DREAMING
Georgialee Granger

I wake up drenched in sweat. What is the meaning of this dream?

I’m walking down the street in downtown Cleveland, Ohio. I stop to look in a music supply store. A red-headed lady dressed in a gold and red print chiffon dress is playing a piano. A strange piano. There are no black and white keys. Where the keyboard should be is a strip of fabric resembling a sand bar. Yet the lady is playing as if she knew where her fingers should be on the bar to create the melody.

“How can you do that?” I ask.

“Come with me. I’ll show you."

We walk out the back door through an alley behind an ancient white walled city. She opens a black rustic door in the wall. We step into an apartment furnished with elegant nineteenth century antiques of highly polished dark mahogany wood covered in fine multicolored tapestry upholstery. She introduces me to her sister with blonde hair piled high in a bun and attired in a green and blue chiffon dress.

“Hello,” she says. “We’re going out to celebrate our anniversary.”

I don’t ask what anniversary. I seem to know. We step through a door of the walled city and find ourselves on a broad street with trolley tracks. The sisters disappear without telling me how I could play on a piano with a sand bar instead of a normal keyboard.

The trolley tracks disappear, leaving me on a rutted clay road beside an excavation revealing a massive Greek marble statue lying on it’s side and broken columns strewn around. Just what I’ve been looking for. But wait. Before I go further I must call my parents in Wilmette, Illinois to tell them I’m alright. I’ve just lost my way going exploring. Something’s wrong with my cell phone though. The numbers on the key pad are not in order. They skip around. Number one skips to five, then to seven, then to four, and then to three. I keep trying different combinations to produce the correct phone number. No luck! Suddenly my engineer/inventor son from Columbus, Ohio appears.

“No problem, Mom. This is the way you do it.”

I try, but I can’t do it. Jim shows me again. Once more I try. Still can’t do it. I’m getting frustrated. Jim shows me again. No luck this time either. I’m breaking out in a sweat. That’s when I wake up.

June Assignment
Lucy Weisman
HOSTILITIES

It’s springtime, the year 1981. My husband, Jay, our son, Gary, and I stand here on the Memorial structure that straddles the hull of the sunken ship, U.S.S. Arizona. On this magnificent day, the shimmering ocean reflects a clear blue sky that is broken by only a fleecy cloud here and there. I look into the deep blue water. Despite the serene surrounding atmosphere and balmy Hawaiian weather, I feel a chill go down my spine. I remember that this is a grave site.

I stand here and envision the carnage that took place at this very spot at 8:10 AM on that December day when The Arizona was struck by a number of Japanese torpedoes and a 1,760 pound armor-piercing bomb slammed through the deck igniting the ammunition magazines. The ship burst into flame, split in half and sank within 9 minutes. Most of the crew went down with the ship, mortally wounded; some still alive, their bodies broken, mangled, bleeding. I can almost hear the screams, the groans, the moans and finally the deafening silence of those 1,102 Arizona crewmen who went to their watery grave right here.

On that fateful day, December 7, 1941, the Imperial Japanese forces, without warning, struck our warships in Pearl Harbor, wreaking pandemonium, pure hell and plunging us into World War 11. In all, seven of our warships in Pearl Harbor were sunk that day by the Japanese, and a total of 2897 Americans were killed. Oh, those damned Japs!

As I stand at the railing, the waves softly slap-slapping against the structure; a flood of memories go swimming through my brain:
I remember seeing clusters of stunned people standing on the street, faces anxiety ridden, holding newspapers with banner headlines that read:

“Japanese Strike Pearl Harbor”
I remember hearing our President, Franklin D. Roosevelt, as he spoke to us over National Broadcast Radio and uttered the words: “This Day Will Live in Infamy!”
I remember seeing young men and young women, standing tall, proudly wearing their smart military uniforms.
I remember being young with handsome young men in military uniform flirting with me; and having fun with them at the U.S.O. dances.
I remember Victory Gardens.
I remember Ration Books, allowing only limited amounts of commodities, such as beef and sugar, and Oleo Margarine substituting for non-existent butter; gasoline in short supply. Housing in short supply. Shortages everywhere, but we didn’t complain too much. Everyone was pitching in, doing our bit for the war effort.
I remember hearing that horrid so-called “Tokyo Rose,” spewing hateful propaganda over Tokyo Radio, attempting to demoralize our troops.
I remember seeing Gold Stars placed in windows of American homes, denoting that a loved one had been lost in battle; would never be coming back home.
I remember...I remember...

I stand at the railing, the waves slap, slapping... mesmerizing me ...I feel myself slipping into a kind of day-dream. I wonder what it must have been like being an adventurous young sailor stationed in the paradisiacal Hawaiian Islands in peacetime... the spirit of Aloha everywhere; a “plum” assignment.
That December 7 day dawned calm, bright, and especially beautiful. It was Sunday...the day of rest, a break in routine. I muse what might have been on the minds of the crewmen who were to have had the day off. What plans did they have for this day? Maybe go ashore to spend the day lounging on the beach at Waikiki; maybe go to church; maybe do some Christmas shopping; maybe have a date, go dancing and romancing at the large Royal Hawaiian Hotel; maybe listen to lovely Hawaiian melodies strummed on Ukuleles by men dressed in white, colorful leis around their necks, and lithesome young women in grass skirts, softly singing while performing the Hula, hips swaying, their long, shiny black, hair swishing across their bare backs, colorful leis around their necks and flower wreaths around their heads and ankles... An arresting sight...Enough to make a young sailor’s head swim with pleasure.

The waves softly slap-slapping... I think of the names engraved on the marble memorial tablets in the shrine down below, names beginning with the letter “A”...Aaron, Hubert Charles Titus, F2c and concluding with the letter “Z”...Zwarun, Michael, J. S1c....all young sailors and marines with their lives ahead of them... until that fateful day, December 7, 1941. I feel my throat tighten, my eyes well up. The Japanese... I have hated them all of these years; not only for what they did here, but for all the pain and suffering of those war years, as well as for the aftermath of that war..

Jay gently rests his hand on my shoulder. As we turn from the railing, I see among the other tourists, an elderly Japanese couple; the woman dressed in a simple cotton print kimono. Deep pain registers on both of their faces; their shoulders droop. Our eyes meet. They bow to us. We return the bow. “People”, I think, “The Japanese are just people ...much like us.” My hostility melts away.

A CHALLENGE
Georgialee Granger

She can’t use a mouse, but with two fingers she can use a touch pad on the computer. Her throat muscles are so constricted that her husband has to translate for her. She wants me to teach her how to enhance her pictures on the computer. How can this be possible?

We begin anyway. She slowly moves to use the tools to adjust the lightness and darkness. Then she adjusts the color balance. Next the saturation and the lightness. She creates a layer to make a gradient. It’s slow, but she can do anything a person with no disabilities can do on a computer.

Since coming to the photo lab on her scooter with her husband’s help is so time consuming I suggest that my friend Sandra Smolinsky, who comes to the home to teach, might better finish with the more advanced procedures. She still communicates with me regularly on the computer. We’ve become good friends.

Patricia Lockwood tells me her story.

She was diagnosed with ALS in 1992, and slowly became bedridden. She spent six years in bed taking various experimental drugs. Finally she decided that the drugs might be the cause of many of her limitations. After doing research on the computer she learned that 50% of her symptoms were caused by medication. Her diagnosis was changed from ALS to primary lateral sclerosis characterized by increasing muscle weakness, loss of speech, problems swallowing, loss of balance and the ability to walk. She had thought she was dying, but she realized she could live a meaningful life after all.

Her children bought her a Mac computer, and she became adept at sending emails. She began shopping on line. She had been an artist all her life. She now shops on line for art supplies and stained glass for her business. She creates large oil paintings on commission. She joined the Art Association in Laguna Woods Village and started painting in earnest. She joined the portraits workshop and takes photos which she downloads on her computer at home, prints them out,and referring to them, composes her paintings. On her trusty laptop she researches images of the forties and fifties, the time frame of the musical instruments and style of dress for the musicians - even to the narrow neckties and derby hats.

Pat and her husband Bill joined the Camera club and the Computer club of Laguna Woods to learn more about digital photography. She now makes large prints of her paintings with the help of the instructors in the digital imaging lab.

Something Different
By Sandra Cable
Pierre awakes slowly. He feels as though he’s fighting his way upwards from something deep and clingy. Why am I so groggy? Eventually his room comes into focus; the same untidy mess as before with clothing strewn about, blank canvases stacked all over and a sour odor from last night’s wine or was it the night before?
Pierre knows he must get busy. His agent, George, will come by soon wanting some paintings to sell. He rises slowly from the bed, feeling old (even though he is in his 30’s) looking out, not immune to the beauty below and beyond his window. Yes, the Left Bank of Paris is the place for him and this room is a perfect place to work; the light and the scenery outside so well suited to his needs. If only he didn’t feel so bad, he could get a lot done. That fever he had a few weeks ago left him weak and uncomfortable. Yet, he had no choice. The work waited no matter how he felt. Paris in the spring could be beautiful; but he is just not feeling well. His art has always been his life. He's lived in poverty, but as long as he could paint, it was enough.

Without thinking of breakfast, he starts to work with total absorption. He ignores the needs of his body for nourishment and begins squeezing out the brilliant colors on his palette. Soon he has a riot of colors before him. He thinks of painting with these very bright colors. Ah, but people would say, that’s not art, it’s just a bunch of paint. Pierre knows his eyesight is going and he cannot see to paint precise figures on a canvas; instead he blends colors and varies the strokes between fine and broad. The splashes of color satisfy him and all he sees is the breathtaking beauty in his mind’s eye.
Yes, this new method of painting is so satisfying to him. Although he’s been working for hours, he can’t stop. He feels caught up in the need to produce this beauty he imagines in his very soul. Through his teary eyes he sees it all as if after a sudden rain shower and all is shiny and bright but softly out of focus. He checks the clock on the wall. Have I really been working so long? I never had breakfast and now the light is starting to fade. Where has the time gone? He gets up and checks for some food. There’s not much except some half-moldy cheese and crusts of dried bread. There is no wine left except a few dregs at the bottom of the bottle. It would have to do. He knows Amie, his landlady, would give him something to eat; but he’s reluctant to leave his work while he is in the midst of such artistic fervor.
He works until dark. To him, these new paintings look like masterpieces. This is the method he wanted to use for some time. People like George, who profess to be experts in art, look down on this style of art. With all this beauty, how could anyone not love it? Tomorrow he’ll do some more. He feels supremely confident that others will come to appreciate his new style of painting. He can’t afford the fare to travel out to the country where so many other artists go, so he’ll have to work from memory. Also, he doesn’t have the energy. His legs feel unsteady and so do his hands.

In the morning he’s even weaker than before. Amie knocks on his door. The aroma that accompanies her makes his mouth water. “I knew it," she says, “You haven’t eaten, and you’ll starve yourself if I don’t remind you to eat.” The hot chocolate is fragrant. Fresh baked croissants steamed in a basket, with little pots of jam from her own kitchen. “Now eat it while it’s hot, won’t you.” She smiles at him with affection. He’s her favorite tenant and will remain so as long as he can pay for the room. He thanks her absent mindedly and kisses her rosy cheek. Pierre sips some of the chocolate and takes a pinch of croissant. Then he’s back to his canvas. How wonderful this is, how bright and brilliant the colors; Well, he can almost smell the fragrance of his flowers.

That evening, the food still sits where he left it; ignored by the urgent desire to create more and more paintings. This new style suits him. He uses color and texture to define the painting, rather than careful lines. You have to step back to see the whole picture and then it is magnificent. He’s completed twelve paintings and has run out of blank canvases. As soon as George comes by, he’ll get the money to do more. Pierre looks at the food and drink. They are covered with flies, and ants have made a trail to his table top. He leaves them where they are and falls down into his bed.

The next morning George is standing in his room. He’s sent down for Amie to remove the spoiled food and is shaking Pierre’s shoulder. “Get Up! What’s the matter with you? What do you call this work? Whatever it is, it isn’t art. And get a hold of yourself. You don’t look good.” He puts his hand on Pierre’s hot forehead, pulling it back angrily. “Now you’ve gotten yourself sick, you fool, haven’t you got any sense?” Pierre starts to rise but he’s weak and his eyes can hardly focus. He lies back down and is soon asleep.

After a while, he dreams of sitting with his easel and paints in fields of flowers. He can paint anything he wants and in any style he prefers. He’s happy now. Somehow he feels no pain and everything he sees is fresh and lovely.

The beauty he sees gladdens his heart and he is delighted to be in this golden world. Later he floats up above his bed and does not question this new ability. What a marvelous dream he’s having. He’s up around the ceiling of his room and people are down there below him. They don’t see him drifting above them. Amie is crying. He sees himself lying still in his bed, and a doctor is examining him and then he steps back and shakes his head. Soon they cover Pierre’s head and everyone leaves his room.

Pierre is not upset by what he has seen. All that is beyond him now. He can see clearly again. All around him is light and beauty. He smiles and thinks “Paradise Found.”

George has come back to Pierre’s room. The room is empty of all but the bright paintings. He looks at all of them and sees only splashes of gaudy color. “John, take the canvases. Paint over these messy things and do some proper work. You can use this room. Pierre won’t need it anymore. Nobody is going to buy impressionist paintings, they’re nothing but crap.”

June Writing Exercise – Burt Baum

The first time that Clarissa was aware that she had this gift (or curse, depending on how she was feeling) was when she was a sophomore in college. She was sitting in the dorm lounge with her roommate, Ann, who was waiting for Tom, a boy in medical school, to pick her up for their first date. Clarissa remembered the sound of his footsteps as he walked into the room. She was blind so every sensory cue was important. But Clarissa felt something beyond the sounds and smells. It was some form of energy. Maybe a vibration or a wave. And it was flowing between Ann and Tom. Whatever it was Clarissa knew that it would keep these two people together for a long time.