STUPID THINGS
By Cecile Betts

Everyone, I suspect, at one time or another does something embarrassing, gauche, or in plain words, stupid. After becoming legally blind in the year 2000, I began compiling material for a future book, which I titled STUPID THINGS I HAVE DONE SINCE I’VE BEEN BLIND. A portion of this book may be found on the internet in the 2007 Summer Edition of Blind Californian, a quarterly journal published by the California Council of the Blind in several formats including a Braille edition. However, two recent happenings are not in that issue, which includes incidents provided by some of my friends as well as the stupid things I did myself. They are usually not funny at the time but seem more humorous in retrospect.
For instance. Not long ago, I sat at my breakfast bar and ate a cookie and enjoyed some fruit juice. As I stood up, I saw something dark move on the kitchen floor. Although I can not read even large type, or recognize people, I do see motion. I immediately dropped a napkin on top of it and repeatedly stamped the “critter” to be sure I killed it. When I finally swept up the carcass I found I’d thoroughly killed a piece of the chocolate chip cookie, which fell to the floor when I stood up.
More recently, I shampooed my hair and wanted to use an Ultra White rinse, which keeps my white hair a sparkling white. I reached for the plastic bottle with the little pouring spout which folds flat on the bottle cap. I lifted the spout and sprinkled the contents liberally on my still damp hair.
I reached in the vanity drawer and found my hair brush and brushed my hair. I felt bewildered when a white powder cascaded in front of my face. I looked at the container with a magnifying glass and found I’d sprinkled a powder used to treat Athlete’s Foot on my hair.. Well, I can certify that my head does not suffer from Athlete’s Foot.

Dave Blodgett
The main auditorium of the Anaheim Convention Center is packed with delegates to the national convention of choral directors. All seats are taken. Standees fill every space around three walls. The applause is pervasive, reverberating, sustained. Like nothing I have ever experienced in twenty years of choral singing.
Our conductor, a diminutive little black man who demanded more of us than we could possibly deliver but did, takes bow after bow. He is Jester Hairston, leading exponent and performer of Negro spirituals. We have rocked the premises with “Wade in the Water,” as we trudge across the Ohio River to freedom with slave children on our backs. Many of us drown, but the bloodhounds lose our scent in deep waters.
“Wade in the water.
“Wade in the water children.
“Wade in the water.
“God’s gonna trouble the water.
“Jordan’s water is chilly and cold.
“It chills the body but not the soul.
“If you get there before I do.
“Tell all my friends I’m coming too.
“God’s gonna trouble the water.”
The singing is a capella and superb. Maestro Hairston is a magician. We are torn up inside as we drown in the waters of the Ohio. Powerful dynamics. Wailing sopranos and altos. Booming basses. Crashing crescendos. Singing with one voice.
We are wading in the water with Jester. The last note. A moment of total reverential silence. Then thunderous applause from hundreds of choir directors. A truly Maslowian high. A wave of euphoria overwhelms us. The mystery and magic of joining our voices as one in tribute to those brave men, women and children fleeing slavery. We are with them and would not want to be any other place on Earth.

July Writing assignment: This is what I am, what I was meant to be
By Pat Hecht/Patricia

Pat Hecht: Flagstaff Woman of the Year. The January 1, 2003 Flagstaff Daily Sun headlines announced to the city what I had known, and found hard to believe, for two weeks. For 8 years I had been the volunteer Director of the Flagstaff Family Food Center
because at one of our board meetings the former Director had told us she had to have a hip replacement and was tendering her resignation. “You could do that.” My husband said. Sure I was a good organizer, I’d worked with the Salvation Army helping less fortunate people in Phoenix and I was good at fund raising. But I didn’t know much about hiring or firing people, meal planning, especially when the meals had to be made with donated over ripe produce that needed to be used today, maintaining a stead supply of volunteer help, or arbitrating the needs of overly stressed under paid members of this community. My husband always encouraged me to “Do something, even if it’s wrong.”
I believe it’s never too late to learn so I accepted the challenge.

Now I stood before the selection committee to accept their congratulations and tell them a little about what I did to gain this honor. I felt like Rudolf the Red Nose reindeer. I was the one out front getting all the glory, but the ones who really pulled the load and made the project a success were the board members, the staff, the community volunteers, the everyman who donated money and the less fortunate members of the community who came to eat at our place every day and provided the other side of the equation, the receiving which is just as important as the giving. I have been truly blessed.

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.