, we played Crazy Eights, and tried to be upbeat. The surgeon assured me that waiting 3 weeks would not diminish the patient’s chance of survival. In my heart, I was sure he was wrong. Delayed diagnosis and treatment for pancreatic cancer meant certain death.
At first, my brother was vehemently against taking any action. He, with his gallows humor, provoked me, “I’ll just paint my pictures and count down the days. Why try to change my fate?” His artistic talents adorned the walls of the new house. Recently he had computerized his photographic pictures on 7 ft. by 7 ft. canvases. Using acrylic paints with the tiled images, he created unique modernistic paintings. His agent from New York called, and left a message while we argued softly. “Although statistics are slim, some patients’ live 5 years with the surgery,” I briskly quoted his surgeon. After much debate, my exhausted sibling decided to give life another try.
Larry complained about the cocktail of electrolytes and laxatives required for surgery for the following day. I hung up the phone, and put away the dishes when the phone rang again. The voice asked for Mr. Nichols. Confused, I replied, “I believe you are looking for my brother. You have called me by mistake but can I help you?” The surgeon identified himself, and then quickly got to the point. “We are canceling your brother’s surgery tomorrow. We think we found a metastasis in his lung. After reviewing his x-rays this afternoon we saw a questionable spot. It may or may not be something.” The shock made my knees buckle. I sank into the closest chair. “What do you mean may or may not be something? Why cancel the surgery after we waited for weeks? Why tell us this now?” My words wavered at first, and then grew loud with anger. The emotionless voice ignored my questions, and continued with instructions instead, “Your brother will need a biopsy of his lung. Please make an appointment with this pulmonary specialist for a consultation.” The tears blinded me as I punched in the numbers to my husband’s office. My throat felt tight and dry as I begged him to come home immediately. Next, I made the most difficult phone call of my life… to my brother.
Larry spoke with short breaths as he reiterated the message that I was already too familiar with. He struggled to come to terms with what the doctor had told him. While silently swearing at the insensitive surgeon, I reassured Larry that everything would be ok.
When my Bill, my husband, entered the house, I deluged him with pleas to find a way to get Larry help. I knew we did not have time to wait for another consultation. My loving husband agreed. After several phone calls to colleagues at the hospital where he practiced, he shook his head yes, put down the phone, hugged me tight and said, “I’ve got him scheduled for a lung biopsy tomorrow.”
The mass was smaller than a pencil eraser. The pathologist called it adenocarcinoma. Because the tumor traveled to the lung, Larry was no longer a candidate for surgery.
The oncologist painted a dim outlook. I immediately tuned him out and planned my own ending.
During the past weeks I’d researched for hours nonstop looking for what might defy the odds. I narrowed my choice down to two treatments. Both were experimental. A new chemotherapy drug protocol tested with good results in Houston, Texas. I felt this would be a good choice since they agreed to let Larry enter the trials and still remain at home in California. My second choice, an autoimmune stimulating drug found in Canada, had just begun testing as well. Since it was not yet known in the U.S.A, I would need approval from the Canadian Food and Drug Administration (F.D.A.) first. Bill agreed to help me. He wrote a tedious investigational protocol to his hospital’s Investigational Review Board. The hospital passed the request in record time knowing how urgent it was to start the drug quickly. I contacted our country’s F.D.A. with the procedure for compassionate use; within 2 weeks, they approved it. The North American company worked diligently with me to get the shipment through customs. Meanwhile, I arranged our trip to Houston. It looked like our bad luck was beginning to change.
Traffic crawled as Larry and I rushed to the airport to catch the plane to Houston. We would stay overnight, see the oncologist, and then return home. “Don’t change your mind now, Larry! Everything is arranged and you can’t have anymore delays if you want to get results.” He snapped back, “I don’t want to spend the last days of my life in another city. I want to be home, with my wife and family!”
I stomped on the break for emphasis, “I told you already that Dr. Sands has agreed to let us do the trial from Los Angeles. All we need is the routine blood tests every two weeks to make sure your counts are stable.” He muttered under his breath something inaudible. “I promise. You’ll be able to take the pills that kill the cancer cells from the comfort of your own bed, and I will give you the autoimmune stimulating shot every other day.” As traffic cleared, I stepped on the accelerator. “We’ll do self visualization, exercise, and a little change in your diet… I know this is the best combination for you!” He glared at me relentlessly before finally saying, “Ok, I trust you, but I just don’t want to think about this anymore, so can we change the subject?”
Larry sat at the kitchen table waiting for his chicken noodle soup to get hot. He reminded me of our trip to Houston and we chuckled. In my increased state of anxiety, I’d left my purse in the taxi with my credit cards and instructions on how to get to the clinic. Exhausted, and frantic, I willed myself to be strong when what I really wanted to do was scream. My brother, recognizing my state of dismay, calmly suggested we go in and explain the situation to the hotel manager. When we did, the manager traced the taxi from the airport, and the lovely driver returned my purse tact. That night gave us many hoots when we were having a bad day.
Larry responded well to his cocktail of meds. The killer drug annihilated the cancer cells, and the immune shot kept him healthy. I arrived at his house daily by 7 A.M. when his wife left for work. It had to be this way in order for them to keep his insurance coverage. His Health Maintenance Organization (HMO) became the supreme word.
We were cautiously excited. My anniversary was quickly approaching. Since everything was running smoothly, I decided to plan a four-day getaway out of town for my supportive husband. I wrote detailed instructions for the shots and medications. I taught Larry’s wife, Janine, how to give them. I left feeling confident that everything would go well.
Utah’s Sundance Resort captured the essence of tranquility. The birds chirped welcome as we drove into the tree-lined parking lot. The receptionist told us to wait with our luggage, and a driver would take us to our secluded dwelling. I kissed my husband hello. I felt we had grown apart during these past months. Each of us, tired from our own stresses of the day, fell into bed every night with only sleep on our minds. Now, my skin tingled with excitement as Bill took my hand, and we climbed in to the golf cart on our way up the mountain.
The weekend refreshed us. We enjoyed walks along candle-lit paths, lay on a blanket one star laden night to watch a summer musical, dined in cozy restaurants, and even spotted a few celebrities while shopping. Driving from the airport, we decided to stop, and deliver our presents to Larry and Janine.
We pounded on the door, excited to share the weekend with our best friends. I sensed immediately that something was amiss. Janine pulled us in immediately before we could utter a word. “Larry is really sick,” she said with urgency in her voice. My stomach tightened into a familiar knot. We hurried to the bedroom where my brother lay. I felt my heart quicken. A crumpled yellow mass groaned at me. “He started throwing up right after you left. He didn’t want to tell you he felt bad for fear of ruining your trip.”
We knew there was something terribly wrong. We loaded him into the car, and drove him gently, but quickly, to the hospital. Thank goodness it was only a few miles from his house. Once there, we waited silently, staring blankly at each other, while the doctors ran a series of tests.
We were able to take him home after a few days. The vaccination that he had received a few days prior to our leaving had given him the flu. Since his body was compromised he developed a bacterial infection, and was bleeding from his stomach. The recovery took several weeks. Meanwhile the chemo stopped and the bad cells began to multiply. We no longer touted victory. Much like bacteria’s reaction to antibiotics, cancer cells also learn, by mutating, to outsmart the medication that kills them. We searched for another miracle. Lucky for us, we discovered a kind and caring oncologist who supported our ideas. He suggested a new drug that was being used. He could not promise us that there would be no side effects or that it would be a silver bullet. We no longer smiled, our demeanor defeated, but hope could not be eternally extinguished. We reorganized and started again.
Larry’s face red and blotched screeched hot, but his body shook violently with cold chills. He no longer wanted to even taste my homemade soups or recipes. When he needed to drink fluids I made popsicles out of Kool-Aid. Everything tasted bitter to him and his throat hurt. His 6 ft.2 inch frame at 220 pounds changed weekly. He seemed to melt before my eyes. The once muscular man now looked like a stick figure. He walked from bed to sofa, and sofa to bathroom clutching the walls to keep from falling. The lovely little house became cramped with hospital equipment: IV poles, pumps, bedside commode, and people. Friends called, and arrived from all parts of the country. Larry had established friendship as a priority in his life. Now close acquaintances came just to sit, and talk with him about their crazy escapades as youths.
Every day the torch passed between Janine and me. She took the night shift, and I took the day shift. I left one house, and traveled 5 miles to enter a completely different environment. My husband’s partner of 4 years became increasingly erratic and was now leaving the practice. Instead of parting amicably, he spewed anger and threats. My husband, a peaceful and kind man, already stretched to the limit, now seemed anxious about the future of our medical practice. When we thought life could get no worse, we were saddled with a lawsuit brought by the surgeon we had helped to support, and thought was a friend.
I don’t recall the last time I smiled, an expression long removed from my life since that first hospital day. I remember the nights where I lay awake thinking…and thinking what to do next. When no answer came, I buried my head in my pillow, not wanting to awaken my already exhausted husband, and muffled my sobs. The next morning I rallied once again, sat down and searched the Internet looking for another treatment that would help to make a miracle happen. We chose another chemotherapy drug.
Our days of playing Crazy Eights dwindled. Instead, Larry watched the television like a programmed robot. It was a continuous downer. Everything I heard from the outside world came over the tube. I found it impossible to be upbeat when all I heard was doom, and gloom coming from the droning box inside the living room. My voice whined as well, “You need to drink or you’ll get dehydrated. Can’t you turn the channel to something other than that depressing news? It’s time for your pain medication…” I felt an invisible wall being erected between my brother and me. Weekends, once spent barbequing outside by the pond, were now filled with loneliness, as we all hurried to our separate niches in the house looking for solitude. Janine showed signs of battle fatigue. The daily grind of working, and acting as caregivers, strained our easy going relationship. A year had passed since our anniversary weekend when Bill and I spent time alone. We needed to take a break from the sickness that surrounded us both in our personal and professional lives, but I could not give up even one day from being with my brother. I knew that his days were numbered, and each moment together felt like a small treasure to be cherished.
The relationship between my parents and my brother, difficult even in the best times, was strained even more. Larry, a unique and creative soul never fit into their mold of a stable family man. Instead of business suits, he wore jeans and T-shirts. His long, uncut, graying hair screamed hippy era. Rather than put money away for that rainy day, he preferred to invest in the future with electronic gadgets. When my mother announced her trip out to California with her sister, Larry grumbled loudly. My father was unable to travel, and Larry always loved Aunt Jimmie. For some strange reason they got along, even thought she was just as strict as my mother. My aunt acted like a buffer, and my mother and brother accepted this because they both loved her.
I wanted to bring my brother and mother closer, knowing that it would be the last time they could put aside their differences, and accept each other for who they both were. When Larry and I were together prior to my mother’s arrival, we discussed his repressed feeling since childhood. Primarily, the problem stemmed from my mother’s strong belief in religion and my brother’s lack of it. Brought up as a strict Southern Baptist, she dragged us to church every Sunday from infancy on. Drinking, smoking, and partying meant certain damnation. A highly charged testosterone teenager dressed in his Sunday best, didn’t suit Larry. The day after my brother graduated from high school, he joined the Air Force to become a Russian language specialist. The rift between my mother, and him never got resolved. I mediated between the two during his years away, but how would I intercede between them now when they were sitting across from each other?
The roses bloomed even though it was early spring. Although in their late 70s, the sisters still retained their natural red hair. Mom had the fiery temperament to match, or so my relatives used to say. Aunt Jimmie, soft spoken with that unhurried Southern drawl, became the slow wave that ebbed and flowed though out the house. For the first time in a year, I felt relief that someone else took charge. Although there were no outward arguments between my mother and brother, a dark cloud always hovered over the house. Never good at confronting issues with deep meaning, my mother kept busy chattering about her life back home. Perhaps it was just as well that the disagreements of the past did not surface during this week of her stay. Knowing it would be the last time we had together, I asked a friend to take a photo of us out on the patio. It turned out to be a very sad remembrance. My bald, thin, brother slumped in a chair looking angry, and sad at the same time. He sat surrounded by the rest of us, who with our false smiles tried desperately to portray a picture of happiness. The week ended with hugs, kisses, and false promises to get better. I still cherish my picture of the two elderly ladies, standing hand and hand, surrounded by red and pink roses, smiling at the camera as if they had not a care in the world. Their visit added a distraction to the routine of my gloomy, routine days, and so I became depressed knowing that I would once again be the “officer in charge.”
The chaos resumed quickly. Larry required more care. His body failed him terribly. The insurance company refused medicines that would make him comfortable. Once always good at arguing, I lost my will to fight with them. My husband never wavered about paying for the expensive drugs. “What is ours is theirs…” he said. The character of a man is in his deeds. I realize how rare it is to have a husband who can share with others when he is going through financial difficulties himself.
Larry spent more time in bed. Weighing only 103 pounds, I could not take proper care of him by myself. I hired a licensed male nurse to help. Janine became more discontent with the situation. Once we called ourselves sisters. Now few words passed between us. One night as we got sheets from the hall closet and readied ourselves to change Larry’s bed she uttered to me words that I will never forget. “You should have let him have his way. You pushed the treatments on him and made this a year of hell. His death was inevitable. He should have died as he wanted, naturally and without all of these chemicals,” The words struck like a dagger to my heart. I felt mortally wounded. Our friendship ended that day. I not only lost my brother, but I lost my only sister as well.
The nurse, Steve, consoled me and listened to my problems. Both Larry and Janine disliked him because he was a devout Christian. Again, the past childhood issues about God resurfaced. I didn’t care anymore. I knew only that I needed help, and Steve was reliable. He showed up, and worked extra hours if I needed him. Having been a supervisor with a home health agency, I realized how rare those qualities were. It was even rarer to find a male nurse. I refused to fire him because of his religious zeal. My strength waned. My friends thought I might die before my brother. I lived every pain, every angry word, and every fear with my brother. I lost 20 pounds that year.
Those last months seemed like endless years. His stomach grew swollen, and if you did not look under the covers you would think a child would soon be born. I recognized him from his soulful brown eyes. I talked more now, and he listened. Those last days are memories that I cannot describe. I never wanted to show him that I had given up, because he looked to me for hope. As he struggled with each breath now, I acknowledged the end of his life was approaching. Still a tormented man about his ideas on religion, he had not resolved his belief in whether or not God existed. He teetered between life and death. We could not discuss beliefs because to him I still represented our mother’s religion. Then one day, he asked for Janine’s sister-in-law Maryam. A lovely and giving person of the Bahá’í faith, she agreed to come. Behind a closed door, words and discussions transferred softly between them. It was after this time, that I saw the change. A quietness that had not existed before now seemed to settle over the house. A different aura came over Larry. He began to smile. The angry scowl that was once etched on his face disappeared. We sat and held hands. He told me he loved me. I no longer squinted to keep the tears from streaming down my face. Much of the time I just talked quietly about our childhood. Being latchkey kids long before the term became popular, he took care of me as a big brother should. My mother told the story of when I was four years old, and how my brother wanted to take me to the playground to show me off as his baby sister. He was eight at the time. My mother dressed me in a frilly polka dotted dress for the occasion. On the way back to the house, I fell and cut my knee, getting blood on my dress. My brother carried me all the way home. Mom said he cried more than I did over that mishap. Another time, I brought letters he wrote to me when he was in the Air Force and stationed in Japan. During my high school years I began to question the worldly issues of drugs and sex. His letters were big brotherly and comforting. I found it ironic that he had been branded the outlaw of the family; yet his letters revealed a rather sage Ann Landers approach to life. I told him I was sorry I had failed to save him. The hardest thing for me to do was to let him go. I knew he was waiting for me to release him from his promise to live. Every night I slept over in the guest bedroom. Janine did not want to be by herself when he passed away. Neither of us wanted him to be alone for a single minute of the day. We hired a night nurse to be with him while we caught short snippets of sleep. It was September 4th. I remember the time well because Princess Diana had just died. I sat by his bed and stroked his hand. I told him how much he meant to me; that he would always be with me and that I would never forget our life together, but now it was time for me to release him. He was the best brother I could have ever wished for. I kissed him goodnight and told the night nurse to come and get me if anything happened.
I barely had time to fall asleep when Larry’s favorite cat Harry jumped on the bed and woke me up. The cat sat on my chest and meowed urgently for me to follow. At almost the same time, the nurse burst in to the room and asked me to come quickly. Janine and I arrived together at the foot of his bed. With one look we knew it was over. There were no tears left for either of us. Guilty with relief, we called the hospice nurse to tell her to set the arrangements in motion. I couldn’t help but laugh when the hearse they sent for his body was a SUV. I saw Larry chuckling down at us as if he was calling the shots until the very end.
Larry didn’t want to be buried or have a proper funeral; yet Janine, and I both agreed that his life needed to be celebrated. Her house was too small to accommodate the vast number of friends who wanted to contribute to his memorial service. Bill and I had a very open and private home that would work well for what we wanted to do. Janine’s cousins jumped right in to help make it perfect. They made collages of his work as an artist and of his life as a husband and friend. His favorite music played in the background and people gathered to laugh and talk about their many experiences with this avant-garde man who died at fifty. As the afternoon sun filtered through the branches of our California oaks, we all bowed our heads and said words of thanks for having known such a good and kind person. It befitted the man who never talked badly of anyone.
It took a year to decide what we would do with his ashes. Janine did not want the urn at her home because it reminded her of death. I did not attach myself to it in the same way. To me it was just a reminder that no matter how much you want something, you can’t always change what is to be. During that year I came to the realization that sometimes death is better than life. I look at things much more differently now that I did in that year. I see that life continues to march forward, and it is the quality of life that is important not the quantity. With my patients, I try to really listen to what they are telling me. No longer do I feel powerful enough to change the cosmic forces, nor do I even want to. The voices of the wind and the chatter of the squirrels make me quiet, for it is then that I feel my brother is close.
And it was after much thoughtful waiting that the decision to set Larry’s ashes free came to me. It was so …Larry. I knew he would love it. Janine agreed, as did Bill. The three of us walked with backpacks miles into the Santa Monica Mountains carrying trowel, water and a seedling oak. We bowed our heads and each said a few words. The small tree represented his life and memories never to be forgotten. The bluebirds chirped chur-lee, chur-lee and quarreled over freshly fallen acorns on the ground. The ending fitted the man; a free spirit who lived life in the moment. I looked up, squinting from the bright sun. I felt his spirit there in this lovely place and realized he would always be with me.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
A story before editing, by Arthur Yuwiler
My father died when I was five. It changed my life, and my mother's life and my sister's. Below is recounting of it.
It rained that day. The tears of angels should have drowned the land. Instead it drizzled a slow, steady, soul-damping, gray. My mother held myhand entering the room, yellow lights, soft music, big red and whiteflowers. He wet hand held mine more tightly when we walked past the box.Then she stopped and tears gushed down her face. I looked up. I didn'tunderstand. She squeezed my hand still tighter. It hurt. I looked into thebox, its sides held by wooden peg, but the face inside had cherry red-lipand shone like the wax fruit in the bowl in Aunt Mary's parlor. Though itsort of looked sort like my fathers, it did not move when my mother cried.My mother too looked different now, her face long and gray, the mouthsunken, colorless except for the wet eyes rimmed in red, the red of sores,of skinned knees, raw and bleeding.
But she held me, rocking back and forth, pressed against her, the warmtears turning cold as they ran down my neck. She squeezed me into her warmbody smelling like fresh bread. "Now you must act like the man of thehouse," she whispered.
Everything turned gray when the doctor took my father away. Each dayAunt Mary came to watch me until mother returned and each day she returnedto hold me, to bath me with her tears. I remember the time mother and daddygave me a blue tricycle with a bell on the handlebars that took my bothhands to ring. But after that gray first day I didn't ride the tricyclemuch. The swishing wheels sounded sad in the silent house and mother andAunt Mary seemed sad too. Mostly then I sat on my bed and looked at thepictures in the big books. The quiet pictures that didn't change.
Before then, everything seemed brighter, different. Then I'd go to thebasement to watch father make things. Once he made a little car for me outof wood and we ran it down the driveway. And he always smiled. Not like thatface in the box. Even asleep he smiled. I watched him from my crib when Iwas little. He slept with mother in the bed across the room, smiling, eyesclosed, one arm over mother's shoulder.
When I got my own bed and my own room sometime I had a bad dreams orsometimes the darkness became scary. Then I would crawl into their bed,slipping between them where I felt warn and safe. But all that was before.
A door to the yellow room opened and a man came in to stand by the box.I had never seen the man before but he started speaking about my father,about his goodness. My mother began to cry. I didn't like the man to makemother cry like that. But no one seemed to stop him and pretty soon he saidthings I didn't understand. I tried to see what was underneath our benchuntil my uncle pulled me up. "Walking through a valley of death", the mansaid. What is a valley? And what is death?
And the man kept on talking. I lay back on the hard bench and stared atthe ceiling thinking of the funny tool father used to drill holes for thewheels of my car. At last the man stopped and everyone stood up. Red linedmy Mother's wet eyes as she took my arm. Her hand was wet too but Ipretended not to notice. We walked together out of the warm little house andinto the cold drizzle. Pulling me away from the puddles I wanted to walkthrough, we moved down a gravel path between big grey stones, a forest ofstones.
Only the slosh slosh of shoes on the wet ground and the soft sound of therain broke the silence. No birds sang. The wet air felt heavy. It smelled ofdead flowers, of mold. It made me feel bad, the grey stones, the slow movingfeet, the muddy stones. Only my mother's hand kept me from slipping when weturned off the path towards the rows of chairs and brown mud rimmed my shinyblack shoes. Mother did not notice but she pulled me back when I wanted tolook in the big hole near the chairs. Aunt Mary put an arm around her andshe began to cry again. From the back of a car, my uncles and some other menlifted a big box like the one with the wax dummy in it, walking towards us.My mother began to cry even harder when they put it on the straps over thehole. Then she seemed to fall down. Aunt Mary turned to help her. I slid offmy seat and walked to the side. The tombstone beside me was dark grey andwet. Rain? Tears? Somehow I wanted to hide behind them.
In front, between the legs of the people, I could see the squared sidesof the hole under the plain, long, light brown box. Dark brown dirt stoodbeside the hole, still darker at the top near the wet grass. The box hung onthe straps above the hole.
Then the man from the yellow room came and began to sing a sad song. Icould not understand the words. My mother cried harder and the cries turnedinto a wail as the straps shifted and the box began to slowly descend intothe hole. Then, biting her handkerchief, my mother stood up. He legswobbled but she walked towards me and scooped me up so my faced pressedagainst her wet coat. Only her tears felt warm. I could not see but I hearda great wailing around me and felt the heavy weight of great sadness. And Icould smell the rain, and the musty, freshly dug earth, and in my mind Icould feel the sadness and the terror as the casket descended, descended,descended. And where is my father?
It rained that day. The tears of angels should have drowned the land. Instead it drizzled a slow, steady, soul-damping, gray. My mother held myhand entering the room, yellow lights, soft music, big red and whiteflowers. He wet hand held mine more tightly when we walked past the box.Then she stopped and tears gushed down her face. I looked up. I didn'tunderstand. She squeezed my hand still tighter. It hurt. I looked into thebox, its sides held by wooden peg, but the face inside had cherry red-lipand shone like the wax fruit in the bowl in Aunt Mary's parlor. Though itsort of looked sort like my fathers, it did not move when my mother cried.My mother too looked different now, her face long and gray, the mouthsunken, colorless except for the wet eyes rimmed in red, the red of sores,of skinned knees, raw and bleeding.
But she held me, rocking back and forth, pressed against her, the warmtears turning cold as they ran down my neck. She squeezed me into her warmbody smelling like fresh bread. "Now you must act like the man of thehouse," she whispered.
Everything turned gray when the doctor took my father away. Each dayAunt Mary came to watch me until mother returned and each day she returnedto hold me, to bath me with her tears. I remember the time mother and daddygave me a blue tricycle with a bell on the handlebars that took my bothhands to ring. But after that gray first day I didn't ride the tricyclemuch. The swishing wheels sounded sad in the silent house and mother andAunt Mary seemed sad too. Mostly then I sat on my bed and looked at thepictures in the big books. The quiet pictures that didn't change.
Before then, everything seemed brighter, different. Then I'd go to thebasement to watch father make things. Once he made a little car for me outof wood and we ran it down the driveway. And he always smiled. Not like thatface in the box. Even asleep he smiled. I watched him from my crib when Iwas little. He slept with mother in the bed across the room, smiling, eyesclosed, one arm over mother's shoulder.
When I got my own bed and my own room sometime I had a bad dreams orsometimes the darkness became scary. Then I would crawl into their bed,slipping between them where I felt warn and safe. But all that was before.
A door to the yellow room opened and a man came in to stand by the box.I had never seen the man before but he started speaking about my father,about his goodness. My mother began to cry. I didn't like the man to makemother cry like that. But no one seemed to stop him and pretty soon he saidthings I didn't understand. I tried to see what was underneath our benchuntil my uncle pulled me up. "Walking through a valley of death", the mansaid. What is a valley? And what is death?
And the man kept on talking. I lay back on the hard bench and stared atthe ceiling thinking of the funny tool father used to drill holes for thewheels of my car. At last the man stopped and everyone stood up. Red linedmy Mother's wet eyes as she took my arm. Her hand was wet too but Ipretended not to notice. We walked together out of the warm little house andinto the cold drizzle. Pulling me away from the puddles I wanted to walkthrough, we moved down a gravel path between big grey stones, a forest ofstones.
Only the slosh slosh of shoes on the wet ground and the soft sound of therain broke the silence. No birds sang. The wet air felt heavy. It smelled ofdead flowers, of mold. It made me feel bad, the grey stones, the slow movingfeet, the muddy stones. Only my mother's hand kept me from slipping when weturned off the path towards the rows of chairs and brown mud rimmed my shinyblack shoes. Mother did not notice but she pulled me back when I wanted tolook in the big hole near the chairs. Aunt Mary put an arm around her andshe began to cry again. From the back of a car, my uncles and some other menlifted a big box like the one with the wax dummy in it, walking towards us.My mother began to cry even harder when they put it on the straps over thehole. Then she seemed to fall down. Aunt Mary turned to help her. I slid offmy seat and walked to the side. The tombstone beside me was dark grey andwet. Rain? Tears? Somehow I wanted to hide behind them.
In front, between the legs of the people, I could see the squared sidesof the hole under the plain, long, light brown box. Dark brown dirt stoodbeside the hole, still darker at the top near the wet grass. The box hung onthe straps above the hole.
Then the man from the yellow room came and began to sing a sad song. Icould not understand the words. My mother cried harder and the cries turnedinto a wail as the straps shifted and the box began to slowly descend intothe hole. Then, biting her handkerchief, my mother stood up. He legswobbled but she walked towards me and scooped me up so my faced pressedagainst her wet coat. Only her tears felt warm. I could not see but I hearda great wailing around me and felt the heavy weight of great sadness. And Icould smell the rain, and the musty, freshly dug earth, and in my mind Icould feel the sadness and the terror as the casket descended, descended,descended. And where is my father?
A Sonnet, by Arthur Yuwiler
She sits upon the couch and knits a quilt
He whittles spoons of wood for his true love
A quilt of many layers she has built
The spoon is carved to emulate a dove
It's all for blessed love, the dolls, the spoons
For love alone we conquer many lands
Love is the source of many of our tunes
And love alone makes many human clans
Ah, love, true love accounts for much we do
The quilts, the spoons, the many forms of man
Our world, our lands, the very words we spew
Are traceable to love, or else to Pan
We humans fall in love, becoming bound
And find beauty alone makes life profound
He whittles spoons of wood for his true love
A quilt of many layers she has built
The spoon is carved to emulate a dove
It's all for blessed love, the dolls, the spoons
For love alone we conquer many lands
Love is the source of many of our tunes
And love alone makes many human clans
Ah, love, true love accounts for much we do
The quilts, the spoons, the many forms of man
Our world, our lands, the very words we spew
Are traceable to love, or else to Pan
We humans fall in love, becoming bound
And find beauty alone makes life profound
Another Sonnet, by Arthur Yuwiler
The winds of war blow cold as ice and snow
Yet men fight for glory unto their death
Still driven by reasons we cannot know
To war we give our all, our very breath
How absurd, how pointless, battles to attend
And watch our comrades die in bloody war
To die in mud and filth, death is no friend
Instead oblivion is but a whore.
Strive for greatness, goodness, and repress
This endless horror. Stop the conflicts
Let our wishes become as a fortress
To end all battles and wars our edict
For of what value is a person’s life
if it's full of pain and stormy strife
Yet men fight for glory unto their death
Still driven by reasons we cannot know
To war we give our all, our very breath
How absurd, how pointless, battles to attend
And watch our comrades die in bloody war
To die in mud and filth, death is no friend
Instead oblivion is but a whore.
Strive for greatness, goodness, and repress
This endless horror. Stop the conflicts
Let our wishes become as a fortress
To end all battles and wars our edict
For of what value is a person’s life
if it's full of pain and stormy strife
Three Haikus, by Arthur Yuwiler
The morning sun turns
my skin into reddish scars
from immense distance
The silver trails of snails
lace tight the edges of night
while my beloved sleeps
The bird in the tree
sings her song so sweetly to
waken golden thoughts
my skin into reddish scars
from immense distance
The silver trails of snails
lace tight the edges of night
while my beloved sleeps
The bird in the tree
sings her song so sweetly to
waken golden thoughts
Art and Artist, by Carol Brooks Milton
Art is Seen Yet Unseen
From the Heart of the Artist
To Take it apart
Removes the Art
From the Heart of the Artist
To Take it apart
Removes the Art
Sculpture, by Carol Brooks Milton
Stop
I breathed
Look at me
Caress my head-my shoulders.
Unlike the painting
Over there
Hanging Flat on the wall
I'm meant to be viewed-from all sides.
My creator loves Me
Will You?
I breathed
Look at me
Caress my head-my shoulders.
Unlike the painting
Over there
Hanging Flat on the wall
I'm meant to be viewed-from all sides.
My creator loves Me
Will You?
Three Haikus by Deanne Levitt
Last fall I cropped corms,
Then watched, willing them to grow;
Spring will tell the tale
The winds are howling,
Branches will soon start breaking,
then come crashing down.
The waves are breaking,
echoing my heart's aching,
but time will help heal.
Then watched, willing them to grow;
Spring will tell the tale
The winds are howling,
Branches will soon start breaking,
then come crashing down.
The waves are breaking,
echoing my heart's aching,
but time will help heal.
Applesauce: A fable about animals -- (the human variety)
by Deanne Levitt
Their marriage was perfect, or so Mary thought. Her volunteer work at the local animal shelter gave her a sense of purpose and she enjoyed reading the books recommended by her book club. Her regular tennis game with "the girls" provided plenty of exercise. Her friends envied her; John was handsome and a very successful businessman. John, on the other hand, felt restless. They'd married young; he longed for freedom of choice, for dating, for tasting life's offerings as only a single man can.
One day, during a business trip to Asia, he decided to take a stroll through an open-air market. A vendor stopped John with a raised hand and beckoning finger, arousing John's curiosity. After John walked over to the stall, the vendor said, "I'd like to tell you about my tea leaves. They are very special." The vendor went on to explain, "My tea leaves are the most delicious in the whole world. And, they have a special quality you will not find anywhere else, Sir." With that, the vendor lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper: "They are poisonous; just a few of them inbibed every day for a month will destroy the liver of an enemy, and he will die a painful death." Although John wasn't aware of any enemies, he could think of another use for them. Business cards were exchanged and since the price was right, he bought a month's supply and took them directly to his hotel room for safekeeping. For the next two weeks, John continued to have business meetings; at the end of that time, he flew home, content in the knowledge that he did not have to travel again for many months. Guess what he packed in his carry-on bag?
The very next morning, when Mary inquired about his trip, John showed her the special tea leaves. John was not a time-waster. "Mary, you must taste these tea leaves. They are the most delicious in the entire world. Just add them each afternoon to your usual tea leaves, and you will be amazed by their deliciousness." John, however, was unaware that the day after his purchase, the vendor had sent him a thank-you e-mail in which he identified the tea leaves by name. Mary had read John's mail and followed up with some Internet research. When she learned that the leaves contained toxic ingredients, she returned to John's Inbox and hit the delete button.
John had a weakness for fresh applesauce which, through the years, Mary had devotedly cooked for him daily. When he was home, and not traveling, he enjoyed having applesauce every evening for dessert, without fail. Henceforth, Mary added a few "special" tea leaves to John's applesauce; when boiled together with the apples, cinnamon stick, lemon peel and water, the tea leaves became integrated and undetectable.
"Honey," she asked, "What do you think of the applesauce? It's a new recipe I discovered on the Internet." John replied, "Darling, it's simply delicious. Please use the new recipe every day from now on!"
And so she did. And so he died, in one month's time...of liver failure.
Moral: Justice is its own reward
Their marriage was perfect, or so Mary thought. Her volunteer work at the local animal shelter gave her a sense of purpose and she enjoyed reading the books recommended by her book club. Her regular tennis game with "the girls" provided plenty of exercise. Her friends envied her; John was handsome and a very successful businessman. John, on the other hand, felt restless. They'd married young; he longed for freedom of choice, for dating, for tasting life's offerings as only a single man can.
One day, during a business trip to Asia, he decided to take a stroll through an open-air market. A vendor stopped John with a raised hand and beckoning finger, arousing John's curiosity. After John walked over to the stall, the vendor said, "I'd like to tell you about my tea leaves. They are very special." The vendor went on to explain, "My tea leaves are the most delicious in the whole world. And, they have a special quality you will not find anywhere else, Sir." With that, the vendor lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper: "They are poisonous; just a few of them inbibed every day for a month will destroy the liver of an enemy, and he will die a painful death." Although John wasn't aware of any enemies, he could think of another use for them. Business cards were exchanged and since the price was right, he bought a month's supply and took them directly to his hotel room for safekeeping. For the next two weeks, John continued to have business meetings; at the end of that time, he flew home, content in the knowledge that he did not have to travel again for many months. Guess what he packed in his carry-on bag?
The very next morning, when Mary inquired about his trip, John showed her the special tea leaves. John was not a time-waster. "Mary, you must taste these tea leaves. They are the most delicious in the entire world. Just add them each afternoon to your usual tea leaves, and you will be amazed by their deliciousness." John, however, was unaware that the day after his purchase, the vendor had sent him a thank-you e-mail in which he identified the tea leaves by name. Mary had read John's mail and followed up with some Internet research. When she learned that the leaves contained toxic ingredients, she returned to John's Inbox and hit the delete button.
John had a weakness for fresh applesauce which, through the years, Mary had devotedly cooked for him daily. When he was home, and not traveling, he enjoyed having applesauce every evening for dessert, without fail. Henceforth, Mary added a few "special" tea leaves to John's applesauce; when boiled together with the apples, cinnamon stick, lemon peel and water, the tea leaves became integrated and undetectable.
"Honey," she asked, "What do you think of the applesauce? It's a new recipe I discovered on the Internet." John replied, "Darling, it's simply delicious. Please use the new recipe every day from now on!"
And so she did. And so he died, in one month's time...of liver failure.
Moral: Justice is its own reward
MALIBU FIRE, by Deanne Levitt
The stench of smoke is so very strong,
Ashes continue to come raining down.
The winds are howling, they're loud and long,
Streets, stores remain empty all over town.
I worry, it's hard to stay asleep,
People's homes have been lost, there's much despair.
Birds are quiet, we hear not a peep,
The sorrow is palpable, hard to bear.
Ashes continue to come raining down.
The winds are howling, they're loud and long,
Streets, stores remain empty all over town.
I worry, it's hard to stay asleep,
People's homes have been lost, there's much despair.
Birds are quiet, we hear not a peep,
The sorrow is palpable, hard to bear.
Lost by Deanne Levitt
To the shelters they came,
In threes, ones and twos.
Some seemed to be lame,
A few had no shoes.
All wore blank gazes,
They'd be, for a while,
in red tape and mazes,
Their possessions a pile
Of cinders, burning embers,
No photographs left,
Of children, family members,
Their lives have been reft.
In threes, ones and twos.
Some seemed to be lame,
A few had no shoes.
All wore blank gazes,
They'd be, for a while,
in red tape and mazes,
Their possessions a pile
Of cinders, burning embers,
No photographs left,
Of children, family members,
Their lives have been reft.
The Frog and the Scorpion by Bill Levitt
The jungle was dense with trees, vines and all God's creatures, including insects of all kinds. Through it a river wound, splitting the country in two.
A scorpion walked down to the riverbank, where he encountered a frog sunning himself. "Aha," he thought. " If I handle this right, the frog will be my ticket across."
"Froggy," he said, "please give me a ride on your back to the other side of the river. I'll sing you a song as we travel together."
"You silly creature, do you think I'm crazy? As soon as I let you on
my back, you'll sting me, and I'll die!" said the frog.
"But that would be stupid of me. If you die in the middle of the river, I would then drown."
"You're right, hop on." said the frog, and the scorpion, overjoyed, burst into song as the frog began to swim across.
As they approached the middle of the river the scorpion stung the frog.
"Why did you do that, Scorpion? Now I'll die and you'll drown!"
"Sorry, Froggy," the scorpion replied. "I didn't want to, but I couldn't help it. That's what scorpions do."
A scorpion walked down to the riverbank, where he encountered a frog sunning himself. "Aha," he thought. " If I handle this right, the frog will be my ticket across."
"Froggy," he said, "please give me a ride on your back to the other side of the river. I'll sing you a song as we travel together."
"You silly creature, do you think I'm crazy? As soon as I let you on
my back, you'll sting me, and I'll die!" said the frog.
"But that would be stupid of me. If you die in the middle of the river, I would then drown."
"You're right, hop on." said the frog, and the scorpion, overjoyed, burst into song as the frog began to swim across.
As they approached the middle of the river the scorpion stung the frog.
"Why did you do that, Scorpion? Now I'll die and you'll drown!"
"Sorry, Froggy," the scorpion replied. "I didn't want to, but I couldn't help it. That's what scorpions do."
Three Haikus by Linda Kesler
Round and round they go,
lovely windmills working so.
Do you ever get tired?
Through the dark tunnel
the traveler makes his way.
Trusting the unknown.
Castle keep in the midst
standing stalwart through the years.
What tales can you tell?
lovely windmills working so.
Do you ever get tired?
Through the dark tunnel
the traveler makes his way.
Trusting the unknown.
Castle keep in the midst
standing stalwart through the years.
What tales can you tell?
Four Haikus of Love, by Jeri Sutherling
It came by surprise
and left me feeling quite numb.
I was kissed by love.
How thou are to me
a most precious gift of friend,
lover all in one.
Angry words, I say…
Sorry love, will you forgive?
His smile says it all.
Years have passed but not
the flames of passion yet dead.
They smolder always.
and left me feeling quite numb.
I was kissed by love.
How thou are to me
a most precious gift of friend,
lover all in one.
Angry words, I say…
Sorry love, will you forgive?
His smile says it all.
Years have passed but not
the flames of passion yet dead.
They smolder always.
The result of a "Four Room" assignment by Jeri Sutherling
The click, click of the keyboards like the relentless march of time could be heard even before I entered the room. Four white walls and rows of gray cubicles lined the space. Each person wore a black business suit sitting at his desk. Their faces were glued to the computer screen. I cleared my throat as if to establish a presence. They did not look up, or break rhythm. Reams of paper spilled on to the floor. A clerk hovering in a nearby corner counted stacks of 100 dollar bills. The silence was deafening. I tiptoed out as quietly as I had come in, remaining unnoticed.
I cautiously knocked on the door to room #2. I was greeted by “Uga Ugh!” The door flew open. A hand grabbed my arm, and yanked me in to a dim lit cave. Around a fire, five hairy Neanderthal men sat stirring a pot. They smacked their lips, and grunted. The leader pushed me over to the hot flame, and made gestures with his large bony hands. The group seemed to agree with his suggestion. As they struggled to get up, I found my voice. Yelling like a banshee I ran for the exit leaving only my footprints behind.
The wafting fragrance of jasmine beckoned to me. As I grew close to the door, I heard a trickle of water. Turning the knob, I slowly entered. The luscious tropical landscape, of varying shades of green, caught my eye. Trees in this forest grew 20 feet tall. I waded through the high grass to the cheerful sounds beyond. I peered through the brush, and saw chimpanzees. As I spotted them, they looked up. We stared at one another. My heart increased in tempo, and pounded in my ears. A chimp lumbered over. He held out his hand, and waited. I felt he wanted me to follow him. Fearfully, I took his rough fingers, and walked with him towards the group not knowing what would happen. The curious chimps patted my head, poked, and prodded my belly. Even though they were wild animals, I felt calm. After much ado, the leader put his arm around my shoulder then gently pushed me in the direction of the gushing water. We were standing at the top of a waterfall. Long tortuous vines hung from the trees. He motioned for me to hold on to the vine with him. Just as I grabbed his hairy waist, he jumped off the ground. We started to fly, and leap from vine to vine. The wind whistled past my ears, and mussed my hair. Many of the other chimps joined in swinging. They dropped rocks in to the falls; and we watched them cascade down the bluffs. I laughed because it was such a wonderful feeling to be free of responsibilities. The chimps howled, and chirped. They sailed from vine to tree, and tree to vine. I felt emboldened by the mood, and let out a Tarzan yell. One by one, the chimps retreated to their nesting area. I landed with a thud to the ground, and followed the pack. The cool night air chilled me but the group pushed me to the center, and huddled to keep me warm. They shared their fruit, and berries with me. I felt safe, and part of the family. As they cuddled close, their snores filled the quiet solitude. I was torn between leaving and staying. I looked closely at every face, keeping the memories close to my heart. Before departing, I quietly walked down to the stream while pondering the day. I splashed the cool water to my face to refresh myself; and to my surprise, a hairy face was reflected back at me.
The black door of room #4 frightened me. It wasn’t the color of the door, but the austere feeling behind the door that scared me. As I turned the knob, it simply slid open. I was falling, falling, falling in to a bottomless vat of darkness. I kicked my arms and legs trying to feel something solid, but my body perceived only a void. I felt no cold, no heat, no wind, and no rain. I felt nothing but emptiness. I was being sucked to the center of a matter less pit. I screamed for help, but no one answered my plea. For every minute I fell, the suction increased until I felt I was going to explode. Then bang…Bang…BANG! The darkness turned to light. The light became the sun, moon, planets, and stars. I held my breath as I ricocheted from one galaxy to another, waiting for the end to come; but just the opposite occurred. My ears turned deaf to the excruciating noise as the explosions continued. Fireworks filled the space, and new matter appeared. As I was shot out of these microbursts, I landed on a shooting star. The brightness of it made me squint. We whirled through the night leaving a trail of dust behind us. The cosmic piece traveled so fast and so far that my soul was left years behind. I knew that I would never find my way back to where I had entered this universe. I had just given up hope when another door appeared. Only this door illuminated more brilliance than anything I had ever seen. The radiance called to me, and drew me in. I knew at that moment I had found the answer to what I had been searching. A kind and gentle voice beckoned me home; this must be God.
I cautiously knocked on the door to room #2. I was greeted by “Uga Ugh!” The door flew open. A hand grabbed my arm, and yanked me in to a dim lit cave. Around a fire, five hairy Neanderthal men sat stirring a pot. They smacked their lips, and grunted. The leader pushed me over to the hot flame, and made gestures with his large bony hands. The group seemed to agree with his suggestion. As they struggled to get up, I found my voice. Yelling like a banshee I ran for the exit leaving only my footprints behind.
The wafting fragrance of jasmine beckoned to me. As I grew close to the door, I heard a trickle of water. Turning the knob, I slowly entered. The luscious tropical landscape, of varying shades of green, caught my eye. Trees in this forest grew 20 feet tall. I waded through the high grass to the cheerful sounds beyond. I peered through the brush, and saw chimpanzees. As I spotted them, they looked up. We stared at one another. My heart increased in tempo, and pounded in my ears. A chimp lumbered over. He held out his hand, and waited. I felt he wanted me to follow him. Fearfully, I took his rough fingers, and walked with him towards the group not knowing what would happen. The curious chimps patted my head, poked, and prodded my belly. Even though they were wild animals, I felt calm. After much ado, the leader put his arm around my shoulder then gently pushed me in the direction of the gushing water. We were standing at the top of a waterfall. Long tortuous vines hung from the trees. He motioned for me to hold on to the vine with him. Just as I grabbed his hairy waist, he jumped off the ground. We started to fly, and leap from vine to vine. The wind whistled past my ears, and mussed my hair. Many of the other chimps joined in swinging. They dropped rocks in to the falls; and we watched them cascade down the bluffs. I laughed because it was such a wonderful feeling to be free of responsibilities. The chimps howled, and chirped. They sailed from vine to tree, and tree to vine. I felt emboldened by the mood, and let out a Tarzan yell. One by one, the chimps retreated to their nesting area. I landed with a thud to the ground, and followed the pack. The cool night air chilled me but the group pushed me to the center, and huddled to keep me warm. They shared their fruit, and berries with me. I felt safe, and part of the family. As they cuddled close, their snores filled the quiet solitude. I was torn between leaving and staying. I looked closely at every face, keeping the memories close to my heart. Before departing, I quietly walked down to the stream while pondering the day. I splashed the cool water to my face to refresh myself; and to my surprise, a hairy face was reflected back at me.
The black door of room #4 frightened me. It wasn’t the color of the door, but the austere feeling behind the door that scared me. As I turned the knob, it simply slid open. I was falling, falling, falling in to a bottomless vat of darkness. I kicked my arms and legs trying to feel something solid, but my body perceived only a void. I felt no cold, no heat, no wind, and no rain. I felt nothing but emptiness. I was being sucked to the center of a matter less pit. I screamed for help, but no one answered my plea. For every minute I fell, the suction increased until I felt I was going to explode. Then bang…Bang…BANG! The darkness turned to light. The light became the sun, moon, planets, and stars. I held my breath as I ricocheted from one galaxy to another, waiting for the end to come; but just the opposite occurred. My ears turned deaf to the excruciating noise as the explosions continued. Fireworks filled the space, and new matter appeared. As I was shot out of these microbursts, I landed on a shooting star. The brightness of it made me squint. We whirled through the night leaving a trail of dust behind us. The cosmic piece traveled so fast and so far that my soul was left years behind. I knew that I would never find my way back to where I had entered this universe. I had just given up hope when another door appeared. Only this door illuminated more brilliance than anything I had ever seen. The radiance called to me, and drew me in. I knew at that moment I had found the answer to what I had been searching. A kind and gentle voice beckoned me home; this must be God.
The Boy Who Knew Better
by Penilope Krain
There was once a young boy who got a job—in a very bad job market—taking care of a gaggle of geese. The geese belonged to a fierce giant. The giant lived high up on a mountaintop. The geese lived below the mountain in a valley, so they could be near the river. The geese were very special. They were the famous geese that laid golden eggs. Their golden eggs kept the giant rich and powerful.
One his first day at work, the giant gave the young boy a special cell phone to use in case of emergency. Of course, watching the geese swim, and play, and eat all day was very boring; so the boy tried to use the cell phone to call some friends.
All of a sudden, the giant appeared, huffing and puffing. He’d run all the way down the mountain.
“What’s up?” cried the ogre.
“Nothing, why?” replied the boy, shocked at the sight of his boss.
“You Rang!” screamed the giant
“Oh, I was just trying to use the cell phone to call some friends.”
“I tol’ you to use it only in case of ‘mergency! It’s a direct line only to me! And there be no personal calls while workin’.”
“Okay, I’m sorry. I’ll try not to let it happen again.”
As the days wore on, the boy again grew bored. He, again, tried to use the cell phone, but only to play some games.
Almost immediately he heard a pounding sound coming from the mountain.
“I tol’ you never to use the phone unless it’s an emergency, only if my geese are in trouble!!!”
“I didn’t realize how it works. I was just trying to play some games. Maybe, if I had the instruction book, I could learn how to use it properly.”
“If you’d just listen to my instructions, yu’d stay out of trouble. I’m givin’ ya one mo’ chance to make good. One mo’ false alarm and you fired! Ya hear me, boy?”
After the giant left, the boy noticed that the geese really didn’t need supervision. He wasn’t aware of any danger to them. So, he decided to join them frolicking in the water.
The cell phone got wet, as they were swimming and splashing about; then suddenly, a big, green monster arose from the river. The boy quickly used the cell phone to get help.
“This betta be good!” answered the giant on the other end of the phone.
“Help, help!”
“You breakin’ up boy, I can’t hear ya! I’m not coming down again unless it’s impo’tent!”
“Come quick, there’s a green monster eating the geese!! I Quit! Can you hear me now?”
But the giant couldn’t.
So, the boy threw the phone at the monster, hitting him between the eyes and killing him instantly; whereupon, the boy gathered as many geese as he could save and managed to live happily ever after through the wise investment of their golden eggs.
There was once a young boy who got a job—in a very bad job market—taking care of a gaggle of geese. The geese belonged to a fierce giant. The giant lived high up on a mountaintop. The geese lived below the mountain in a valley, so they could be near the river. The geese were very special. They were the famous geese that laid golden eggs. Their golden eggs kept the giant rich and powerful.
One his first day at work, the giant gave the young boy a special cell phone to use in case of emergency. Of course, watching the geese swim, and play, and eat all day was very boring; so the boy tried to use the cell phone to call some friends.
All of a sudden, the giant appeared, huffing and puffing. He’d run all the way down the mountain.
“What’s up?” cried the ogre.
“Nothing, why?” replied the boy, shocked at the sight of his boss.
“You Rang!” screamed the giant
“Oh, I was just trying to use the cell phone to call some friends.”
“I tol’ you to use it only in case of ‘mergency! It’s a direct line only to me! And there be no personal calls while workin’.”
“Okay, I’m sorry. I’ll try not to let it happen again.”
As the days wore on, the boy again grew bored. He, again, tried to use the cell phone, but only to play some games.
Almost immediately he heard a pounding sound coming from the mountain.
“I tol’ you never to use the phone unless it’s an emergency, only if my geese are in trouble!!!”
“I didn’t realize how it works. I was just trying to play some games. Maybe, if I had the instruction book, I could learn how to use it properly.”
“If you’d just listen to my instructions, yu’d stay out of trouble. I’m givin’ ya one mo’ chance to make good. One mo’ false alarm and you fired! Ya hear me, boy?”
After the giant left, the boy noticed that the geese really didn’t need supervision. He wasn’t aware of any danger to them. So, he decided to join them frolicking in the water.
The cell phone got wet, as they were swimming and splashing about; then suddenly, a big, green monster arose from the river. The boy quickly used the cell phone to get help.
“This betta be good!” answered the giant on the other end of the phone.
“Help, help!”
“You breakin’ up boy, I can’t hear ya! I’m not coming down again unless it’s impo’tent!”
“Come quick, there’s a green monster eating the geese!! I Quit! Can you hear me now?”
But the giant couldn’t.
So, the boy threw the phone at the monster, hitting him between the eyes and killing him instantly; whereupon, the boy gathered as many geese as he could save and managed to live happily ever after through the wise investment of their golden eggs.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
