Senior Momentum: Lost in the Shuffle

Don’t know about most of you, but a lot of the older folks I’ve been talking with seem to share a concern about the fate of small traditions.

Of course, some traditions are so huge and so universal that they just steamroll along on their own, generation after generation. And even though they may morph into nearly unrecognizable events (historically speaking), they prevail. And, within our own small circle, we then work on keeping our personal spin intact.

But, it’s not Christmas, New Year’s Eve, Valentine’s, and Thanksgiving – the glaring ones -- that seem to be at risk. (One way or another, institutions and commerce keep those biggies alive!)
I asked folks their thoughts or concerns about the preservation of small personal traditions. And, I got some interesting responses -- it seems that some grandparents and other seniors even feel a strange responsibility for what they think is being lost! As if they didn’t try hard enough to preserve some patterns.

There was a wide range of thought …
Respect for elders came up a lot: “I don’t like it when little children call me by my first name!” said a woman of 89, “Traditionally, we were taught to look up to our elders!” (And one way we showed it was by what we called them.)

“The integrity of the family unit? Ha! Have you tried to get your family to commit to Sunday dinner even once a month, for sure?” said a cynical Granny.

Concern for community and the needy? “Of course there are organizations! But what has happened to neighbors? I know some people who don’t even know who lives next door!” (A couple I met while walking.)

It was things like the family sitting around the table together for at least one meal a day, playing cards & board games on a Saturday night, (no TV in the background); a yearly family picnic; sandlot ball games (not just parent-driven leagues); and regular family reunions, that came up. Wow! I was really surprised at the passion -- and the sense of loss.

“ It’s the little stuff,” one older gent said to me, “it’s all getting lost in the shuffle.”
People talked about families who seem to … “disperse” -- have their backs turned on each other … young people moving through their lives at high speed, believing they have no time for relating, for pausing. “Just look around!” (a woman said) “Everyone is connected to some device! Children retreat to their rooms, stare at computer screens or TV, and have some gadget plugged into their ear while typing messages into their phones -- not even talking directly to anyone … it seems like we are losing our bonds for closeness! How can you possibly get them to participate in small traditions like sitting in the living room with the family, talking!”

Time forces us to make so many “no choice” changes as we age! It just doesn’t seem fair to lose things where we have all the choices!

I call traditions our family and community “glue.” They give us small, dependable things to look forward to; they help us stay hopeful; they are the very fabric of memories, and one of the bridges between generations. They provide the stories we tell (over and over … and over!) and pass down to the next generation, preserving the non-extraordinary family history -- the part that doesn’t get written down.

A part of aging is the challenge of isolation. It makes the loss of special-things-we-depended-on even more important; it puts a stinger into solitude.

I had a sense that for some of the people I spoke with, losing the yearly this, the monthly that, the phone call from a loved one every weekend, the hand-written thank-you note -- well, it’s large.

When one’s life is so darn over-programmed and over-loaded that fitting in those old family habits, and events feels like an annoyance and an intrusion, it may just be time to pause and take a wider (kinder) view.

For some, those small traditions are the main events.

Zoë Tummillo is a Business & Marketing Consultant/Trainer/Commercial Writer, dba COMMUNICATION CONCEPTS, in private practice since 1974. In addition to Commercial work, she writes “Senior Momentum: A Series of Situations”; and essay memoirs of growing up first generation Italian American: “Pieces of My Path”. To contact her -- email: writingservice@earthlink.net Phone: 707-869-1726

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Got Love? The POWER of LOVE!

Below is a collection of essays, poems, fond memories...all the elements of love. I'll be adding material that didn't fit into the print edition and - if you have something you want to add - please send it along to me at vesta@sonic.net. We have a lot of LOVE to spread around...'cause it FEELS GOOD! Several of our monthly columnists took the LOVE theme and added their unique perspectives - check it out!

Is it Love?
The Rule of 2 ½ Years

By Vesta Copestakes
If there’s a Universal Question all lovers want to know at the start of a romantic relationship it’s … is this “Real Love”? Bottom line…you don’t know yet. The old phrase, “Only time will tell,” is so very true, and that’s what the Rule of 2 ½ Years is all about….time.

In the Beginning…
Just falling in love puts everyone on their best behavior. You feel so good that bad moods slip away, there’s joy in your heart and sunshine at your back. This is not the “real” you and it’s also not your lover’s true self either. Each of you are in a state of enhanced you – the person you could ideally be if life didn’t have a million responsibilities.

This idealized you is why we love to be in love. It feels good, yes, but it also shows us our very best selves. If we could only stay this way through our everyday lives with all those ups and downs. But we don’t.

Which is one of the reasons why extending this enhanced state as long as possible is a really good thing. Just the joy of anticipation makes you feel excited about life. The flutter of compliments and appreciation boosts your self-esteem. “You’re so beautiful…I love being with you…let’s do (…) together, we both enjoy (…) so much, etc. etc.” Finding common ground is a total delight. We’ve found someone with whom we can share life. Wow!

Don’t get too real too fast. See what you can do to hold on to this feeling. It’s good for both of you. But don’t make any major decisions in this state – like living together – getting married – or getting pregnant. The relationship isn’t “real” yet.

Getting to Know You…
This one actually takes time. Once life starts returning to a state of “normal,” like going to work, paying bills, doing the laundry, returning to spending time with the other people in your lives, etc., you pull away from the enmeshed bond – but with the addition of this wonderful person. It’s almost like the fog clearing, letting in both sunshine and rain. This is when that cute little habit of his/hers can either stay cute or become annoying.

The time frame can be anywhere from two weeks to six months depending upon the kind of person you are. Some people literally fall head over heals, believe this is THE one – soul mate, the whole bit. Others take their time walking slowly into a relationship with great caution. No matter which kind of person you are, it still takes time to really get to know someone.

Why 2 ½ Years?
Because this is how long it takes for life to throw enough ups and downs, conflicts and conflict resolutions, etc. into the relationship so that you learn how you are together when you are at odds, when life throws you to the ground, when you are hurt and angry.

Does your mate support you with kindness or walk away and let you handle things yourself? Does your mate lash out in anger and hurt you with actions and words or do you agree to disagree. I could go on – but you get the idea. Time tells you how the two of you handle conflict and how you come out the other side.

If you come out feeling better than when you went in – your home. If you come out diminished in any way –bow out gently and with respect because you’re not home yet. And that’s the bottom line. Mutual respect lives hand in heart with mutual love. You’ll recognize it by the peace in your heart.

Experienced at This?
You’re mature - have been in love before and fallen to the ground in heartbreak. Do not despair! Love IS around the corner if you are open to the concept.

Whether you are new at love or have been in the soap opera of serial monogamy, there’s one basic rule that applies...be happy by yourself FIRST and you will be a better partner. Expecting someone to fill the holes in your heart is asking too much of anyone. You’ll suck the life out of them and won’t recognize the dear person once they are used up.

The phrase I used when I was determined to spend the rest of my life alone so I wouldn’t have to go through THAT again - was - the only reason I will be in a relationship is if it’s an enhancement of my already happy life. Well whataya know - here I am - eight years later with my partner who makes me feel comfortable, loved, accepted for who I am, bumps and all, and puts a laugh in my heart. I’m home.

I wish you all the same delight!
----------------------------------------------------------------

Blood Love

By Nina Tepedino
It was 1982. It was my summer break from graduate school. It was my summer visit with my beautiful boy child. I was the visiting parent and he was seven years old. When it was our time to be together, we would often take a trip in my camper truck and travel off to our favorite nature spots...just the two of us. We were sharing and giving love to each other to make up for the long separations. Our bond would usually come alive quickly.

We would travel, sleep in a tent, cook outside, hike on the beach, meet some of my friends. We would be in this timeless capsule for as long as it lasted.

Spending time with his mother.....his real birth mother, I know put serious demands on his psyche and it wasn’t always easy for him to keep centered and comfortable in his little boy head. Both of us, abandoned from another life together, would let the joy really flow during our short ecstatic reunions.

On one of these occasions, we had hiked all day and stayed up quite late. We were packing up to leave early the next morning. from somewhere in the Sierras. Before I started up the truck, he hopped in, put on his seat belt and despite the early hour, cheerfully braced himself for a new day.

I turned to him and said, “You must be so very tired from the big day we had yesterday.”
He replied, “Oh, no, I feel ok. I am never too tired for loving!”

I was genuinely startled by his poetic expression. We exchanged a radiant look between each other. That happened almost twenty years ago.

Later, in that same year, my son was present at my graduation into the ministry. I was the last graduate to speak my ten minute homily. As I reached the closing, I looked down at my son from the pulpit. I broke away from my prepared text and told the gathered audience in the San Francisco Unitarian sanctuary, the story I have just told you. For a benediction and final blessing, I added, “I hope none of you will ever be too tired for loving.” My young son’s prophetic words were shared for all to carry away in their hearts.
---------------------------------------------------------------

What is Love?

Love is what remains after
It’s been used for the umpteenth time
Like an old rag, rinsed out, squeezed,
And still gets it clean

Love is the hard work
The long haul
Long after the spit and polish
No longer retains it’s shine

Love is present regardless
Of recognition or thank you
Love is a lifetime
No ego, no strings, no conditions

Love is so easy when all is good
When the shit hits the fan
Love is what stays the night
Like a lighthouse guides you to a safe port

Love is only superficially
About physical attraction, about frivolity and joy
>Love is what sticks, it is the glue
That can mend the broken shards of this world!
--- Barry Latham-Ponneck

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We Miss You...LOVE

James I. Stevenson known as “The Wind Chime Man” for over 22 years on River Road passed on to the big jam session on Jan 6th in Hospice Care at Friends House in Santa Rosa.

James had many repeat customers and more and more customers would say, “ I came here as a child and now I want you to meet my children.” He always had a big smile for every one and often helped those in need with cash and gas. He kept a 5 gallon can of gas for those out of gas and would only accept refilling the can as payment.

Sometimes he would give credit to someone who was a wee bit short of getting just what they wanted and he was almost always repaid.

He loved waiting on people and setting up his elaborate display. People would tell him, “ I know winter is over when I see your beautiful colorful display.”
James moved to Santa Rosa in 1968 to be with his lady, Suzanne E. Roach, whom he met during Expo 67 in Montreal Canada.

Last summer he was unable to set up and sell as they were repairing the mountain across the street.

James had customers from all walks of life, judges, lawyers, working stiffs, tourists from around the world, and even returning important Bohemians.

Little known by most, James was an important jazz musician in Detroit, Las Vegas and ten years in New York City. He played string bass with many famous musicians and singers including Johnny Mathis, Chick Corea, Zoot Sims, Chico Hamilton, Archie Shepp, Tom Wayburn, and many more. He then learned the piano and had his own group “The Jazz Circle.”

James [Jimmy] Stevenson was recently included in book “The Jazz Loft Project” with a full page photo of him wildly playing the piano at his loft at 821 Sixth Avenue. The Lofts were “a scene” where internationally famous photographer W. Eugene Smith also had a loft and photographed and recorded the musicians that jammed there including Thelonious Monk, Roland Kirk, and Miles Davis.

James is mentioned over 20 times and was the youngest of the jazz players to be there regularly.
James is survived by his children, Beth Stevenson Bucanhan, James Christopher Stevenson, Sherry Roach, Jerry Roach. Zip Stevenson, Scott Stevenson, and Star Stevenson. He also has 11 brother and sisters and their spouses.

Any one wishing to make a memorial donation is requested to make it to smiletrain.org or the charity of their choice.

Suzanne Roach
ladywithart@gmail.com
------------------------------------------------------------------------------

My Home, My Heart,
Are One and the Same.

By Susan Clark
I grew up on a 33 acre property shared with my parents, sister, brother, aunt, uncle, 5 cousins, and one grandma. There were 3 houses, a 100 year-old barn, a large chicken house, and plenty of elbow room in between. The property contained lots of hills and dales, thick forests, open meadows, sacred groves, mysterious ravines, a babbling brook, picturesque orchards, and a natural spring. The place was intersected with well-traveled footpaths, and gravel car and tractor trails. We had 3 kinds of apple trees, 3 kinds of cherry trees, peach tree, walnut tree, plum tree, almond tree, fig tree, and wild grapes. Over the course of the years we had dogs, cats, turtles, fish, pigs, horses, cows, and 10,000 chickens!

Spending ones childhood in such a place was the manifestation of the word ‘idyllic.’ My siblings and cousins and I had not a care in the world. To look back on it has always seemed like a lovely dream out of a fairy tale. Summer days were packed with adventure from dusk to dawn. Racing up and down the dirt roads on bicycles, building forts from apple boxes, swinging across the creek on the rope swing, forging trails through the woods, exploring the spooky attic in the barn, sitting high in a tree eating fruit until you were sick, collecting rocks, collecting eggs, riding horses, exploring the creek bed, climbing the water tower, flying kites, initiating clubs, pushing each other in the feed cart down the corridors of the chicken house, building tree forts, playing baseball, having rotten apple fights, staging contests, (such as: how many seedling cherries can you fit in your mouth at one time, and it didn’t count unless you spit out the seed. I think I still hold the record with 72!) sleeping in the woods and telling scary stories, sleeping in the tree house and telling scary stories, candling eggs, picking flowers, making tunnels and mazes in the tall weeds on our hands and knees, having water fights, climbing up inside the feed silo when it was empty, playing jump rope, hopscotch, and tetherball, wearing out the seat of our pants sliding down and off the edge of the roof of the outbuildings, riding the steer, (yes, we did.) It was never ending fun.

My love affair with this property never stopped, but it did slow down considerably in the 30 years after I grew up and moved away. In the years hence, another home was built here, and five years ago I was afforded the opportunity to occupy that home. I had always felt unduly blessed to have spent my childhood here, never had I imagined I would be so fortunate as to return! That is more than any one person deserves!

My family still owns all of the acreage, and my love has been renewed and enriched. My mother and my aunt are still here, an occasional cousin is here, and my brother is here. My daughter and my two sweet little grandchildren occupy grandma’s house, and now I get to share it all with my husband.

The property has rearranged itself of course. It is neglected and overgrown, but hauntingly beautiful. Thick vines hang from the trees, and there are hardly any open spaces left. It is almost like living in the rainforest! The cement walkways are all that remain of the chicken house, and strolling down them, thick with trees on either side is an otherworldly experience. The old barn still stands, now 130, and no longer safe upstairs. Nature is plentiful in all of its forms, animal, vegetable, and mineral. You could blindfold me and plant me anywhere, and when I opened my eyes, I would know exactly where I was. Rock collecting and tumbling, bird watching, photography, and hikes with the kids are now my pastimes. I can still barely contain my desire to be outside, exploring, always exploring. And now and then, I still find myself up in a tree, looking at my paradise from a new angle, and never forgetting to thank God for my good fortune.
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Goat LOVE...Chiva the LOVE Goddess
Chiva was loved by many - a testament to the joys of connection.

AN ODE TO CHIVA
It was easy to boast
About Chiva, our Goat
She was often seen
On Hwy 116
We loved her a lot
Her memory on the Hadley Estate will never be forgot
Standing on her surfboard, she never knew
How many smiles she grew
We miss you so much
Along with all the other hearts you touched
Goodbye, our sweet Chiva
1/09/2010

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READ “For the LOVE of Chocolate” the tale of David Gambill's marriage of two loves - in PEOPLE in the News category.
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Christmas Story - A Father's Gift

A Father’s Gift

By Alan Joseph

I can’t remember the first time I stood next to my father as he played the piano. The melodies were so familiar that it seemed I had listened to them all my life. And, indeed, I had. Every night as my mother cooked dinner, my father would sit down at the piano and ask softly, “Well, what would you like to hear?”

Of course, my favorites were all the songs he had always played, “Five Foot Two, Eyes of Blue”, “Ain’t She Sweet?”, and “Sweet Georgia Brown” to name but a few. Tin Pan Alley was alive and well every night in our home. Melodies were played, voices sung out, serious toe tapping music. And it always ended the same way. My mother would poke her head around the corner and say, “Sounds great, you guys, dinner’s on.”

But as the years rolled on, my father played less and less. Still at his side as he would end a song early, I would ask, “What’s wrong, Dad? Aren’t you going to play?” He would smile and rub his hands and say, “They just aren’t as young as they used to be, you know?” It was true, his soft touch had grown increasingly stiff. To his knowing ear, it just wasn’t right, and more and more the piano sat quiet.

Years later I had gone home for Thanksgiving and was giving my Mom a hand with the mashed potatoes and gravy. From behind the living room door I heard the notes that struck such a familiar chord. I asked my mother if Dad was playing again. “No,” she said. “Honestly, he hasn’t played for years. Maybe you should go in while you have the chance.” Upon opening the door, those melodies wrapped around my heart again. And though a little stiff, the magic was still there. Same songs, same gentle phrasing, same laughter.

It was the last time I heard him play. The following Spring, I received a call from my mother telling me he had died in his sleep. But his music stayed with me in the most surprising way. A year later I was engaged to be married and I found myself shopping for a guitar. Well, if I was going to start a family of my own, I had to have some way of playing those songs before dinner.

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Eliza B.

By Cecil e Lusby

I first met Eliza B. in the mid-1980s at Santa Rosa Junior College when she was a student needing my help getting resources through the Enabling Services Department. I don’t remember whether her issues were neurological or emotional, but we always stopped and talked whenever our paths crossed. She was a brave, but fading hippie and I a part-time politico. She seemed happy with her classes most of the time, rarely venting any discontent. My son and I helped her move once, but we never understood who or what it was she needed to leave behind so suddenly. After she lost her job and dropped out of school, I didn’t see her for about a decade.

You wouldn’t know her now.

I began to volunteer at FISH, the Catholic Worker, and then the Interchurch Pantry. Every now and then Eliza would show up in line, get her food, and disappear. I believed she was having a tough time making ends meet. As the years passed she would grow flustered when she recognized me at the Pantry. Her blush has now weathered into a permanent sunburned ruddiness; the look of the outdoorsy Irish often resembles that of the chronic alcoholic or the homeless. Sometimes the pink lingers on even after sobriety. After decades as a food distribution worker, I still am not sure. With my father and grandfather both relentless drinkers, I am familiar with the pattern, but reluctant to jump to conclusions. I have never seen Eliza drinking or under the influence, yet she has always been vulnerable in a harsh world. I never witnessed her being impolite, not “clothed and in her right mind,” as James Baldwin used to say.

Last month I brought my recycled coffee cans to be refilled at Taylor Maid’s beanery.
As I approached the store’s entrance, I saw a green water hose move and a garbage bin shift on its wheels. Then I saw a woman against the wall, her hair now shining silver. She moved quickly, setting the bin at an angle to block my view, but I saw the bright blue eyes: it was Eliza behind the dumpster, not wanting anyone to see her scavenging. My old friend did not want me to see her. After a long fight, she has come to this. Perhaps she had not recognized me, so out of respect for her privacy, I left her alone behind the bin. Was I wrong? Was I missing an opportunity to acknowledge someone I knew? Or was I sparing her embarrassment after seeing that she had slipped through the cracks? All these thoughts ran through my mind as I bought my coffee. Stepping outside, I looked around, but she had gone, and now the memory of her troubles my conscience.

Eliza is still out there, still one of us. What separates us now is the awareness that she has fallen in a society that blames the poor for their situation. Because of my mother’s struggle as a working divorcee, I know that many poor people try hard, work hard and still have nothing to show for it. Sonoma County now is full of the formerly employed and underemployed. We are not so different.

Even though I was able to work, be a mother, get an education, and retire with a pension, not every life travels an upward arc. Some of our peers fall by the wayside, and witnessing them fills some of us with an anxious need to keep striving, while others realize how much we have to be thankful for. The next stage is responsible gratitude, remembering those still in need. It is a call and response. For our thankfulness to be effective, it is necessary to work together as a community to prevent more suffering, more hunger, and exposure. Once again, it is the dark, chilly time of year to remember the Food Banks and Pantries from the bright warmth of your home and hearth.

Please give to the Interchurch Food Pantry of Sebastopol; P. O. Box 579; Sebastopol, CA 95473

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Fast-Paced Novel of Navajo Culture and Canyon Country

by Juniper Bangs

Meet and Greet author Jennifer Kitchell on Saturday, November 7, between 11 AM and 1 PM as she chats with you about her new book, Girl with Skirt of Stars. This debut mystery is said to weave Navajo ethnography, sexual tension, political power, and the beauty of Grand Canyon country into a gripping story that fans of Tony Hillerman will appreciate. The event takes place at Copperfield Books, located at 104 Matheson St. in Healdsburg.

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The Cancer ~ Fighting Kitchen

The Healing Foods Free Lecture Series Presents: Rebecca Katz

Tuesday ~ October 27th, 2009
5:30 to 7:00 PM

Rebecca Katz, author of One Bite at a Time: Nourishing Recipes for Cancer Survivors and their friends.

The Cancer-Fighting Kitchen, Rebecca's newest book, brings the healing power of delicious, nutritious foods to those whose hearts and bodies crave a revitalizing meal.

Join us at:
The Center for Spiritual Living
2075 Occidental Road
Santa Rosa, CA 95401

It is free, so bring a friend!

"I want you to think of this book as a toolbox to help you or someone you love get through cancer." Rebecca Katz

Please RSVP: jo@ceresproject.org or 707.829.5833 x 3


Volunteer Needed with In Design

Experience!

If you have experience with In Design and have extra time to help The Ceres Community Project, please contact Margaret at margaret@ceresproject.org or call 707-829-5833. Our immediate need is helping with our cookbook layout over the next month. If you know someone who may be interested, please forward this information to them! Thank you.

http://www.ceresproject.com/

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Vagabond - Homeless Journal - Running for Life

I am running for my life.
By Kerry Echo

I am running to save my life and running away from it.

I come along the straight of the oval where the breeze off the ocean feels as though it is under my feet and lifting me. I always have that sensation of riding this stretch, although one would think the wind would slow me down. I run backward on the track, or clockwise, just so that I can sail this stretch while everyone else, for no known obvious reason, runs the opposite way. I am not trying to be odd. I just like the feeling, and so far as I know, there are no rules about which direction to run a track.

Besides, running the track clockwise gives me the widest, longest view of the ocean. The other side of the track, which one suffers in counter-clockwise motion, abuts the baseball field, out-buildings, and the score board; and the breeze is at one's back when one rounds the end of the oval and enters the straight I enjoy so much.

One cannot just count the laps and expect to be happy and to want to do it again. No. My wide-hipped female body with slender ankles is in poor ratio for running, which best suits more slender women. So the rebellion in my body starts almost instantly. My hips complain loudly of being pinched and compressed on all sides from the jolts they are sustaining with every foot fall, but I move my attention to the pleasure in my feet and toes and the room they have to spread out in my shoes. I can feel the small muscles there and all throughout my calves.

I was told by a good runner a long time ago to remember that my heart is moving me when I run, not my legs. Indeed, that entire engine in my chest is the force behind the locomotion. Pumping my arms, he told me, moving them in a C shape between my chest and downward only to brush the sides of my hips, back and forth, would give me the momentum I need and remind my feet to keep up. To think I only run four laps.

My shoes help. They are the race car of running shoes, Ecco Bioms made in Denmark of yak-hide leather. It is a light-weight shoe that molds to the foot. There is very little sole in the usual sense and no bounce at all in these shoes as a consequence. They simply -- no frills -- carry your foot, much the way a sports car rides low to the ground and one can feel every bump in the road, a sacrifice of luxury for performance. At the same time, the Biom is a natural shoe, like Birkenstock, which, after a while, conforms so well to your foot you don't feel it.

These shoes take some getting used to, though, and people accustomed to the cushiness of other models will initially think it categorically impossible to run in the Bioms. The other models of running shoe give you a start, a bounce if you will, because of the wide thick heels and rounded up toes. But my feet would come to hurt, and the shoes would feel more like concrete boots after a mile around the track. I would sprout blisters on the bottom of my toes and between them, and that darn big toe would need massaging if I wanted to sleep at night.

To get started in Bioms, one has to start by creating some artificial bounce at first to be able to lift the feet and initiate a running motion; but the entire foot is engaged. I have heard, of course, how many muscles there are in the foot; but I can feel all of them with this shoe as I put myself into the rhythm of the run.

It is here on the track that I lose the demons and the overwhelming sense that my troubles are insurmountable. Throw in some nagging remorse and sorrow over whatever portion of this suffering I brought on myself, a longing for the way things used to be, and the pall of thinking maybe things won't come right, after all, and I am ready for Bellevue. Really, nothing says things will come right. The hard-stare face-down I give my reality --- my way of preventing myself from entertaining delusions, the kind that brought me to this parallel universe of homelessness in the first place --- is perhaps necessary, but painful.

Therefore, I run.

Bellevue, the longstanding, proverbial household term for nut house, is a real hospital in New York City, and it is the oldest public hospital in the United States. It was founded in 1793 and still serves people of all backgrounds, irrespective of ability to pay. However, contrary to popular myth, Bellevue has never been only a psychiatric facility. Bellevue Hospital Center had the first ambulance service and the first maternity ward, hosted Nobel Prize winners in medicine, and was the site of the development of the Polio vaccine. It has been affiliated for a long time with New York University School of Medicine and is considered to be a training ground for leaders in the field.

I needed this cool factual break, though I must add that Bellevue here is Mesa Vista, a facility I intend to visit before I ever spend another entire week crying and disabled by grief.

The secret to running is not to think about it. Even while the compression and ache around the hips is ever-present, I notice how the run feels in the buttocks, calves, thighs, and so on. The secret to living my life right now is, similarly, losing the fixation on what hurts. But what hurts in my life is . . . well, everything. My life is the remnant of a life, and I am impaired by it. I am crippled, and maybe it is this with which I must come to terms. Perhaps I must see myself differently, not as I used to be, but as infirm and afflicted. Perhaps this is where my new life and all my thinking about it must begin.

Running may be only compensatory, a way to clear my head, a means to being too tired to think and worry. Maybe the Bioms are just a toy, something to distract and ease the mind. It is so hard to tell these days in the absence of things familiar and with living irregularly. Can I live this new life without thinking about it? Like a day at the track above the ocean?

Learn more from Kerry Echo at Vagabond http://artofsurvivinghomelessness.blogspot.com/

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Slow Dance - Live before you Die

This is a poem written by a teenager with cancer. I'm passing it on or two reasons. One is because her message is good for everyone. Two is because a very dear friend was taken to the hospital with heart problems today and the last I saw him was in an ambulance. He says he'll be OK and I pray that is true. He has lived his life fully, loved well, shared much and I know he'd have no regrets if he died today. That's a good way to live. - Vesta

Slow Dance

Have you ever
watched
kids

On a merry-go-round?

Or listened to
the
rain

Slapping on the ground?

Ever followed a
butterfly's erratic flight?


Or gazed at the sun into the
fading
night?

You better slow down.

Don't
dance so
fast.

Time is short.


The music
won't
last.

Do you run through each day

On
the
fly?

When you ask How are you?

Do you hear
the
reply?

When the day is done

Do you lie
in your
bed< >With the next hundred chores

Running through
your head?

You'd better
slow down

Don't dance so
fast.

Time is
short.


The music won't
last.

Ever told your
child,
We'll do it
tomorrow?

And in your
haste,


Not see
his
sorrow?

Ever lost
>touch,

Let a good
friendship die

Cause you
never had time


To call
and say,'Hi'

You'd
better slow down.

Don't dance
so fast.

Time
is short.

The music won't
last.

When you run
so fast to get somewhere

You
miss half the fun of getting
there.


When you worry and hurry
through your
day,

It is like an unopened
gift....

Thrown
away.

Life is not a
race.

Do take it
slower

Hear the
music

Before the song is
over.

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Overcoming Disability: Inga's Story

PHOTO by Penny Wolin. http://www.pennywolin.com/

Inga’s Story
by Bianca Llamas

What Inga remembers most about waking up that day was the white. It surrounded her, but it was not the comforting white of billowing clouds or down comforters, but the cold stark white that spoke of starched ironed bed sheets and disinfectant.

It was a surreal setting where nothing made sense. All she could remember was who her family was and her job. She was told later that the accident occurred when she was celebrating with her boyfriend in downtown Vilnius, Lithuania. The holidays had passed and winter was raging on.

Inga Lizdenyte, 32, did not know where she was when she woke up. She had been in a car accident, but she didn’t remember it. The result was the loss her legs and the paralysis of her left arm.

Inga had no recollection of the accident. Later, she was told that the driver was speeding, at 100 miles per hour. The roads were slick with ice and snow. The driver lost control and careened into light pole. He died at the scene. At the time of impact Inga’s legs were sliced in half, just above the knee.

Her life seemed a blur. It was not until a few weeks later that her father told her that the driver who died in the accident was her boyfriend, Dalius. After hearing his name she understood.
“Dalius always liked to drive fast,” said Inga.

To most of us it would seem incomprehensible, losing both legs and a boyfriend at once. Yet now Inga reflects that she was able to handle the news fairly well, no doubt due to the morphine the doctors were filling her with.

After being released from the hospital Inga went back home to live with her family, but things were not the same. Like physical therapy, learning to live with a disability and the looks in the eyes of old friends who never knew what to say or do. It took about a year of being stuck in her room to be motivated to take hold of her situation.

“I couldn’t leave my room because I had to wait during the process of home modification. I made the request right away but it took about a year before anything was done.”

“I couldn’t take the humiliation of being carried down the only flight of stairs from the elevator to the ground floor…I only left the house for doctors appointments and rehabilitation therapy”. Life as she had known it seemed to no longer exist. Inga felt that she had lost the freedom she had rarely even given a second thought to.

But Inga was strong. Adjusting to her new life was not easy. She had been forced into a world that required her total dependence on others. Eventually with the combination of therapy and motivation, Inga decided to get on with her life.

“I wanted to live, not exist,” said Inga.

Things were looking up when an American prosthetic expert was able to create two prosthetic legs, enabling Inga to walk again.

But only for a year.

Her thighbone was growing back, a painful process some amputees experience. The pain made it impossible for Inga to wear her prosthetic legs.

There is no longing in Inga’s voice when she describes choosing to use a wheelchair. She is content and happy with her life. Inga’s pristine happiness is what sets her apart from most people and people who have suffered an injury resulting in disability. Part of this happiness is due to her job, Public Relations and Volunteer Coordinator at Disability Services and Legal Center also known as DSLC.

“One of the reasons I love working at DSLC is because this agency helps people like me to become independent and live their lives despite their disability. I have seen, smelled, felt, heard and tasted every emotion that these people are dealing with. I know what it feels like when you cannot live your life as everyone else only because you don’t have access or opportunity due to your disability. DSLC is the primary resource for people who have to go through difficulties as I did. I want the community to know that there is a place where they can get help if they or their family members have any difficulties because of disability. I can share my own personal story with them to hopefully inspire them to take hold of their lives.”

Anyone can find Inga in her office, dubbed “the fishbowl”, working away while listening to up beat electronic music.

Her upbeat attitude and energy is infectious. She admits that she may overwork herself by taking on too many projects but is always satisfied with their outcome.

Inga has a worldly presence and when speaking with her you can only think of how amazing she is. Fighting losing battles and overcoming her past, Inga may be the strongest person you ever meet.

“I could feel sorry for myself, but what use would that be. I am thankful for everything I had to go through, and what has happened to me has made me only stronger. I love my life and my job. I have a purpose and that is to help others like me”, said Inga.

If you have any questions regarding the services provided by DSLC call DSLC, 707-528-2745 or check out their website http://www.disabilityserviceandlegal.org/

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Vagabond - The Art of Living Homeless - Kerry Echo

Kerry Echo lives on the streets and has a blog for her essays. I appreciate her perspective on life so I am including one of her essays here - with a link to her web site so you can follow her journey. - Vesta


Love is Not All
By Kerry Echo
http://artofsurvivinghomelessness.blogspot.com/

Love is not meat or drink, but it can get very, very lonely being homeless without it.

Most homeless people have no roof whatsoever, and those of us who do are living out of a car, truck, or van, which barely provides enough room for one person. Assuming two people could get along under one small mobile roof, there is still the problem of lack of privacy with having to situate the "roof" on a side street or in a parking lot. Truly, I wish I had had a choice about listening to Sheila and Brian argue, break up, kiss, and make up every few days.

The homeless are up early and turn in early to avoid encounters with the housed and the police. There are just too many logistics to handle as it is, and the police can rattle your nerves even when they park next to you at Seven-Eleven. And I can live without the nervous, faux cheeriness of the housed when they have an unexpected encounter in a public washroom --- I only have my bra on so far and I'm brushing my teeth. Somehow, they want to chatter at such a time, perhaps to pretend that I am just like them. Except for the homeless part.

It is not that often, though, that I meet the middle- and upper-middle class housed. Most of the time the public restrooms are empty, and I can relax and enjoy the breeze coming through the open-roof structure and look out at the tree tops. One public washroom has dovecotes, whether by accident or design: instead of a single pitched roof, there are two pyramidal roofs separated by a breezeway, each with its own skylighted pavilion perched at the top. Doves can be heard flying around the empty, upper interior. They have taken over the roofs and nest on top of the walls separating the toilets, which places the humans doing their business on the first floor.

The birdsong of the mourning dove permeates my earliest memories, so having this particular, familiar bird attendant upon my toilette is a luxury and a joy. Even if the biggest problem with having birds in the attic looks nasty --- the excrement that has dripped down and dried on the upper walls --- it seems fitting.

One day while doing my toilette, I was surprised by two very well-dressed women, so well-dressed it was startling. They were in skirts and high heels, made-up, perfectly coiffed, and wearing expensive jewelry. There was a pleasant hint of perfume in the air that spread like an aura throughout the washroom. We exchanged greetings as they entered and each took a stall. I continued washing my face.

"You ladies are really dressed up for the public washroom this morning!"

"Oh," said one of the ladies as she left her stall, "We're Jehovah Witnesses."

There is usually an internal "uh-oh" response whenever I hear Jehovah Witnesses since they are generally so pesky, all but ramrodding their way through your front door and into your living room. But, of course, I do not have a front door or anything else resembling a house. I decided in that moment to be all the person I am, to be bigger than my reservations, and to stay open and honest.

By now I was brushing my teeth. It seemed a little awkward, but the ladies stayed a while to chat. Most of the chat was about their missionary work. I told them I respect their belief as I do all beliefs, which turned out to be an opening for one of them to ask what my belief was. I told them I am spiritual, that I have outgrown religion, that I love Jesus, but I want to be able to communicate with everyone on the planet regardless of their belief.

My answer elicited a pause; I think it impressed them because no one can honestly deny the need to relate to all people. They may also have been relieved not to have to defend their own belief, as I am sure they meet with plenty of diatribe against the JWs. At any rate, the two well-dressed women took their leave; and I have to say I liked them. My impressions of people include a disaster scenario and whether they could weather a storm with me. I do not want to hear, "I broke my nail!" when we all need to be bailing water. These women were tough on the inside. I could tell.

A few mornings earlier as I had just finished in the washroom, a car drove into the parking lot blaring the sound of the Beatles. So few radio stations play the Beatles anymore and, where I live, no one listens to them. It was unusual. Then my friend, Sheila, pops out of the car and runs over, as usual, lunging at me with an enormous embrace.

Unless by way of a well-honed internal guidance system, I never know how Sheila finds me. She behaved as though she expected to see me right there right then. Even uncannier is the fact that I am not staying out by the yacht club anymore where Sheila last saw me, but further south in Mission Bay.

Sheila's lover is still in jail, and she is pining away. She is pining so much she decided to go back to school to become a nurse, maybe to keep busy. But Sheila always sounds a little drunk, so I am hoping she succeeds despite her boyfriend and the addiction. Unfortunately, because she pops into my life unannounced, I usually have something else to do and must leave her company sooner than I would like. That was the case a few days ago. Sheila is no longer homeless, but she still retains some of the footloose habits that homelessness engenders; and I will see her again.

One of the subtle effects of homelessness over time is to make a person more truly herself. I have been given back to myself through this simple way of life, which has few distractions. I tend to be completely honest, even honest about dishonesty on the rare occasion that I must employ it. One of the most important features of this new integrity has been a progressive ability to be in the present moment much of the time and to make the best of my surroundings and everything in it.

I am no longer fixated.

It is remarkable when I review my life to see how often I denied my reality. I was always waiting for the perfect friend, lover, sister, brother, mother, job, apartment, exercise plan, vacation, and the list goes on. I was in the future and stuck in the past, unable to love what I had; and I am only beginning to enjoy imperfection as the capstone of things rare and extraordinary.

Letting go of fixations --- who can be my friends, who can be my lover or soul mate, who is interesting or not --- has allowed me to accept the things around me and experience them in greater depth and detail. The narrow romantic-love vision of the 1950's household of my childhood no longer applies under my present circumstances and may be, in fact, obsolete. Certainly, if one is looking to live life to the fullest and have the experience of joy, there is no other way but to leave oneself open to the excitement of possibilities and to a childlike fascination with what might happen next.

For example, bird visitations are a regular feature of the outdoor shower at public restrooms. One day, a silly gull perched on the shower wall was behaving just as my beloved, deceased dog would have and seemed to stand guard overhead while I washed. In fact, I came to believe my beloved dead dog was inhabiting a bird body. Fantasy? Magical thinking? Perhaps, but the experience was real and something I will never forget.

Then there are the elusive Bob, Steve "the Wonder," and my girlfriend, Sheila, exotic creatures in their own right. If I look for Bob or Steve or Sheila, I cannot find them. They just appear and our relationships continue, renewed and updated. These people have blessed my life with the richness of their personalities.

There is nurturance in relating to everything around oneself. There is a sense of belonging, a feeling of security, and love that comes with it. It is not just what one gives or what one gets, but the relationship itself, the in-betweenness, that brings joy to me. That third element is what I seek, that subtle energy of life between and among all living things, the gravitational pull that draws us into one strange, wonderful whole.


Love is Not All
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
And rise and sink and rise and sink again;
Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath,
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It well may be that in a difficult hour,
Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,
Or nagged by want past resolution's power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.
It well may be. I do not think I would.

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MIX IT UP Magazine for Young Adults

My name is Ed Troxell and I just graduated from Sonoma State University with a B.A. in Communications. I just wanted to let you know about MIX IT UP Magazine, issue 2 is now out. MIX IT UP Magazine is a comprehensive source of information written for young adults on topics that matter most: health, work, travel, and entertainment. We are a publication dedicated to building confidence, expanding perspectives, and shaping a promising future.

MIX IT UP will be the one-stop magazine if you will for young adults both males and females. It is a free, bi-monthly magazine that will be distributed to the North Bay (San Jose to Chico), hitting most of the major colleges and places young adults gather.

I created MIX IT UP Magazine last year as part of my senior project, a graduation requirement for SSU, here in Santa Rosa. Given today’s economy and the way the job market is I decided to create the next step in my life. I have always had a passion for the magazine industry and after working for awhile at Make Magazine out in Sebastopol I realized that I just need to start my own and see where it goes.

I feel that 2009 is the time for change and trying something new. This is the biggest risk I have ever taken and I am facing it head on. The goal is to have advertisers support this so that we can continue to be a free print publication while tying in the web. Online we have videos from stories in the print edition as well as an online version. As we continue to grow we will be putting extras on the website.

It would be great if you could just let people know about MIX IT UP Magazine and spread the word. People like what they see in MIX IT UP and I have made it a personal goal to do everything I can in order to keep it going. While I know everything is going online, there is still a need from consumers for print. They still love to touch and feel things in their hands. That is why I want to continue mixing print and online so that readers can get the best of both worlds.

Feel free to check out our website, http://www.mixitupmagazine.com, which has all of our information, including our media kit.

Sincerely,

Ed Troxell
MIX IT UP Magazine
Publisher / Executive Editor
ed@mixitupmagazine.com

Blog: mixitupmagazine.wordpress.com

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Lesa Tanner of Graton: Images of America

Graton's own Lesa Tanner, author is "Images of America: Graton" is a finailist in the Via Magazine "Best Travel Day Ever!" contest! Her story, one of six, really is the best - a story of redemption through the magic of nature.

Please go to this web site and vote for Lesa, if you wish - her's is essay #4. Votes must be in by June 1st. http://www.viadreamvacation.com/ .

Please send this message on to as many others as you can! What fun to support someone from Graton! - HolLynn

Available locally at the Graton Gallery and Willow Wood in Graton and Copperfield’s Books in Sebastopol, Images of America: Graton,” written by native Gratoneer Lesa Tanner, is a must buy. (Also available at Amazon.com.) In particular, those with a Graton state of mind, the Grateronians will find the book invaluable in explaining exactly how Graton came to be the great social experiment that it is.

What is striking, looking at the old photographs of 1906 Graton, is the fact that there were few trees or other plants in the Graton environs, compared to the urban forest it is today. Only the Baker buildings on the south side of Graton Road remain as remnants of the old Graton. Sonoma County Regional Parks has expressed an interest in restoring the Baker buildings and creating a museum in honor of the Bakers. In the meantime, it’s wonderful to have the old buildings providing a sense of history to enrich the Graton environ, though it is sad to watch them decay.

The book has 205 photographs and a story for each one, such as the one about the bear in the tree house at Handy's corner and the “Graton Girls” baseball team of 1935. What a opportunity to find out about Graton’s colorful history, from being “hops and apple central” to its somewhat notorious 70's days as a dangerous den of brawling bars to the revitalized small town that it is today.


History of Graton revealed
Local author releases new book featuring stunning collection of vintage photographs

New from Arcadia Publishing’s Images of America series is Graton. In over 200 vintage photographs, local author Lesa Tanner along with the Graton Community Club share the history of Graton in this new book.

The town of Graton is located in the beautiful and fertile Green Valley, which was first settled in the mid-1800s by pioneer families such as the Sullivans, Gregsons and Winklers. When the railroad came through the area realtor James Gray and banker J. H. Brush bought land and created one of the first subdivisions in Sonoma County. They named the streets after themselves and their children and in 1905 Graton was born.

Along with the agricultural industry in California, the town thrived until the 1970s and then declined only to be reborn in the 1990s. Throughout all of Graton’s phases, Oak Grove School (1854), the Pacific Christian Academy (1918) and the Graton Community Club (1914) remained vital. Graton is now part of a premiere wine-growing region, and visitors as well as locals are attracted to its vibrant downtown businesses, award-winning restaurants and artistic community.

Meet the author:
May 30th from 2-4pm
Borders
2825 Santa Rosa Ave, Santa Rosa

Available at area bookstores, independent retailers, and online retailers, or through Arcadia Publishing at (888)-313-2665 or www.arcadiapublishing.com.

Arcadia Publishing is the leading publisher of local and regional history in the United States. Our mission is to make history accessible and meaningful through the publication of books on the heritage of America’s people and places. Have we done a book on your town? Visit www.arcadiapublishing.com.

You can find the book for sale at the following locations:
Copperfield's Books in Sebastopol
Willow Wood Market, 9020 Graton Rd., Graton
Graton Gallery, 9050 Graton Rd., Graton
Far West Trading Co., 9060 Graton Rd., Graton
West County Museum, 261 S. Main St., Sebastopol
Pacific Christian Academy, 8877 Donald St., Graton

Graton
by Lesa Tanner, Graton Community Club
Images of America series
Price: $21.99
128 pages/ softcover

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Destroying the Horse We Rode In On: Mustangs in Danger

Deanne Stillman with Bugz, survivor of the 1998 Christmas massacre
of 34 wild horses outside Reno.

Photo by Betty Lee Kelly.

Deanne Stillman, the author of "Mustang: The Saga of the Wild Horse in the American West," an LA Times "best book 08," winner of the California Book Award silver medal for 2008, and widely praised from the Atlantic Monthly to the Economist, is in Sebastopol for a signing at Copperfield’s Books on Thursday, May 14, at 7 p.m.

She will also be at Readers’ Books in Sonoma on Tuesday, May 12, at 7:30 p.m.

A COWBOY NATION TURNS ITS BACK ON WILD HORSES

By Deanne Stillman

It’s not news that America is a cowboy nation but it may surprise many that we are destroying the horse we rode in on. I refer specifically to the mustang, the animal that blazed our trails, fought our wars and serves as our greatest icon.

Since 1971 wild horses have been protected under the Wild Free-Roaming Horse and Burro Protection Act, a hard-won law spearheaded by Velma Johnston, aka Wild Horse Annie, a classic Nevada character whose life was changed when she saw blood spilling out of a truck, followed it down a desert highway, and then witnessed injured and dying mustangs being offloaded at a slaughterhouse. From that morning in 1950, she led a battle to stop the cruel round-ups, resulting in the passage of four laws, with the final one signed by Richard Nixon.

Under the federal law, horses were to be “considered in areas where presently found, as an integral part of the system of public lands.” Their management fell to agencies inside the Department of the Interior, primarily the Forest Service and Bureau of Land Management, which carry out periodic round-ups to cull the herds since most of their natural predators are gone from their ranges. Once taken, the horses are funneled into the adopt-a-horse program, which sometimes works for horses and people alike, and sometimes doesn't, resulting in fatal mishaps and other cruel disasters.

At the beginning of the 20th Century, there were about two million mustangs in the wilderness; today, according to the BLM, there are about 20,000 on public lands in the western states, with more than half in Nevada. Because the animals have been removed – or “zeroed out” – from at least 100 of their 300 official herd areas, contrary to the law’s provisions, they are on the brink of no return.

Ranching outfits often graze their cattle and sheep on lands where horses make their living, and many stockmen have long regarded wild horses as “pests” that steal food from their herds. They have tried to dismantle the wild horse and burro law through five administrations, while at the same time lone actors head into the wilderness to whack wild horses as well as burros (protected under the same law), yet are rarely found or prosecuted.

Under the Bush regime, large-scale corporate ranching operations had almost reached their goal of a mustang-free America, thanks to a rollback in the law in which culled horses that haven’t been adopted on the third try through the government’s controversial adopt-a-horse program – criminalized “three-strikers” – can be sold to the lowest bidder, along with mustangs over ten (not old for a horse). This meant a ticket to the slaughterhouse - and the rule still prevails. The rollback was aggravated by a media that often parrots the view that the mustang is an invasive species. In fact it is native to this continent, linked by mitochondrial DNA to horses of the Pleistocene.

Beyond that, horses are North America’s gift to the world. They evolved in the West, then crossed the Bering land bridge and died out on their native turf in the Ice Age, but not before they had established themselves in many other lands. They returned with conquistadors in the 16th century, and it was as if they had never left. For the next 300 years, their descendants were pressed into noble and bloody service. By the end of the 19th century, the West was no longer wild, and it was time for them to go.

A hydra-headed horseflesh industry arose and flourished until Wild Horse Annie came along. Self-valorizing mustangers ripped into the herds, trapping the horses in remote areas and then selling them for chicken feed, dinner in France, or wars. So many horses were taken from 1920 to 1935 that the era is known in some circles as “the great removal.”

But the round-ups didn’t stop then, and there are now more wild horses in the pipelines than on the range. Last year, the BLM announced that it was planning to "euthanize" 30,000 stranded mustangs because there's not enough money in the budget to keep them. Madeline Pickens came forward and offered to save them, yet so far, the BLM has not permitted her plan to move forward.

Many of these horses should not have been taken from the land in the first place, and in my travels across the country, I have learned that if there's one thing Americans are happy to spend their tax dollars on, it's the preservation of wild horses. They understand that our greatest road trip car is not called the Mustang for nothing and what it says about us if we can't take care of the real thing. To that end, a new bill was recently introduced to make sure that the wild horse has a permanent home on the range. It's HR 1018 and it's coming up for debate on the House floor soon. “We need the tonic of wildness,” Richard Nixon said, quoting Thoreau when he signed the law. “Wild horses merit protection as a matter of ecological right – as anyone knows who has stood awed at the indomitable spirit and sheer energy of a mustang running free.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Meet the author of “Mustang” at Copperfield’s Books

Critically acclaimed author Deanne Stillman comes to Copperfield’s Books, 138 N. Main St. in Sebastopol on Thursday, May 14, at 7 p.m to sign her latest book, "Mustang: The Saga of the Wild Horse in the American West" (Houghton Mifflin).

"Mustang" is a narrative nonfiction history of the wild horse on this continent, from prehistory through the present, with chapters about Cortes and the 16 horses that launched the conquest; the Battle of the Little Bighorn and the horse that survived it, and the ongoing war to wipe out the wild horse by way of massacres and round-ups. The LA Times named "Mustang" a "best book 2008," and it’s a winner of the California Book Award silver medal for 2008. It has gotten great reviews in the Atlantic Monthly, Orion, Economist, Seattle Times, NPR's On Point, and many other places. Michael Blake ("Dances with Wolves") calls it "stunning" and the late Tony Hillerman called it "remarkable."

Stillman began work on "Mustang" in 1998 after learning that 34 wild horses had been gunned down outside Reno at Christmas time. At the time, she was finishing up her book "Twentynine Palms: A True Story of Murder, Marines, and the Mojave," an LA Times "best book 01" which Hunter Thompson called "A strange and brilliant story by an important American writer." There was an arrest in the horse massacre; three of the accused were Marines and one was stationed at Twentynine Palms. Having grown up around horses, Deanne was drawn to the story. She spent 10 years on the wild horse trail, following it across time as it evolved in North America, went extinct and returned with conquistadors, partnered with Native Americans, fought our wars, blazed our trails, and continues to serve as our greatest icon of freedom.

"Mustang" has been a driver in the grassroots campaign to preserve wild horses and burros and is one of the things that led to the introduction of HR 1018, the new bill that seeks to expand wild horse and burro protection for the first time since 1971. Stillman has been traveling the country since her book was published, and has learned that when it comes to the mustang, most Americans agree: we must preserve our heritage.

Stillman will also be appearing at Readers’ Books in Sonoma on Tuesday, May 12, at 7:30 p.m.

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Fiction: Coyote Heart by Paula Margulies

Coyote Heart, by Paula Margulies, tells the story of Carolyn Weedman, a forty-year-old librarian trapped in a troubled marriage with a disabled husband. After a chance encounter with a widowed Pala Indian professor, Carolyn finds herself drawn into an unexpected love affair. Torn by conflicting feelings, she discovers a secret about her husband‚s past that forces her to confront her divided emotions and choose between the two men that she loves.

"A graceful story of love and redemption, Coyote Heart is a gift for all of us who grapple to understand the complexities of relationships.“ -Patricia Santana, author of Motorcycle Ride on the Sea of Tranquility and Ghosts of El Grullo

Set against the simmering backdrop of local politics on the Pala Indian Reservation, Coyote Heart explores the intricacies of illicit love and marriage, the strength that comes from sacrifice, and the courage to forgive the injuries of the past. The novel calls on several San Diego landscapes, including the Rancho Penasquitos preserve and the Pala Indian Reservation, to give the story a unique local flavor. Written with haunting natural imagery and lyrical prose, Coyote Heart tells a compelling tale of love and modern Native American culture.

“With Coyote Heart, Paula Margulies uses lyrical, yet restrained prose to take us into a world where the usual definitions will not fit˜where the personal and the political, even the human and the animal, become increasingly difficult to differentiate. This novel bravely explores the difference between a relationship that bends and one that breaks; it even suggests that a healed fracture is stronger than what was originally whole.” - Peter Rock, author of My Abandonment, The Bewildered, and The Unsettling


"Redemption is a destination we all hope to reach. Coyote Heart takes us on a wonderful journey, crossing cultural boundaries, toward that great human place." - Mark Trahant, Pulitzer Prize finalist and author of Pictures of Our Nobler Selves, a history of Native Americans in media.

-------------------------------
Dear Friends:

As many of you already know, my first novel, Coyote Heart, was picked up at the end of last year by Kirk House Publishers, a small press in Minneapolis, and is coming out this month (publication date is April 17). The book is now available for pre-order via Amazon.com and Barnes & Noble.com. Here's the Amazon link: http://www.amazon.com/Coyote-Heart-Paula-Margulies/dp/193379416X/ref=sr_1_13?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1238788055&sr=8-13

For those of you who know me well, this has been a long time coming -- I started writing the book in 2003, signed with an agent in 2005, and after it stayed for consideration with some houses for a very long time (some for over a year!), Coyote Heart finally found a home at Kirk House. I'm honored that this press is willing to take a chance on an unknown writer like me, and hope you'll order a copy to show your support for my kind editor and publisher.

Above is a brief description of the story and some endorsement reviews. I'm grateful to all my writing friends, reviewers, and, especially, my patient family, for their ongoing encouragement and support.

If you're able to buy the book, pass along this information to readers who might enjoy a San Diego love story, or even write a review on Amazon, I'll be eternally grateful!

All best and happy reading, Paula

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GRIEF DENIED: Pauline Laurent - Vietnam Widow's Story

Vietnam Memoir Finds a New Audience
Among Grieving Wartime Widows

Pauline Laurent’s “Grief Denied” is helping the spouses of those killed in the war on terrorism begin the healing process

Story by John P. Abbott

Pauline Laurent stumbled upon writing in an attempt to save her life. So depressed that she was on the verge of suicide, she began to pour out her feelings in the pages of a journal. Those rambling, heart-wrenching entries would eventually become “Grief Denied: A Vietnam Widow’s Story,” the first book of its kind about that era and one that has found a new audience today for those who have lost loved ones in the war on terrorism.

Laurent will talk about her experiences on Thursday, April 16 at 7 p.m. at the Petaluma Community Center, part of the Writers Forum that meets the third Thursday of each month. (see below)

A Certified Professional Life Coach, a gifted public speaker, and a workshop leader, Laurent had never dealt with the pain of the loss of her husband. “Grief Denied,” published in 1999, is an exploration of the price we pay when we hide, deny or delay grief.

Writing Her Way Out
Laurent grew up in a small town in southern Illinois before moving to Chicago where she met her husband, Howard Querry, III. He was drafted into the army, and soon after leaving for Vietnam was killed in combat. Two months pregnant at the time, Laurent buried her grief and got busy. She went back to college, got her degree in education, and eventually settled in Santa Rosa, where she accepted a job with Werner Erhard and Associates.

After three years of 70-hour work weeks, she quit her job due to exhaustion and stress. At the same time, she ended a relationship with a man she had been involved with for four years. “My life had been a series of losses and losing this significant career and relationship at the same time was too much to bear,” she recalls.

She plummeted into depression and became suicidal. Realizing that taking her life would destroy her daughter, she entered therapy; part of her recovery was writing about what she felt. “I did not consider myself a writer, but I discovered there was a lot inside of me that needed to come out. Writing became the container that could hold the feelings that were spilling out about Vietnam.”

A Story Taking on a Life of Its Own
She experienced an epiphany at a writing workshop a few months later. As part of a writing exercise, Laurent recounted the day she had been informed her husband had been killed – a story she had never told. “When the teacher asked who wanted to read I raised my hand. I was emotionally devastated: I would read a few words then sob, then read a few more and sob again. But it was a huge breakthrough for me. After that I felt like the story took on a life of its own. It wouldn’t leave me alone. It wanted to be told.”

As cathartic and compelling as Laurent’s story may have been, every agent and publisher that she approached rejected the book. When she shared her frustration in a crowded auditorium at a writing conference, a literary agent in the audience gave Laurent her business card and offered to look at her manuscript. That was the break that eventually led to the book’s publication.

The book garnered strong reviews and connected with people in all walks of life. Jonah Raskin, professor at Sonoma State University, called it “undeniably moving.” Publishers Weekly described it as a “direct and powerful memoir.” Bill Moyers, who invited Laurent to appear on his television show, said the broadcast “brought a remarkable response from so many people around the country.”

Finding a New Audience Today
The book’s influence continues to reverberate today. Laurent has been asked to lead several grief workshops for widows of troops killed in Iraq and Afghanistan. “I treat these women as if I were going back to myself as a young widow,” she says. “What did I need to know then? What would have the greatest impact?”

Laurent doesn’t consider herself a professional writer; instead, she thinks of herself as a “bright shining light” on the path of healing. “I don’t have the credentials or degrees that other writers have, but it’s not about the degrees you have or the people you know. We all have a story to tell and we can allow ourselves to tell our stories using whatever means and methods we can avail ourselves to.”

April 6 - On KRCB – Public Radio in Sonoma County, CA (streaming on the web)
at 9:00 am PDT. Pauline will be interviewed on Sonoma Spotlight. It is only a 5-minute interview so be tuned in early to hear her. She will be discussing the writing workshop she is leading on April 16 at 7:00 pm in Petaluma, CA. “The Courage to Write the Story That Scares You.”.

April 16 ~ The Courage to Write the Story that Scares You, Pauline Laurent
Writer's Forum ~ Supported by Poets & Writers, Inc. through a grant it has received from the
Hearst Foundation. $15 at the door. 7:00-9:00 pm at Petaluma Community Center, Luchessi Park, 320 No. McDowell Blvd., Petaluma ~ www.theWriteSpot.us


For more information about Pauline Laurent visit www.griefdenied.com and www.gutsycoaching.com.

For more information about the Writers Forum visit www.thewritespot.us or email mcullen@comcast.net.

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Jonathon Lipsin goes to Washington D.C. for the Inaurguration

Jonathon Lipson, of Incredible Records in Sebastopol, goes to Washington D.C. for Barrack Obama's Presidential Inauguration and Lives to Tell the Tale.

JONATHON LIPSIN GOES TO WASHINGTON !
By Jonathon Lipsin

As I got ready to go to the inauguration, I dropped off to say goodbye to Rico, the donkey who lives across the street from our house in Sebastopol. I always favored Rico as a democratic animal and wondered if the symbolism was lost on him. Anyway, Rico gave me a nuzzle, and I climbed in the car to drive to the airport for the flight to Washington D.C.

You may think that I’m drinking the Kool-Aid, but this past week at the inaugural has been one of the greatest moments in my life and there have been many. I have always gone for a peak experience and I was not disappointed.

America had arrived by plane, train, car, and bus, some two and a half million people from Bayou Teche in Louisiana, London, England, Minnesota, Alabama and California. We had come to take America back, it seemed to me, and we were proud, hopeful and resolute as we sensed the veil of exclusiveness was finally drifting away into a sea of irrelevancy. Change was in the air and it was exhilarating! An American revolution was taking place and we were the foot soldiers come to witness its becoming and its grace.

Love, pride and kindness were the passwords this weekend as we stood in freezing cold weather daring to watch a dream come to fruition. Black America was merging with white and reaching out and embracing like never before. The chasm was closing in one Kumbaya moment and my family was poised to revel in it as we dug into our marrow to emanate a hearty yea!

I thought back to when I was 16 and had experienced a portion of black life in America, albeit a very small and quaint slice. That late summer I had decided to receive the baptism of life on the road and set out to see North America by dint of my thumb, my wits and my unabashed earnestness. I hitched from Montreal, Canada, my hometown, across to Vancouver, then down to Berkeley and across the U.S.A. It was in a small town in Utah, a place I have since forgotten, that I chanced upon a black kid, a bit older than me, sorrowful and hanging by the highway with a sense of futility. His name was Monroe and he hailed from New York State, near Buffalo and he was heading across the country in a bid to visit his relatives in Alabama. I allowed how I had never been down south and I was eager to hook up with him if he agreed. He gave me a derisive look and flatly told me my chances of even getting out of this state were slim hitching with a black guy.

Let me describe how I looked during this period of my life. My hair was the stuff of legend. It was probably the world’s largest ‘fro, sticking out from my head in any which direction culminating in an arc down to my shoulders. My jeans were earmarked with colorful patches, one of which was the American flag hung ceremoniously on my buttocks. I carried a small backpack whose contents revealed a mess kit with baggies of rolled oats, peanuts and raisins. My reading library consisted of Kerouac’s “Dharma Bums”, Allen Ginsburg’s “Howl”, and a Woody Guthrie songbook aptly named “Hard Hitting Songs For Hard Hitting People.” Also included in afore-mentioned pack was a genuine Marine Band blues harp in the key of A. Yeah, I deadpanned, “wait ‘til the rednecks find out I’m Jewish!”

At that moment we became fast friends of the road. He had been there all day waiting for a ride. The monotony was broken only by racial epithets hurled at him from pickup truck windows. He was alone with his color in a world not of his choosing.

A sheriff stopped his shiny car with the flashing light and sternly warned that if we set foot into town we would be arrested. That night we hunkered down to a can of beans we heated up by a makeshift hobo fire. We sat up all night talking about our different lives and a hope that racism would abate in our lifetime. The next morning a ferocious dust storm hit and it was all we could do to huddle down in a gully covered by our blankets. I felt exhilarated! Wow a real dust storm like the kind Woody Guthrie would sing about.

We finally got a ride out of there and Monroe and I traveled all the way to Alabama. We were met with hostile stares and ugly looks. This was just two years after Martin Luther King was shot. There we were, a sight to be seen, a Jewish kid with a huge ‘fro and a black kid with a peace sign necklace. I took in the tarpaper shacks, the abject poverty, the southern mansions on the right side of town, and I felt the land reeked with a putrid evil.

Monroe had a fever to hop a freight train, and we parted ways, hugging and saying farewell. Monroe and I never saw each other again but I would like him to know that I think we’re making it, from those long ago hobo kids in 1970 in the Deep South to a new American beginning. I ducked into the Birmingham bus station and slicked down my hair in the bathroom, emerging a slightly more benign sight, and promptly bought a bus ticket back to Canada.

Two days before the inauguration, Susy and I were on the National Mall to watch the concert with Springsteen, John Legend, Stevie Wonder, Beyonce and Pete Seeger. The first time I had seen Pete, I was probably three or four years old at a Montreal concert my father had produced. The next time was at my left wing summer camp when I was 6. It was perfect that Pete would close out this inaugural performance and I confidently intimated to the people around me, “I bet he’ll sing ‘This Land Is Your Land.’” He did and as I closed my eyes and sang with the crowd, I surely felt Woody and Leadbelly singing along with us. Their time had come. I couldn’t help but feel how great this country is!

The next day we waited once again for seven long hours in freezing temperatures, to see Aretha Franklin perform for free at the Kennedy Center. If we were crazy, then we were all crazy driven to the nth degree by our zeal. The more we waited, the stronger we bonded as we shared stories and food with people from different parts of America but all with the same conviction. I stood entranced as I listened to Elvira, a spry elder from South Carolina, matter of factly recite her whole family legend beginning with her great great grandfather, a runaway slave who escaped the plantation to join the Union Navy.

Ironically also in line was a pastor from the same town, but white, who told of his great great grandfather who was a colonel in the Confederate Army along with his five sons. These two from the same small town in South Carolina had never met until now, and I marveled at the vagaries of history that brought us altogether standing in line waiting for Aretha on Martin Luther King, Jr. Day.

Later in line a man jumped on a box to spout rhetorical hatred about Whitey and revolution. The crowd, some thousands of people mostly black, were unfazed but I wondered how this would turn out. Just then a voice behind me started to sing in a wavering but determined voice, “We Shall Overcome.” It was Elvira! A shiver went through me, and a lump swelled in my throat. Pretty soon others picked it up and we all started singing the song that Dr. King taught us and by then the preacher of hate was drowned out and he scurried off as we all came together in a truly righteous way.

These events I describe to you I will never forget. They are etched in my memory forever as we came away from Washington with a great many friends. Just yesterday, Larufus, a woman we met in a line with her mother, left a message wondering if we made it home ok.

Those of us who were there changed that week. We were awash in human kindness and camaraderie as we realized we were all in the same boat and we had to watch out for each other. Susy said a wonderful thing when she enthused “I wish every day could be like this day!”

One thing that struck me was how many young people were there. In fact they were the majority, the under thirties who had eschewed their lattes to come out and vote and take charge. Yes it’s a new generation rising and that gives me hope.

An African-American woman told me recently that her heart felt like a thousand hands were clapping inside. For 400 years we have waited for this and I never thought I would see it in my lifetime, she confided to me.

Thank you Barack!

When I returned back home to the sleepy town of Sebastopol I was so tired I immediately curled up in our warm bed. The next morning I awoke to the gentle bray of Rico the donkey and I smiled as I sensed everything will be ok.


Joanathon Lipsin owns Incredible Records in downtown Sebastopol. He's currently working on a book about his incredible life experiences.

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