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.

Sarah
By Pat Garrison

These facts are known: Zechariah Simms was born in 1599AD in Canterbury, Kent County, England. He married Sarah Baker before 1634AD in Canterbury. He was a minister, probably a Puritan, and he brought his wife to Charleston, Massachusetts. They had three children, Mary, Rebecca, and Zechariah Jr., all born in the Colonies. He died there in 1670. No further record of Sarah, Mary, or Rebecca has been found to date. The rest is fiction.

And so it begins, our story…. the story of my grandparents almost four centuries removed. It is early May in the year of our Lord, 1634AD

A fine mist of sea spray mingles with the tears glistening on the young wife’s cheek. Wed but four months. Against her will. A man twice her years. Sarah Baker anxiously searches the open sea behind her for one last glimpse of Liverpool, barely visible now through the light fog.

Farewell Mother, good by friends, my home, my home… How could you do this to me Father? Bind me to this man, to send me so far away. If this man were truly a man of God, he would not tear me from everything I know and love.

Sarah stands at the rail of the three-masted schooner, her knuckles white where she clutches the teak, oblivious to all but the fast receding shoreline. Gulls that circled in the wake of the small wooden ship drop back one by one returning to the safety of shore.

Will this speck of wood and canvas hold? The sea so vast, the journey so long. What know I of being a wife? A mother? Word from Charlestown is starvation, savages, diseases, and fifth. I want to go home. I want this child born in Canterbury. The new world is no place for a baby. I want my mother. Is this what’s to be, to die? To lose everything and everyone.

As the sailing vessel eases its way into the deeper blue water of open ocean, a light wind stirs from the east filling the sails. Sarah draws her scarf closer to ward off the chill; Zechariah approaches. His hand brushes her elbow and she stiffens at his touch.

“Come now, wife”, he says, not unkindly. “We must gets thee below before illness befall thee. There is not more to see this day, England is beyond the horizon. She is our past, our future lies ahead of us.”

He gently pries her fingers loose from the rail, one by one, and she allows herself to be lead across the deck, and below, down the passageway to their cabin.

The unborn child moves for the first time, a butterfly awaking from a cocoon, as if responding to Zechariah’s voice.

“ I pledge to thee to be a good and gentle husband, to provide for thee, and for any family we may have, to build a home, and make a life with thee and only thee”.

Perchance this new life will be pleasing. The babe be not afraid of its father, I shall take heart.

And Sarah gave Zechariah the first of many shy smiles.

The ground under my roots is beginning to cool slightly. They seem so dry - but the water will come - later - to soothe them. No more metallic ping sounds, no crushing and smashing from the tires for today. Straightening up is harder as the days get hotter. It would be easier to just lay…flat. Ahhh... a slight breeze rustling through my blades.

Oh, I can feel it, they're beginning to arrive; the sensation of two larger indentations. They’re determined and direction focused, connected with four smaller, faster moving ones. So much more gentle than those wheels. And now…from another direction, six more...and another from over there…vibrations from the south. Familiar bending like other evenings, no effort needed to assure survival.

Suddenly that freezing sensation...then slow drips seeping into just one small community of runners. It wasn't the regular gentle wafting of sprinkling cool she longed for. That would come later…she hoped…

Oh…there's four thunder paws being chased by eight …. no, twelve more, they've turned and stopped… What's wrong? … They must be watching something…. Way over there…very slight sensations of eight dime size pads… I strain to catch the rapid excitement that gives such pleasure while the almost full moon rises. Yes, the Chihuahuas are here! The romping continues, more ice and water are spilled, accidentally quenching a few roots.

The larger, heavier pairs of feet stand close together. Now they seem lighter and more relaxed, as the smaller ones that come in fours frolic and roll on my plushness. The sprinklers will soon help me spruce up the tatters and tears of the day's golfers ready for another summer evening spreading myself out to enjoy.

Kathleen Rubin