It's hard to say whether Robert Turnbull loved solving manufacturing problems, golf or Scotch whiskey the most. He was born in Scotland and although he had come to Canada thirty years before in search of work, his accent was so pronounced that we teased him about going to Berlitz language school to keep it sharp. He was very fond of his kilt in which he strutted to show off his beautiful knees on his short stout frame. He had to remove his glasses whenever he wanted to see details on things up close. When the workers at his casting company threatened to go out on strike he moved the end of the contract from the beginning of deer-hunting season to the week before Christmas. No on wanted to be out of work that week! His favorite poet was Robert Burns and he would quote him at length. He worked hard and played hard and was always up to bet on anything. People played mental games with him on the golf course to make him lose his concentration and miss a putt to lose a match. But at the nineteenth hole he would stroke his mustache and with a single malt scotch in his hand he'd smile and raise his glass with his favorite toast:"All the Best"

July Assignment
1
The Depression
To Roger Blair the depression was never an abstraction, a time recorded in dusty history books. He lived it. He never forgot the first day there was no food, the feel of his mother’s slap on his cheek when he kept begging for milk, the pain in his stomach as he cried himself to sleep. He knew then, at the age of six, that, no matter what, when he grew up he would always have milk and bread and the money to buy it.

2
The Letter

He noticed the signature first. There was no “Love” written above it--just the name at the end--and he knew that it meant “good-bye”.
“Everything you said over the phone was true.” (I deceived you. I lied to you. I no longer love you. I want out.)
“I’ll never forget the things we did and the places we visited.” (No sorrow. No apology. No mention of broken promises.)
It read as if it had been written by a robot who meticulously copied it from a cheap version of “Letters for All Occasions”. He had been an escort who provided some sexual diversion. In six months she wouldn’t remember his name. He tore it into small pieces and then burned it, but its neural pathway was carved into his brain and, despite all his efforts, could not be obliterated.

SUNRISE

It is 5:00 am. We are sitting on a rock near the edge of the Grand Canyon awaiting the sunrise. It is early March; there is snow on the ground and it is very cold. We have found our way here from our Lodge by flashlight to a spot away from other buildings. Over there, on the north rim, a small light appears. Someone is awake.

To our left the ground falls away into the depths. We know there is a void, invisible in the dark. The river far below roars and foams through the rapids but we cannot see or hear it.

The moonlight is fading; a faint glow appears in the East. We wait. The light grows brighter Then a very thin line of red appears. It is the sun. Now some more red, and more light. In the Canyon the shapes of red and white buttes appear. Quickly – almost too quickly – the sun rises to reveal more and more of the world around and below us. The void now becomes a panorama of shapes and forms extending down and down into the depths.

This was an ancient seabed which was drained and then lifted up. The accumulated sands and minerals became sandstone and limestone. Then the river cut it open to reveal the world beneath.

Off to the east is a place called Monument Valley where all of the soft seabed materials have been blown away leaving only spires of hardened rock. Elsewhere the wind and rain and water have revealed a world of canyons of slickrock which here and there have left natural arches of sandstone. The desert appears to have been painted by a celestial hand.

But that is only geology. We are here to experience the majesty of a new day when the canyon shows itself as a living, breathing place in the natural world which we can only try to comprehend.

Back to the Lodge through the snow. We are not alone! There ahead of us two coyotes silently move through the trees, twenty feet apart, looking for a rabbit who might mistakenly choose the new daylight as a time to come out of his burrow.

The world at daybreak has its own wonders.

Fred Strong

 Leveta Terrace

               by Reiss duPlessis

“One day, my neighborhood will go up in value and my house will be worth lots of money.” She had no doubt. She was not prone to doubt...about anything she considered worth her time and thought. She took great pride in her ability to “cut away the fat and get to the meat” of any subject. She loved discussion that became debate and was not one to lose gracefully. She was not one to lose.

She managed to live in her decaying hill-top castle for more years than  most women who found themselves alone after 65 years of marriage would have. The changes in the neighborhood did not deter her. Her slower reflexes and reactions behind the wheel of her aging car did not slow her regular runs to the discount stores. Even the removal of one lung because of cancer after 50 years of smoking, did not end  her daily forays into the world... her world that was west of downtown Los Angeles and east of Hollywood. It was her neighborhood, her domain. It had everything she wanted or needed, only minutes from her hilltop.  She was the mistress of her manor and her world was good.

One day, however, worried about her safety, her failing health and her ability to maneuver the bustling streets about her, her daughters, forced the issue she dreaded most, she had to sell the house and move with them to San Diego. Life as she designed and lived it was over. She, weeks before she died, said to me, “Even the grass down here in Sad Diego does not grow the way it does in my neighborhood. I hate it!”

Yesterday, I drove by her house on the hill. The decades of brush she had allowed to grow was gone, the house was surrounded by scaffolding and it was smiling down on the streets below telling the world, I am here, I am still beautiful and after my makeover by the make-up artists of carpentry, painting and landscaping, you will again see me as my mistress did. When is she coming home? 

POTTERING AT BOARDERS
frances costikyan

Everyone was there
Moms and Dads
Girls and Boys
Teenagers—some with
a parent in tow—a salting of grandparents,
single moms with bouncing youngsters,
many wearing black rimmed glasses,
some with pointed witches' hats,
and dozens and dozens with wands
not to mention capes and an occasional
painted face,
here and there a child
so tired he or she wanted to go home.

Everyone was eager for midnight,
and uncertain where to wait.
Colored wristbands distributed
earlier in the day...crimson for
first, grey second, then blue, green
and lastly purple, were intended to help
...but the puzzle was where to group?
People snaked through the book stacks, asking
each other "is this right?" The two sales people
on hand to direct the throng
didn't seem to know how
to manage a crowd. One kept saying
"move to the back," but nobody wanted
to be in the back, and wandered front
and it was easy to lose a companion,
so there was much ringing of cell phones
and calling back and forth.

Everyone joined in the countdown—ten, nine, eight,
seven six, five four three two one—
with a cheer for midnight as dollys appeared trundling cartons marked:
"Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows."
Considering the muddle of muggles waiting, the room cleared
quite quickly as buyers moved forward to claim their copy at a check-out.

Everyone had something to say about
being part of a world wide event.
One young girl told of a cousin
in Bangalore India who had already finished the book.
A teenager in New York City read right through the night
going to bed at eight the next
morning after turning the last page.

July 2007
laguna woods