Luis' Calamity -Joan Shepherd

His heart was pounding, his mouth dry but a smile appeared on his sweating face. It was Luis, 17 years old, strong, daring, and now an illegal (undocumented) Mexican in the U. S. The coyote was $1000 richer but nowhere around and all Luis had was an address of an uncle in San Jose. So with an uncertain bravado, he headed north, acclimated for awhile with his also illegal uncle's family, headed north again and ended up in Boyes Hot Springs.

The corner of Highway 12 and Vallejo is a gathering place for men hoping for work, any work. Their eyes turn in unison every time I drive by in my pickup truck which saddens me as I wait for the stop light avoiding eye contact. Sometimes there is a box of doughnuts or bread on top of a crate and as the weather cools, these mostly young men are scrunched into sweaters or jackets not providing enough warmth as they stand in small groups on either side of the street, hands in their pockets moving quickly to any vehicle that slows down. 

Luis was one of those Spanish speaking young men standing on that corner, just up from the elegant Sonoma Mission Inn, when extraordinary luck came by in a well-used black truck, driven by my neighbor Horace, which picked Luis to help on a construction job. His luck continued as Horace and his partner were so impressed with his eagerness and capabilities they picked him up every morning at the comer where men watched with discouraged expressions, while Luis had a broad smile showing his one wayward tooth. Luis picked up English on the job where the words like "hammer" or "nail" were written on unfinished walls and lunch conversations increased his vocabulary. Luis was eager to learn and took advantage of La Luz (a non-profit that aids immigrants) where he studied English, and later, the computer. More luck came when Horace let him move in with him and have a small bedroom of his own. 

Luis soon managed to buy his own truck and developed a clientele for gardening. I paid him for some jobs he did for me and other times he just helped me, carrying something heavy or digging the hole to bury my cat Clarisa. 

One late afternoon shortly after I had put Clarisa to sleep, I was outdoors and crying, thinking about death whether unexpected or induced. Suddenly, Luis appeared, "Don't cry, don't be sad. You have a beautiful house and yard. Don't be sad", and when I said he never was sad, he replied, "I can't afford to be sad. When you are sad, you make mistakes." He comforted me with words and a hug. Later that night, he brought me a bouquet of flowers from the nursery where he worked part time, and the next night, more flowers.

Luis wanted to have his GED when the time came to return to Mexico which would make a big impression and get him a better job. I got him enrolled in a GED class held in Spanish and he was a loyal student even if it was difficult. He made friends but some resented his good luck in having work, meaning money, and a place to sleep. Those standing on the comer began to brush him off.

He was a good kid, only 18, but more mature than I've seen in many of our local youth. He was a master of his skateboard, going down Highway 12 bending gracefully with movements like a dancer. But Luis did have his erratic moods, rambling in Spanish as he struggled with adjusting to a different world and sometimes arguing with his host, Horace. Afterwards he'd get on his skateboard and sail down Calle del Monte, air moving and soothing his mood and his body, moving so gracefully, even with anger. 

Luis had been here 2 years when he had another wild outburst for some reason. But this time, he took his truck rather than his skateboard. A few hours later, I saw the CHP parked at the end of the driveway, two officers standing casually outside, one leaning against a tree, talking to the occupant which I knew would be Luis. I was worried but waited. Luis finally appeared, mumbling and stumbling toward his house just as Horace returned from a bike ride. Horace talked with the CHP who said Luis was acting a little crazy but not enough to arrest him. However, they had cited him for driving without a license and impounded his truck.

Horace and Luis then had a verbal fight with lots of "Fuck You" and Horace saying Luis had to improve his behavior. It ended with Luis saying Horace wasn't his father and he didn't want to live there anymore. "OK, get out now" I heard Horace say. "OK, I will" Luis responded and he left on his skateboard with a small backpack. By morning, all of his other belongings were distributed in the empty field next door and covered with a big blue tarp.

Luis had managed to collect material things as well as English. 

Two days later, Luis appeared and told me he can get the belongings in his car if he goes to Napa to a police station. I agree to take him. On the way, he tells me he can get a driver's license in Oregon but how would he get there? How indeed, but I didn't offer. At the police station, a woman at the desk was most sympathetic saying Luis was lucky to have someone help him as she gets some Mexicans coming in who don't know the language and have no transportation. An officer going off duty got involved saying they wouldn't honor an Oregon license, it would cost $800-1000 to get his truck, but all he needed for a California license was his birth certificate, a social security number, and of course, pass the test. Luis had his birth certificate and I was sure we could get him a SSN. We found the office in downtown Napa, and waited our turn. "This man would like to apply for a SSN." I said proudly. "Do you have your papers?" she offered to him with a totally uninterested expression, "Your green card?" 

On the way home, Luis ranted that (Governor) Schwarzenegger was an immigrant but made it difficult for Mexicans who only wanted to work at jobs Americans didn't want. He said he'd buy another truck rather then get his out of storage. "How do you do that without any papers?" I asked innocently and he grinned, "You buy it off the street, pay cash". Oooh. "My uncle keeps getting his vehicles impounded and he just goes out and buys another truck. He has to have transportation to work but he'll never make enough money go pay the fines or get his cars back." I'm feeling discouraged but Luis does get his things from his stored truck in Sonoma. He particularly wanted his cell phone and he gave me a new white soccer ball. I dropped him off somewhere in Boyes Springs at a two bedroom apartment where eight people were living. I felt strange coming home to my empty house.

Luis seemed to handling this calamity more objectively than me. 

Two days later, Luis appears at my door, dressed in a new navy blue shirt and trousers and his hat with the visor in front. "I came to say goodbye. I'm leaving tomorrow for Mexico." I was shocked and disappointed. But he had his ticket, thanked me for all I had done for him, apologized for the outburst that brought all this on but didn't explain it, and gave me his mother's phone number in Mexico. "I'll work with my father" he added and I wondered, when it was his father who sent him to the US to make more money, but in weekly phone conversations accused him of just playing around and not working. 

Luis left on his skateboard, turning down Calle del Monte, body swaying with the moves, looking confident, strong, and handsome.

I will miss him. 
                                             ***

A Spirit in the Tree - Noris Binet

Where Is My Father?

I wonder sometimes if it’s true! My sister and some of my brothers wonder too.

Is my father gone?  Really gone?  That force, which I left behind years ago when I first left my home and my country, has it finally gone? In the back of my mind the force was always present. Even when I was physically absent it was always there or, I should say, here in my mind. 

Every year in my pilgrimage back home that force was there, not just waiting for me to return, but for everyone to come back to him. There were the sacred days when everything needed to stop and for us to re-open the door to past traditions and to reunite around his ever-present force, which was never tamed.

I always thought my father’s force was like a Roble , a powerful oak. But after  I encountered a majestic centenarian Samán tree  things changed.  I had stopped along the road in my country to drink the water from a freshly-cut coconut, I was taken by the immensity and the force of this absolutely, breath-taking tree… there too resided my father!   

His spirit was imprinted everywhere in its strong, solid branches, the firmness of its trunk and by the stature of its wholeness. That was him! All alone at the edge of nature standing like a warrior, looking forward beyond the road to the horizon, toward the distant mountain; there he stood in solitary unity where everything is taken care off.

The Samán (or rain tree) is an amazing tree that grows in tropical areas like my  native country, the Dominican Republic. This tree stood alone, but it was enough. It drew me into its thick, gnarled, brown skin and infused me with wonder. 

The tree was like my father standing in the background of my life in such a way that I always knew to come back to him with dates, cashews, almonds and other special treats since he was a man of strong appetites for particular delights.  To the Samán I could bring nothing but my gaze, my reverence for the years standing alone at the edge of my world between life fading away and the promise of eternal life! 

That day I was coming back from the river of Yassica where my father used to own a piece of land. I bathed in the warm water of the river and felt embraced and held like a child only to be awakened by the fresh cold water of a small stream coming from the mountain into the larger flow of the river. There, where both met -- warm and cold, I stayed; swimming back and forth in wonder, delighted by the beauty of nature for which my father lived. 

Like the Samán and the river, his life was embedded by the seasons, by periods of rain, the harvest of the crops and by the fruits ripening under his gaze. Concerned by the drought that his island periodically faces, his salutation in our phone calls was always, “How is the weather there? Is it raining? “ 

Now, looking at the magnificent  Samán tree, I ask, “My father is dead, is that true?”  I wonder but no one speaks.

***

El Espíritu de mi Padre en un Samán 

¿Dónde está mi padre? ¡A veces me pregunto si es verdad! Mi hermana y algunos de mis hermanos se preguntan también. ¿Se ha ido mi padre? ¿Realmente ido? 

¿Esa fuerza que dejé atrás hace años cuando por primera vez me fui de mi casa y de mi país se ha ido finalmente? En el fondo de mi mente esa fuerza siempre estuvo presente, incluso cuando estaba físicamente ausente estaba siempre allí o mejor dicho, aquí en mi mente. 

Cada año, en mi peregrinación de retorno a mi país natal esa fuerza estaba allí, no únicamente a la espera de que yo regresara, pero de que todos retornaran a él. Eran los días sagrados, cuando todo debía detenerse para nosotros, volver a abrir la puerta a las tradiciones del pasado y reunirnos alrededor de su fuerza siempre presente, y que nunca fue domesticada. Siempre había pensado que la fuerza de mi padre era como un roble, un poderoso roble, pero después que me encontré con el majestuoso árbol centenario de Samán las cosas  cambiaron. 

Me había parado en  la carretera en mi país a beber agua de coco recién cortado y me quede absolutamente impactada por la inmensidad y la fuerza impresionante de este árbol ... ¡y descubrí  que allí también residía mi padre! Su espíritu estaba impreso por todas partes en sus ramas fuertes, sólidas, la firmeza de su tronco y la estatura de su integridad. ¡Ese era el!  Completamente solo en el borde de la naturaleza, de pie como un guerrero, mirando  más allá de la carretera hacia el horizonte, hacia la montaña distante; allí estaba, como una unidad solitaria en donde todo estaba cuidado. El Samán (o árbol de la lluvia) es un árbol asombroso que crece en zonas tropicales como mi país natal, la República Dominicana. Este árbol estaba solo, pero él era suficiente.  Me hizo entrar en su gruesa piel, nudosa, marrón y me infundió de asombro. El árbol era como mi padre, de pie en el fondo de mi vida de tal manera que siempre supe como volver a él con dátiles, semillas de cajuil, almendras y otros regalos especiales ya que era un hombre de fuertes apetitos por delicias especiales. ¡Al Samán no le puedo llevar más que mi mirada, mi reverencia por los años estando en el borde de mi mundo entre la vida que se desvanece y la promesa de la vida eterna! 

Ese día yo volvía del río de Yásica, donde mi padre fue dueño de un pedazo de tierra. Me bañé en el agua tibia del río y me sentí abrazada y sostenida como una niña solo para ser despertada por el agua fría de un pequeño arroyo que viene de la montaña y entra al flujo del río.  Allí, donde ambos se reunían,  cálido y frío, me quedé, nadando de la calidez a lo fresco con asombro, encantada por la belleza de la naturaleza para la que mi padre vivió. Al igual que el Samán y el río, su vida estaba regida por las estaciones, por los períodos de lluvia, la cosecha de los cultivos y por los frutos que maduraban bajo su mirada. Preocupado por la sequía que su isla enfrenta periódicamente, su saludo en nuestras llamadas telefónicas siempre fue: "¿Cómo está el clima allá? ¿Está lloviendo? "Ahora, mirando el magnífico árbol Samán, me pregunto:  “Mi padre está muerto, ¿es cierto? ". Pregunto, pero nadie responde. 

                                                ***

       WHY I LIVE IN THE COUNTRY
                      by John Field      2015

Because I grew tired of playing it cool 

In San Francisco’s cold gray fog 

Noisy trolley cars clanking up

And down steep hills yammering

Fire trucks waking me up

The whole dense essence cadence 

Rhythm and crazy flow

Of motion and commotion

City folks call real life

Here I’m closer to the man

I never knew

I might have been back then 

Mornings easing me into them 

With sun-befriended strolls

At 80 years per hour

Past vineyards and olive trees 

So Tuscany

It’s as if I’m dreaming them 

In all their moods and reasons 

Why my wife’s out there 

With the chickadees

And humming birds

Wooing home-grown 

Heirloom tomatoes

Out of the earth in time

For dinner jazz and red wine

Then evenings simple 

As a cradle song’s 

Perpetual melody

We listen to so gently 

It opens us up

To closed thoughts

We share with our hearts 

Turning round and round

But slower now

Like wheels worn down

By the whims and habitations 

Of old age remarkable

           ***

     TIPTOEING BETWEEN IMPENDING  CASUALTIES
                  HAPPENING
                               ABOUT TO HAPPEN –

   A CONTEMPLATION

by Joan R. Brady  August 2015

Long ago the high wire act was

abandoned, but have moved through

many climates, so know all layers possible.

Can always burrow or stay

quiet in light of current ledge,

however, wind is preferred.

                     ***  

The Door to Escape

by Dave Lewis

I awake to my first lucid thought

I feel weak and helpless and confused

I am imprisoned in a cell, my motion and vision curtailed

At a later time - all uncounted-

I notice my cell has rotated, darkness briefly ebbs

I am suspended in liquid, always warm

My nourishment arrives intravenously  and I grow

My cell has not grown and  it begins to bind my body

If there is a secret door – I can not find it

My limbs are cramped and insufficient

I crave to flex my limbs, to breath deeply

I attack my cell with my neck and head - 

The cell wall is thin and brittle yet strong

I break a hole

A gas that gives me strength enters through the hole

Also light brighter than I have ever seen

I must pause often to rest as I demolish the cell

When finally free, I am exhausted

I make little noises and hear little noises

I breathe deeply and am covered by a warm soft blanket

I rest intensely  after my escape and question the future

I soon discover that I am an eagle, just hatched

I will soon be free in all dimensions

                          ***

good bye Maurie - Janet Wentworth

day after

my little dog and friend

Maurie

you were here

now you are not

I am lonely

house is quiet now

maybe quiet when

you were here

not the same

quiet when

you are gone

I am lonely

_______________________

a few weeks after

not lonely now

your spunky spirit 

still here

thirteen years of lively

memories & inspiration

thanks Maurie

for the spunky spirit

you left behind

time for a party to celebrate you !

human family & admirers

                 ***

THE GOOD LIFE

by John Field   2015

Hello out there, hello. This is the way it is, 

The whole story.
Undamaged by night another morning arrives 

Recognized into existence

The moment we open our eyes,
A miracle touching us as nothing else will
Until the same thing happens again tomorrow. 

Think what we like about the pain in our knees, 

The checks that bounced
And our best friend dead (the other one too) 

Believe me, my friends, the luckiest thing
That ever happened to us
Is having been born.

Rejoice, the good life is on its way:
Sunlight slanting through the kitchen window 

At just the right angle, the exhilaration
Of bacon and eggs on the table 

Accompanied by a warm baguette
And marmalade, the works,
Great to gaze at
But better to taste lips first
And then our throats a rising estuary
As we flood ourselves with coffee, 

Contentment and good will,
A feeling so fine
It’s almost as if we’ve been chosen
To play a major role
In what the world would be like
If the human race
Ever learned how to behave itself.

However, leave the morning paper unread 

Because there is so much not to worry about 

When a moment like this occurs:
Leaks in reactors,

Twisters beating our cities flat
And terrorists at ease with their zeal
As they hack off the limbs of family trees 

While we breathe the scented air,
Yearn for love
And contemplate the stars,
How ancient they are, how very far away.