Literary Editor Kathi Foy

Business Editor Carol Morphew

Art Editor Sandy Heinen

Layout Editor Cathy Sweeney

Advisor Sister Margery Smith, C.S.J.

Round Table Kate Blau, Idelia Brown, Colleen Curran, Anita Eikens, Mary Hotz, Chris Iversen, Martha Jesmer, Mary Joki, Terri Miller, Rosie Sipe, Sandra Spanier, Mary Jo Stanislav, Suzie Stewart, Barbara Zivojnovich, Pat Pnewski

Contest Consultants Sister Margery Smith, Sister Mary Virginia Micka, Carole Fisher ARISTON The College of St. Catherine St. Paul, Minnesota Spring, 1974

Contents The Not-So-Good Morning Terri Miller 3 "The Ballad of Fresca" Kate Blau 9 "Last Night" Helen FitzGibbon 12 "Merlin" Barb Sagstetter 12 "Am I Afraid of Anything?" You Ask Connie Perry 14 One-Night Stand Mary Hotz 16 "The Clear-Sparkling Water Rushed Impatiently" Helen FitzGibbon 19 "Discovery" Pat Wolff 20 "Lake Superior at Night" Mary Joki 21 "Lady Shawn of Ireland" Kate Blau 22 The Liberation of Madame Bovary Angela Molenaar 23 "Sunday P M " Linda Hendrix 25 No Way Back Roxie Mueller 27 "The Escape" Christine Iversen 31 Squirrels in St. Catherine's College Sister M. Assumpta Nwulu 32 "The Joker" Jane Herrick 33 "The Smack Alas!" Jeanice Hyland 33 "Like Nails, Like Thorns" Kate Blau 35 "The Bombing" Christine Iversen 36 "White Flight" Mary Hotz 37 "Garbage Removal" Anita Eikens 38 A Critical Look at Louis in The Waves Kathy Kretch 39 "The Green Room" Christine Iversen 43 "Reflections on an evening discussion with Joan, Susan and Hermina or Chez Moi" Sandy Spanier 44 "Crime in the Streets, Crime in the Suites" Kate Blau 47 Morning Ride Colleen Curran 48 "Praise to You in its Greatest Form" Michelle Murray 51 Poems Joan Pong 52

1 The Good End Unluckily Terri Miller 55 "Epitaph" Mary Hotz 58 A Gift of Life Mary Joki 60 Petrol, the Puddlejumper and Pa Kate Blau 63 "Bad Memories" Deb Schauberger 65 "Tapestry" Mary Hotz 66 Hike to the Top of the World Mary Joki 69 "Feeding Calves in October" Anita Eikens 71 "Folly of a Fruit Cocktail" Barb Sagstetter 72

Photographs & Graphics

Cover Photograph Pam Owens Photographs Eileen McConnon 4, 26, 30, 45, 67 Photographs Renee Savage 8, 11, 29, 50, 64 Drawings Gail DeMillo 13, 34 Photograph Darlene Biegalke 18 Drawing Michelle Lenz 42 Photograph Mary Koller 46 Photograph Pam Owens 59 Photograph Sandy Heinen 68

This year ARISTON sponsored a Fine Arts contest open to all student members of the College. The categories included Prose, Poetry, Drawing & Prints and Photography. An art student-faculty board and a literary student-faculty board reviewed all the entries. The winners are listed below: Terri Miller Not So Good Morning Mary Hotz One Night Stand Joan Pong "love moves slowly . . Christine Iversen "The Escape" Michelle Lenz Drawing pg. 42 Gail DeMillo Drawing pg. 34 Pam Owens Photograph, cover Renee Savage Photograph pg. 8

2 AltalIVES LD

The Not-So-Good Morning SA sA 191 14 -710 cep 6 I The morning was going slowly. Jenny decided that recbss was never coming, as she tried to squirm around in her desk to see what time it was. Miss Amberg had deliberately rearranged the desks so that no one could watch the second hand on the big IBM clock. Miss Amberg was like that. The morning was also going badly. Jenny's mother had overslept, so there hadn't been time for more than a glass of orange juice for breakfast. Now Jenny's stomach was making it clear that it wasn't happy. In the rush to get ready for school, she hadn't been able to locate her precious pair of gray wool knee socks, so that she was forced to wear white bobby socks. Jenny hated white bobby socks. She also hated her blouse with the poodles embroidered on the pocket, and her sturdy brown shoes with laces. The blouse was hand-me-down from her older sister Caroline, and the shoes were her mother's idea of sensible footwear. Jenny felt klunky. She felt even klunkier sitting behind Robin Clark. Robin was perfect. She always wore skirts and sweaters that matched, and she never came to school in bobby socks. Her clothes were always bought especially for her, even though she had two older sisters. Jenny sat behind her, looking at her light blue sweater that didn't have any poodles anywhere. She wished that she could trade families. Thomas Karous was being a pest this morning. Jenny usually didn't mind sitting next to him because he always had a desk full of Sweet-Tarts and red licorice. Although he had never shared his candy with anyone, he might someday. All the girls thought that he was cute, too, with his brown hair and freckles. Sometimes Jenny thought that she might marry him. Not today, though. He was being a bother. During penmanship he started drawing lines on the back of Jenny's hand with his Bic pen. The madder she got, the more lines he drew. She couldn't whisper to him, beause Miss Amberg got very upset at whispering. Since her hand was full of blue lines, and Thomas showed no signs of stopping, she decided that the only thing to do was to call it to Miss Amberg's attention. "Thomas Karous, you quit writing on my hand!" she burst out, and slapped his arm. Miss Amberg looked a little startled, and then hurried over to investigate. Jenny explained what had happened in her most reasonable voice, and gloated as Thomas was sent to stand in the hall, sticking his tongue out at her as he went. It served him right. The class settled down again. They were supposed to be reading a story from This is Our Town, but Jenny had read it a week ago. She wished that she had something to do. She tried doing all sorts of little boring things. First she traced all the grooves on her desk with her pencil. Then she tried stretching to reach the floor with her feet. After that she watched a ball of dust blow across the linoleum. She looked enviously at the kids in the row by the window. At least they could watch the other kids at recess. She tilted back on two legs of her chair, nearly lost her balance, and came down again with a thump. Miss

3 76 4741 , at

Photo by Eileen McConnon

4 Amberg looked up with a frown. She was the only person Jenny knew who could frown with her whole body.Jenny was embarrassed. At last Miss Amberg closed her book and stood up, indicating that recess time had arrived. Jenny loved being in Row One, because their row was always the first one out. The class filed into the hall and lined up in twos — one row of boys and one of girls. Thomas was still standing by the door. Miss Amberg sent him back into the classroom to miss recess along with Steven Fisher, who had forgotten to do his Phonics worksheet. The rest of the class walked quietly through the empty halls, down two flights of steps, and out onto the playground. It was even a boring recess day. Nothing much was happening. Jenny didn't want to play Red Rover, and all the four-squares were taken. She didn't belong to either of the secret clubs, so she couldn't go to their meetings in the corners of the playground. She ended up talking to Melissa Withers, which was better than walking around alone, but not much. Melissa was a whiny, fat-faced girl in the other third grade. Her mother drove her the two blocks to and from school every day, and Melissa was spoiled rotten. Jenny had been in first and second grades with her, and felt lucky to be separated from her this year. Still, she was someone to talk to. They stood around, scuffing their shoes and bouncing Melissa's Superball at intervals. Jenny wished that recess would end. Melissa started talking about going fishing with her dad and how she had caught a dogfish. Jenny became interested in spite of herself. She had never been fishing, although her brothers had, and she was jealous of Melissa. Also, she had never heard of a dogfish, and she was curious about it. She pelted Melissa with questions. Why was it called a dogfish? What did it look like? Did it bark? Melissa glowed with importance as she told her story. It wasn't often that anyone listened to her. Just as she was reaching the climax of her story, though, Jenny made a funny noise. Melissa broke off. "What's wrong, Jenny?" Jenny was looking around wildly. In the few minutes in which she had let her atten- tion wander, her class had disappeared. With a sinking feeling she realized that Miss Amberg had already led her classmates in. "Melissa, I've got to go!" she gasped, and hurried into the building. That dumb Melissa! Now look at the mess she was in. Miss Amberg would keep her after school for the rest of the year, and she'd never get to go out to recess again. The halls were deserted. Jenny climbed the steps and headed toward her classroom. Her footsteps echoed down the hall. She began to get scared. What did they do to kids who were late in from recess? No one else that she could remember had ever forgotten to come in, so the punishment must be really terrible. Maybe they'd kick her out of school. Panicking, she took off her shoes and tiptoed toward the open door of 3B. Miss Amberg was at the blackboard writing something. Everyone in the class had

5 yellow arithmetic papers on their desks. They were busy copying the problems Miss Amberg was putting on the board. Jenny didn't know what to do. She couldn't go back into the classroom, she just couldn't. Everyone would laugh at her, and Miss Amberg would think up an awful punishment. But where could she hide so that no one would find her? She tiptoed on down the hall and passed the open door of the paper storeroom. That was it! Quickly, she ducked inside. The paper room was one of the nicest rooms in the school. It was small and narrow with rows of shelves full of all sizes and shades of construction paper. There was a worktable with a huge paper cutter and lots of multi-colored little scraps of paper scattered around. There was also a folding chair, and Jenny plopped down on it. Now what? How long would she have to hide out here? When would it be safe to leave? She decided that her best bet was to stay there until lunch time. Then she could sneak out and go home for lunch like usual, coming back at 12:30 as if nothing had happened. But how long was it until lunch? There wasn't any clock in the paper room. Time passed even more slowly here than in the classroom. Jenny wandered around poking at paper for a while, but there really wasn't anything too exciting about construction paper. She grew more and more restless. Finally she decided to sneak down the hall to the rest rooms, to see if maybe someone had put a clock in the girls' bathroom. She picked up her shoes again and tiptoed out. There was no clock in the lavatory. Jenny was ready to cry. She headed back toward the paper room, stopping at the drinking fountain for some water. As she straightened up, she froze in terror as she saw Miss Amberg coming down the hall at her. "Jennifer, what on earth are you doing?" Miss Amberg called. Jenny was rooted to the floor. She couldn't move, she couldn't talk — all she could do was burst into tears. What a disgrace! She must be the worst third-grader the school had ever seen. She had never felt so terrible in her whole life. Miss Amberg patted her on the head. "There, there, it's nothing to cry about. If you had to go to the lavatory, though, you should have told me." Jenny cried harder. Go to the lavatory! Miss Amberg was really dumb if she thought that was all that was the matter. She knew that she couldn't go without permission. It hurt that Miss Amberg thought that she would disobey. "Come along, dear," Miss Amberg said. "I'll help you on with your shoes, and then we'll go back to the room." She knelt down and fumbled with Jenny's sensible laces. Jenny gradually stopped crying, and allowed herself to be put into her shoes and led down the hall. She followed Miss Amberg into the classroom and felt twenty-seven pairs of eyes on her. Thankful again to be in Row One, she slipped hastily into her desk and put the lid up, so that no one could see that she'd been crying. Thomas Karous leaned over and pinched her, but when she raised her tear-stained

6 face and glared at him he drew back. Jenny rummaged around in her desk looking for her arithmetic paper. She hated everybody — Melissa and Miss Amberg and Robin Clark and especially Thomas. It was the worst morning of her entire life. She felt a tap on her shoulder, and she looked up, annoyed. Thomas was holding out a piece of red licorice to her. She took it, startled, and then smiled cautiously. Maybe the afternoon would be better. Terri Miller

7

The Ballad of Fresca

The Pepsi cola kid, so renowned fizzed into town, full throttle on his recycled bottle, singing, "Oh, give me a home where the cola does foam." He was poured into his slick jeans and his red, white and blue shirt with gold seams sloshed against him. His head was capped with galdy locks. He wore no hat or socks. His spurs clinked on his tan boots as only spurs of aluminum can. The Pepsi cola kid flowed like syrup into the Coke Corral Bar. And the thirsty townsfolk sent up a cheer, "The Pepsi cola kid is here!" And they crowded around the bar door. Pepsi cola cooly looked at the four of them. "Drinks on me," he said, spitting throaty phlegm. And the townsfolk cheered again, then went for a coke with their frien'. Things go better with coke especially a thirst to soak. The Pepsi cola kid was standing near the bar, admiring his flock, and chewing on tar, when — he felt a tap on his shoulder. Pepsi went for his canopener holder. He turned and there swished Fresca,

9 Photo by Renee Savage the girl he left behind, back in Mexica. "It's been a long time, Pepsi," she said. He scratched his golden head and smiled.

In bed the next morning, Pepsi and Fresca lying there in a sheet with a fresh tear when — in pops the Uncola, the man she left behind, back in Alamola. He kicks over a chair and flicks his hat away with flair, pulls out his cards flipping a 7 up. Pepsi gets up, swings and dents the Uncola. It's a mighty fight. When the din of tin and fizzing stopped and the bubbles popped, Fresca was standing there fast, alone in the puddle of her past. She liquidated the Cola and the Un. For they had done her wrong. Kate Blau

10 Photo by Renee Savage Last Night

Last night I dreamt I heard the walls making conversation with an aged gentleman of 70 years. . They discussed politics They discussed success They discussed the importance of individualism.

A dampness filled the air — The droplets sending a hush tapped tenderly on him tapped tenderly on the walls. And the roof joined with the walls comforting him Until the sun rose with the morning dew In orange and yellow. Helen FitzGibbon

Merlin

His face could have been a slice of pine, Waxed poreless, Rubbed smooth. Inky eyes stare blankly, The center from which thin rippling lines emerge, Circling those shiny knots, Embedding them in shadows. The grain elongates to form a nose, and parts The lips of an oval mouth, Spreading from cheek to cheek The Pattern of Age. Barb Sagstetter

12 Drawing by Gail DeMillo bF "Am I Afraid of Anything?" You Ask

"Am I afraid of anything?" you ask. Perhaps a better way to word that in my case would be to question, "Are you afraid of everything?" I would answer readily and with full confidence, "Yes, yes!" Since I was a small girl I have been accumulating many and varied fears. Sometimes my life takes on the atmosphere of a carnival spook house. Some of my horrors are common to most people but others are bizarre, inexplicable in origin, and probably, I say with pride, Freudian. They range from a fear of bombings, walking off steep cliffs, and plunging to death in broken elevators, to crickets, mad dogs, and cats. I feel the last three provide me with my most frequent terrors and the following episodes typify the feelings I associate with these creatures. It is dark, I pull the covers over my head like a cowl but even this doesn't shut out their incessant voices. The noise they make infuriates me and I pinpoint it coming from the far corner. I cautiously creep out of bed and grope for the opposite wall. I feel the swift chill of night air and goose bumps leap up on my flesh. Flicking on the light switch, I dash to the corner and kick away my school books. There it is! My heart is beating against my chest and my hands are shaking and cold as I grab a book and raise it overhead. Suddenly as if it had sensed my motive, the slimy, ochre-colored cricket jumps, its malevolent black eyes stare at me knowing my terror. Its body hits the walls and falls back. I scramble and the book crashes down missing it! It leaps closer to me and I shy away shivering, picturing its moist body and insect arms fastening to my skin. I hate it. I swat at it violently, using all my strength and it bounds into my face. It touches my mouth! It actually touches it. I drop the book and run as it scuttles off under my bed. I can't get back in bed now because I know once I switch off the light it will come out of its sanctuary. I know that deviant creature understands I wanted to kill it. It will pull itself onto the bed clothes chirping insanely and inch its way across the coverlet. I will be asleep and it will hop up and down on my face. I can feel it making cricket bites on my cheek. I can't sleep in here! I end up on the couch upstairs with the covers tucked in tightly around my body trying to breathe through the sheet over my face. Although I am not free from fear in my own home, once I venture onto city streets life becomes much more harrowing. Dogs on leashes don't scare me, dogs penned up or traveling in the back of the dog catcher's car are fine. But once I spy a dog wandering alone, my fears begin. It's always the same, I'm walking along somewhere maybe looking at the sky or at a passing stranger and then, I see it. Be it a large dog or a small one, the fear is equally intense. Invariably the dog looks unthreatening, even amicable with its head down leisurely snuffling the ground. But I don't fool myself, I realize immediately the dog is mad. I know it has rabies, hydrophobia. I can't help thinking that as soon as it gets a block nearer it will pivot in my direction and hurtle towards me a drooling, snarling monster. I will be immobile, arms hanging loosely at sides, mouth fixed in a soundless scream. Its

14 eyes holding mine in a lunatic's gaze, it will leap onto me knocking me down, its saliva drenching my neck. It will bite me fiercely as I struggle to heave it off my chest. Fulfilled in having pursued me and only me, the dog will roll onto the sidewalk, pant madly in pleasure, and die. Lying there staring at the sky, neck bleeding, I'll realize that now I have rabies. All this flashes through my mind within the space of seconds and adrenalin flashes to my heart along with it. I grow frantic knowing that the dog ahead is going to bolt at me within moments. I try to control myself but I have to duck into a nearby store. Some- times if no refuge is near I climb onto the hood of a parked car and wait for the dog to go away. Though many have barked hard and jumped high so far none have been able to reach me perched there. I'll never understand why dogs don't just stick to bothering cats, it would eliminate another worry of mine: cats prowling the streets at night when I'm trying to. Meow . . . meow . . . the noise of a cat reaches me from very near. I am walking alone by the brick wall that surrounds my college. It is night and suddenly I notice it is very foggy and damp. Meow . . . mmm. It's following mQ! Damn it, I'm alone and there is a cat around here. I know you can't hear cats approach, their paws are noiseless, more stealthy than humans on tiptoe. I turn around straining my eyes into the dark. There it is. It's coming straight over here making that noise! Should I scream? I shut my eyes tightly and think I'm going to be sick as I feel the cat's thin furry body caress my leg. How dare it! It doesn't know me. It's staring up at me lewdly looking for a reaction. Then ducking its ugly head it circles around me with another brush against my calf. I want to move but I know it will follow me and if I run it will chase me grinning and purring with delight at my fear. I try to tell it to leave me alone, but my voice saying, "Go away, damn it, leave me alone," sounds weak and ineffectual on the night air. Then it moves back and stares up at me. I press against the brick wall. Its eyes glisten with malice, its dirty claws want to dig into my skin. Its whiskers twitch with amusement at my pale face. I feel hypnotized by the tail moving like a pendulum over its back and wait helpless for the first move. Finally feeling satisfied with my scare it pads off, glancing over its shoulder, making sure I don't budge until it's out of sight. These fears are very real for me. I suppose my reactions to these creatures make me seem like a silly fool who is afraid of her own shadow. Well, seriously I've been getting edgy about that — because, lately, I've noticed it's following me.

Connie Perry

15 One Night Stand

The airport bustled with people trying to get home after a tiring Christmas vacation. They made beelines for baggage carousels and parking lots with unopened presents in arms and trains of children trailing behind. I was among the irritable crowd, frustrated by a desire for a friend's company and a place to rest my weary body. After finally gathering up a few pieces of luggage, I picked my way through the endless maze of bodies until I reached the cab stand. Without hesitating, the driver shuffled me into the back seat, slammed the trunk on the suitcases, and jumped into the taxi. "Are you going to St. Paul?" I asked. "Doesn't matter, lady. Just don't want to get arrested for stopping in the middle of the pick-up lane." "The College of St. Catherine, please," I said distinctly. I glanced back to see the dim lights faintly outline the airport grounds, where a few precious moments resounded with the excitement of human meeting or the sadness that often accompanies departure. I was alone with no one to say hello or goodbye to, except this man so intently driving the cab. The glaring lights of the freeway gave me little chance to see his face. He wore his hat in typical cabbie fashion, shoved back on the crown of his cropped head, with gray strands of hair jutting out from all sides. Caught in the initial silence, I gazed at the back of his head. I was suddenly intrigued with his movements. He checked the outside mirror, glanced into the inside rearview mirror, and cocked his head toward me, shoot- ing his eyes directly at my face. And all the while, he planned his next move both on the road and in the car. His head repeated the pattern once again, while his voice rose above the static noise coming over the cab radio. "You taking any religion at college?" "Not yet, but next semester I will," I answered. I sat puzzled at the question. Why would he ask about religion rather than the weather or about the heavy traffic earlier that evening? I stopped questioning and simply rested my head against the door, gazing blankly out the window. The stare into space lasted only a minute, the interlude before his next question. "Of all the religions in the world, which one, in your opinion, now, do you consider the best?" "Well, I'm slightly prejudiced because I'm a Catholic." "So you think the Catholic religion is the best?" "Well, yeah." Cars whizzed past and I began counting the street lights, wishing only to crawl out of the cab. His words made me restless and I squirmed in the back seat. At this late hour I was numb to any serious questions, especially about religion. If only I could ignore him. It did not take long for me to understand that he was not satisfied with my last answer.

16 The cab driver groped for his next question, figuring it was a chance for rebuttal. "How can the Catholic Church produce men like Hitler, Mussolini, and Franco?" "The Catholic Church was not the only factor that made them the men they are, or were," I answered defensively. "If the Protestant religion produced monsters like that, I'd denounce my religion on the spot," he retorted. "Well, I don't think I would," I responded. Without listening, he continued. "You ask a priest why the Catholic Church produces murderers and dictators. Right now in South America and Cuba, the dictators down there are Catholics!" I felt stifled by his insistence, and any attempt to slip in a word was utterly futile. I merely sat and listened while waiting impatiently for the sight of familiar buildings and lights of the campus. At last the cab swerved into the parking lot and came slowly to a stop. I jumped out of the stale cab, elated with my arrival and relieved to be free from his attempt to pin me down with his persistent questions. As the man slid the fare into his side pocket, he gave me his last reassuring words. "Have a good year, and no hard feelings, huh?" "Thank you very much, sir," I answered politely. I retreated quickly into the dormitory. I watched the driver, hat still cocked at the same angle on his head, body silhouetted against the faint light, drive off only to get caught up in the designs of endless pave- ment, road signs and streams of cars. It was only then, standing in the foyer of the building, that I realized the twelve to fifteen-minute journey from the airport to school had been much more than that. His worn-out expressions about the corrupted Catholic Church suffocated my meager attempts to change his mind. What was the purpose for the odd questions he posed? Perhaps he wanted controversial dialogue with customers, with people, always hoping to goad them into an intense reaction. As a cab driver, meeting people in fleeting moments, he could not waste time on preliminaries filled with small talk. Perplexed at it all, I wondered why I felt guilty. I had remained a part of the irritable crowd at the airport, too distracted in my own ways to listen beyond the small talk.

Mary Hotz

17

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"Kr” '4461)A5., A .4, 'AeLte -

Photo by Darlene Biegalke

18 The Clear-Sparkling Water Rushed Impatiently

The clear-sparkling water rushed impatiently over the jagged rocks Unguided — Steadfast — Bouncing The rocks repelling it in an unsympathetic manner.

In the middle of it all I saw a single raindrop falling ever-so slowly making a rainbow of colors, Reflecting those of the sunset Which I saw through the raindrop's belly.

It soon was engulfed by the rest which came in multitudes Forcing their bodies forward And smashing into the climbing rocks.

Helen FitzGibbon Discovery

I watched the ocean breakers Carry the sand In and Out. Some furious, salty thrusts; Others prodding gently Caressing Painting watermarks upon the beach. For a moment, Carried by the restless surf, I discovered what Love Was like. Love leaves an imprint Ever so faint Delicate in the sand Slowly it fades away Yet another is made More precise (but complicated as hand-made lace) More lasting Than the first. More painful Than the last.

Pat Wolff

20 Lake Superior at Night

Sand fills my shoes as I walk Along the beach. The roar of water surging Toward shore, And the crash as it breaks, Drowns all but the sound of shoes Crunching sand.

The autumn wind blows spray Into my face Which tastes of Dead smelt. Driftwood lies in scattered piles — Black against the grey Night sand.

The Lifeguard's tower stands tall — Silhouetted against A moonless sky. And from the tower on the pier The lighthouse beacon Reflects on the tips of Five-foot waves.

Mary Joki

21 Lady Shawn of Ireland

The sea floats in like frost lace upon the sand. The grey quiet whispering sea, With moon rays faintly flinting the green land. Waves wait there behind the emerald lee, Smooth, silent, cloud-dusty.

She drifts there, An illumined part Of the land, lighted near the sea. She glances to the sparkling hills of her heart, To the shepherd green, whole and hazy. Her sea eyes cloud with care. Clear tears trill To the lapping lips of the brine sea. Her soft, suffering land Throbs with Druid-Old ills. She walks there upon the ancient sand, Her imprints washed away Like all others by the neutral sea, She sighs and looks at the sea and the moon, All aged grey.

Kate Blau

22 The Liberation of Madame Bovary

Ms. Emma Bovary, one time known as Madame Bovary, was liberated by the pen of Gustave Flaubert in 1857. Today, for all of her 117 years, she remains a remarkably contemporary figure. Despite her delicate femininity, this lady stands as a personification of a life style and spirit which marked provincial France in the mid- nineteenth century. Her personality encompasses both male and female characteristics. She is at once priest, nun, pharmacist, doctor, commissioner, laborer, lover and farmer. Admittedly, she is Flaubert himself. Yet beyond this, Ms. Bovary's survival of a century and present-day relevance might cause the reader to admit in Flaubert's own words that, "Madame Bovary is me." Flaubert's treatment of Emma is straightforward and critical. Although physically attractive, her psychological and moral codes are deplorable. No sensitive mother could neglect and even abhor her child as Emma does. Likewise no sincere wife could contain her disgust for her husband while living in a two-faced relationship with him as she does. For those Emma considers worthy of attention, she possesses not true concern but rather manipulates these people for her own sense of well being and advantage. But then, Flaubert is not dealing here only with Emma Bovary. His observation of this woman includes all of Yonville-l'Abbaye, the small town which is her home. Emma Bovary is no less sincere than her counterparts. Monsieur Homais, the town pharmacist, makes pretense of doing good works; his ends are self-serving. Monsieur Rodolphe Boulanger, one of Emma's lovers, certainly lacks all honorable intentions. The village priest Abbe Bournisien fails to give spiritual direction when it is most direly needed. Hence religion and religious instruction are meaningless in this context. Local govern- ment is demonstrated to be a farce at the Agricultural Show. As a final note of condem- nation, Flaubert exposes the highest government of the land as a mockery of justice when it bestows on the hypocrite Homais the coveted Legion of Honor. Yonville then stands as a microcosm of the nineteenth century. Emma Bovary as a vehicle for this representation, has by her immortality extended it to the twentieth century. The essence of the novel, however, lies not in the moral nature of the characters but rather in the spirit which produces such morality. The very fibre of Yonville-l'Abbaye was tainted. Flaubert chose not to recognize any good that might have existed there. Indeed he may have over emphasized the point. But the mere existence of such condi- tions is cause enough for concern. Yonville was saturated with provincial mediocrity. Emma was well aware of the "lives it stifled, the illusions it killed". She too was stifled, her senses dulled in the pitifully close quarters of Yonville. In this sense Emma Bovary appears to be amazingly contemporary. Her perception is far keener than those about her. She is both participant and prey of mediocrity, but she distinguishes herself by acknowledging this fact. Her spirit of restlessness generates actions which were not in

23 the least admirable. But this spirit is the same one which moves women today. These contemporary women, however, have many more appropriate outlets for their energies and passions. To identify oneself with Emma then, is not to contest her actions as right or wrong, but instead to recognize that the forces which operate in her life operate in one's own life as well. Emma has always dreamt of a life full of romantic excitement, filled to the brim with "viscounts", "manors", and "tiny angels with golden wings". Her early convent train- ing awakened in her heart a love of the romantic lyrics, flowers, and inspiring literature. But such a tender life was not ordained for Emma. She is married to a country doctor who lacks any imagination and whose conversation is as flat as a sidewalk. When she first met Charles Bovary "she felt quite disillusioned, having nothing more to learn, nothing more to feel". And so Emma Bovary embarks on the longest journey of her life, the journey of interminable boredom and impatience. Not content to let the world pass her by, Emma seeks excitement in the only way she knows how. Emma liberates herself from wifely concerns and household duties. She "compromises" herself in romantic and sexual liaisons. Indulging in two intense affairs she finds partial relief. But surely Emma is not in love. She merely lives from passion to passion. "'I have a lover!' . . . She was entering into something marvelous where all was passion, ecstasy, delirium; she was enveloped in a vast expanse of blue, the peaks of emotion sparkling in her thoughts. Ordinary existence seemed to be in the distance, down below, in the shadows, between the peaks." Each passionate encounter gives Emma the opportunity to boost her sagging spirits, to revitalize her jaundiced, failing soul. Flaubert, then, creates in his audience a state of mind similar to Emma's. The mood of intense boredom, uselessness, frustration, impatience and disappointment are vividly experienced by the reader. Yet, although a masterful artist, Flaubert is not entirely unaided in his work. The success of conveying a state of mind to the reader is made possible only by the reader's familiarity with the subject. Flaubert does not fabricate boredom. Rather he effectively intensifies that sense of boredom in one who has already had personal experience with it. Only those who have daydreamed of passion, who have longed for the extraordinary, who have set themselves apart in their minds can appreciate Emma's state of mind. Flaubert does not so much spark the imagination as he stimulates the memory of these things. Which one of us, given the same circumstances surrounding the notorious Emma Bovary, would have behaved more commendably. What person male or female has not experienced the desire to express senseless passions at one time or another. The com- parison of Emma Bovary with nineteenth century men and women gives contemporary persons the decided advantage. Social permissiveness has given the restless spirit more space in which to expand acceptably and constructively. Emma's spirit could only be contorted and darkened according to her time and place in history.

24 The one-time Madame Bovary was aware of her limitations. She was perhaps not ahead of her time. Instead, it may be that through the years women in general have been slow to recognize their immense creative potential. Today there is no secret about this woman's longevity. Madame Bovary, tormented by extreme mental anguish finally ended her useless life with poison. By this act, one Ms. Bovary, the spirit, the dream, was liberated and carries on.

Angela Molenaar

Sunday P.M.

I hear men screaming, "Jesus is Alive!" Then they go home and scream at their neighbors, For having their music on too loud There's a rumor going around, that God is deaf.

Linda Hendrix

25 Photo by Eileen McConnon No Way Back

It seemed strange not to spend Christmas Eve at home last year. It was the first time I could remember that we didn't. Other years, Christmas Eve had been set aside as an exclusive family time without the fuss and bother of having over relatives or even good friends. Other years we started out with a big, delicious supper (though not too big nor as delicious as Christmas Day's big meal). After the dishes were washed and put away, the TV set was turned off for the night and a stack of Christmas records was put on the stereo. Dad would wake up from his post-dinner nap and the whole family would gather in the living room. Then my four brothers, one sister and I would start off the evening with our annual Christmas skit. On the whole, our skits were artistic failures due to a number of factors including lack of organization, practice and talent. For a few years we presented the whole story of the first Christmas with me as Mary complete with pin curls in my hair, my brother Randy as Joseph with his head draped in a dirty striped bath towel, Rick as a Roman centurian wearing a football helmet wrapped in Reynold's wrap, Pam as an angel with her arms folded across her chest, Craig as a shepherd holding a teddy bear which was supposed to be a lamb, and Robbie as the baby Jesus because he was the only available baby. Mom and Dad managed to control themselves from laughing out loud at our woeful thespian endeavors and clapped enthusiastically when it was all over. After the costumes were put away and the towels refolded, we all sat on the floor, and by the light of the Christmas tree and a few lit candles, we sang Christmas carols. Unfortu- nately my mother was the only one who could carry a tune so the resulting sound was a conglomeration of off-key bass from my father, off-key squeaks from my brothers, and unreachable high notes from my sister and me. But we had fun and we were together. Last year, however, there was no dinner, no skit and hardly a family, for that matter. Dad had died seven months before, Randy was over in Europe and Rick was spending Christmas Eve with his wife's family. So the remaining five of us broke tradition and went out on Christmas Eve to my aunt and uncle's house for a fondue supper. My uncle's jokes were hardly the caliber of my father's and he could sing on-key. We had a nice time but it wasn't the same as before. We came back home late and sang a few Christmas carols to try to stay in the mood of Christmas and bring back a feeling of the past. We failed. Without the off-key base it sounded almost pleasant. Robbie fell asleep after "Jingle Bells" and was sent up to bed. Other years we had been sternly commanded to get to bed after the carols. We usually meekly obeyed knowing that Mom and Dad would be staying up for another two hours setting out the gifts from St. Nick. I always used to lie awake in my bed at these times listening to the sounds that the

27 noisy "elves" made below. Dad would take out the "to-be-assembled" toys and would either chuckle with delight as each piece fit easily into one another or grumble good- naturedly when they didn't. After a while it would grow quiet and I imagined my father lying on the davenport with his head on Mom's lap reminiscing of past Christmases and occasionally sneaking a kiss. Last year, though, we realized that Mom didn't have a helper to put out the gifts. None of us made a move to go up to bed. Mom implored us to go but we couldn't. She finally gave in and said slowly, "Well, if you want to, I suppose you could help me assem- ble the toys I have for Robbie." She went to the secret hiding place where she kept the gifts ( a place so secret that snoopers have never yet penetrated it) and brought out the toys. Pam, Craig and I set to work on assembling the bewildering array of contraptions. I think we felt a little strange that night, as if we were intruding'on something that should belong exclusively to parents. Deep in frustration with an impossible part, I asked my mother how in the world Dad had ever got done assembling toys before morning. She sat back and remembered, "Oh, he had his own little system. First, while I was getting out all of the gifts, he would go in the kitchen and eat all the cookies that you kids had left out for Santa, plus a few extra to keep up his strength as he said. Then he would come in the living room and play with anything that didn't have to be put together. "After a while I got him to get busy with the assembly toys. He would do it grudgingly but I know he really enjoyed it. About fifteen minutes would pass and then he would put down whatever he was doing, yawn loudly and lie down on the couch. Within ten seconds he was usually asleep leaving me to struggle with the rest of the half-assembled toys. "He would wake up like magic when I was nearly done. Then he'd look at the nicely arranged toys and say something like 'Boy, Christmas Eve can sure wear a man out, can't it?'" She stopped and with a faint smile put her head down and hid her face from us. The toys were all assembled and there was nothing left to do. It was nearly midnight and the three of us went up to bed.

Roxi Mueller

28

Photo by Renee Savage

Photo by Eileen McConnon The Escape

with a key that he's found the rank of April Wetness painfully digs at the swollen oak door squeaking into the room he is next to me now behind me now in front of me jeering as the varnish on my desk runs sticky he glues my t-shirt close to my body my hair limp crawls down my back that beast reaches slowly for my mind but untouched i turn and swing easily out of my body. Christine Iversen

31 Squirrels in St. Catherine's College

I have been to or lived in varying beautiful places — Monte Mario, Rome, Netuno or the small town of St. Maria Goretti in Italy; Shanahan Memorial College and even my own religious mother house both of which are in Nigeria. However beautiful each of these is, is incomparable to the campus of the College of St. Catherine both in construc- tion and attractiveness. The "Dew Drop," flowers, fields and trees, parks, vehicle and foot paths, buildings — all combine to create her glory. Moreover, the freedom of squir- rels here seems to me the most striking testimony of her aesthetic and liberal feature. For instance, in my village in Nigeria, squirrels cannot afford to parade themselves in the open. They are hunted in the morning, by noon, and in the evening by some mischievous elementary school boys. Some of these animals are ever conscious of their enemies' "slings" that they cross the main-roads or pathways with an alarming speed. It is next to seeing lightning to see a squirrel dash from one tree to the other. But at the College of St. Catherine, a special world of beauty and liberty, squirrels are not only masters and mistresses of the fields but also custodians of all the apple trees together with their fruits. As a result they can leisurely climb up and down the trees, merrily strut around the ground, wittingly tease a passerby, arrogantly spread their curly tails which adds to the beauty of the fields and frequently captivates an admirer. If I am not presently a member of this college, if I had not known the unenviable life squirrels live in the hands of a mischievous few in my village, I would not have thought squirrels could celebrate their emancipation from slaughter with naive arrogance. The case of this morning will prove me right. Just as I was hurrying to classes, I came across two squirrels playing in the field. No sooner had they seen me than they drew nearer, spread their grayish colourful tails and stared at me. I stopped. In order to scare them away I employed several devices like swinging my right leg forwards and backwards, throwing up my pencil and catching it. None of my tricks impressed on them. Even though the distance between us was barely a yard, they maintained their position and serenity — a reflection of any true American. To add to my defeat, one of the little creatures seemed to smile, the other let out a shriek. At this commotion I sensed the animals were either warning me or protesting against my interference in their liberty. Perhaps the fact that they form a group or a colourful species in the beauty of the campus is enough security for their freedom. I had no choice but to leave them alone and resume my walk to Mendel Hall. Yet as I moved, I glanced back several times. The thought of the boldness of these squirrels conjured up a picture of some kids feasting on delicious roasted squirrels. Is it any wonder then that the squirrels in this campus do not limit their control to fields, flowers and fruit trees? Need anyone be surprised to see squirrels take over the management of the buildings? Just listen. At the corner of our house there is a notice. It reads — "Please keep this door closed. Squirrels are besieging us!" It sounds incredible. But it is true. While I was at home a few days ago, man besieged squirrels; here in St. Catherine, Minnesota, squirrels besiege man. What a contrasting, funny world we live in. Sr. M. Assumpta Numlu, Nigeria

32 The Joker

Time flies! so they say but just once, Time, won't you walk away I held you close And suddenly like an unfaithful lover you were gone again You robber, I shriek, you've cheated me! But naughty Time merely winks, grins and runs away.

Jane Herrick

The Smack Alas!

The smack alas! with its wicked crack came to promise to love to plead.

The slap alas! betrayed the fool who lost the lust to proceed.

Jeanice Hyland

33 Photo by Gail Denillo 34 Like Nails, Like Thorns

Archimedes migrated through time to visit me, wise to my crime. He hooted, Who, Who? I don't know. I am a fool, groping for the cigarette pack, poking inside. Empty. No answer there.

Archimedes flops and flutters on my shoulder like my head. He screeches, WHO? I don't know. His pearled talons grip and puncture like nails, like thorns.

A primal snake slithered in through a crag in my question, coiling around my feet, his base, yet loftiest seat; answering with a hiss and pointing to the abyss. With his forked tongue, he licks himself.

I stand, marble-fleshed, Archimedes righted upon my shoulder, the snake thonged to my feet, and my hands enthroned a timeless skull. Who? Hiss. Death.

Kate Blau

35 The Bombing

the bombing begins i am alone and very calm wanting to pack a suitcase (for i know i'll never return) i can find nothing i want so i take sylvia and joni (my mind's friends) the two shamelessly rattling in the empty suitcase i lock the cabin door (more to keep my spirit in than the war out) and meet my black tattered cat first casualty tail reduced to a stub electric fur matted in porcupine spikes marble eyes consume his head black chinaman irises dazed unseeing his sex hanging limp and useless together we walk along the curb.

Christine Iversen

36 White Flight

White man's burden: scraping off remains of rags and rats seeking eternal refuge from alcohol and shackless family's stench.

Alone in such a plight? The domino world infests:

Black man shuffles over white man's deserted land. White man chases away the dirty night suppressing social reality in the name of a white God.

Black man's burden: forever scrubbing away a world's malice mothering a hand slapped when it reached beyond a traceless line somewhere drawn one hundred years ago one year ago or just today.

Mary Hotz

37 Garbage Removal

Full of scraps and leftovers, The garbage pail in my mind is fermenting tonight:

A few rotting memories I wish I'd never smelled, A half-gnawed worry, Decisions like limp, pale celery stalks, Slippery potato peelings from unfinished jobs.

Removal is a problem; There's no dispose-all service for rancid minds. I tried to bury it deep in yesterday, But it still smells. Could compost be a solution? Valuable in spring. I wonder whether it could work It would be a long winter of putrid smells.

Anita Eikens

38 A Critical Look at Louis in The Waves

In Virginia Woolf's The Waves, "what is communicated is not actions, or sayings, or thoughts even, but pure being: the hidden life."' Each of the characters expresses his thoughts and feelings by inner monologues which, along with glimpses through the minds of the other characters, reveal his nature. In the children's first impressions in the nursery, the life of things and the life of the mind are woven together. The conceptions of life now assumed persist through each one's life. From the very first, then, it can be seen that Louis experiences life from a more removed angle as he listens to the awakening world before opening his eyes as the others do. It is Louis' solitary nature which distinguishes him the most. Because he is an Australian, he is deeply dyed with a sense of social inferiority and always feels "out of it" during his life. He greatly desires to be part of the others, though: "How majestic is their order, how beautiful is their obedience! If I could follow, if I could be with them, I would sacrifice all I know." 2 In his situation then, it is not hard to understand how fearful he always is of what people will think of him. He imagines that they are all laughing at his neatness and his Australian accent. Even as a businessman, Louis says, "I repeat, 'I am an average Englishman; I am an average clerk.' Yet I look at the little men at the next table to be sure I do what they do"(VW, p. 239). More than anything he would wish to feel close over him "the protective waves of the ordinary" (VW, p. 239) for he is con- scious of not being included in the central rhythm of life. Louis' fear of ridicule tends to make him feel proud, almost snobbish. He boasts of knowing his lessons by heart and "I could know everything in the world if I wished" (VW, p. 188). When all the characters meet together in middle-age, Louis says that he is both very vain and very confident having "an immeasurable desire that women should sigh in sympathy" (VW, p. 263). Having found success and satisfaction in his work, he can rightly boast: "I have helped by my assiduity and decision to score those lines on the map by which the different parts of the world are laced together" (VW, p. 291). How- ever, beneath his self-assurance is envy for those who continue down the safe traditional ways which he knows are denied him. Louis is jealous even of Percival whom he admires because he, who feels he is better than Percival, is alone. But in the last analysis Louis states: "I condemn you (the others). Yet my heart yearns towards you. I would go with you through the fires of death. Yet I am happiest alone." (VW, p. 328). Louis is a strange mixture of assurance and timidity. Thus, Louis is basically insecure and needs some kind of permanence, some roots. Even as a child, he was conscious of his inner loneliness and to compensate he felt himself deeply rooted in the earth. Because Susan is plain and earthy, Louis respects her for she satisfies his hunger for human permanence and continuity. In school, the chapel and processional create a sense of community for him because "we put forth our distinc- tions as we enter" (VW, p. 197). As Dr. Crane reads, Louis feels come over him the sense

39 of the earth under him and "my roots going down and down until they wrap themselves round some hardness at the centre. I recover my continuity" (VW, p. 198). In this light, Louis tries to make what is transitory permanent by turning to history. This historicity is deeply imbedded in his character and explains aspects of his be- havior. His chief personal problem "revolves around the difficulty of reconciling his actual physical existence in the present moment with his mental and emotional existence in history." 3 The distinct insignia of initiation into life which Louis carries with him from childhood is the great beast stamping. It constantly reminds him of the discrepancy between the scope of history and his role in it. It is also because of his propensity to see the present steeped in the traditions of history that Louis is set apart from the others. He yearns for the kinship with his schoolfellows that he feels with their dead counterparts.`' Louis knows, though, that he cannot look like the rest of them because "I am not single and entire as you are. I have lived a thousand lives already" (VW, p. 263). He continues, "I find relics of myself in the sand women made thousands of years ago, when I heard songs by the Nile and the chained beast stamping" (VW, p. 263). A vast inheritance of experience is packed in him as that he will always have this struggle to find a meeting-place of past and present and will always stand apart from the group in an enforced solitude. Perhaps because he cannot quite approximate living in the present with his knowl- edge of the past and the future, he loves order and takes upon himself the task of reduc- ing to order the transitory and chaotic flux of life. In the face of disorder, the "streamers of my consciousness waver out and are perpetually torn and distressed" (VW, p. 239). In his business capacity, Louis loves punctuality and the engagement book with its ap- pointments: this is life to Louis. To his satisfaction he rolls the dark before him "spread- ing commerce where there was chaos in the far parts of the world" (VW, p. 292). Louis often feels drawn out of the present moment and lured to contemplation. He asks for a reason for everything. In a way, he feels himself to be a martyr as well as a savior. "To me is addressed the plaint of the wandering and distracted spirit" and he replies, "I will reduce you to order" (VW, p. 240). But he feels that his task, his burden has always been greater than other people's. "My destiny has been that I remember and must weave together, must plait into one cable the many threads, the thin, the thick, the broken, the enduring of our long history, of our tumultuous and varied day" (VW, p. 316) Thus feeling that the weight of the world is on his shoulders, Louis is an unhappy character. He feels that life has been a terrible affair for him and that he would have been happier born without a destiny. Although society offers him the rewards of position and respect in return for the sacrifice of personal happiness, he realizes that his success is merely a compensation for childhood hurts. At one point, Louis says that he is the most trustful and innocent and always the youngest. He feels he is "the one who runs in

40 advance in apprehension and sympathy with discomfort or ridicule — should there be a smut on a nose, or a button undone. I suffer for all humiliations" (VW, p. 328). Although Bernard summed up Louis at the end as: "He remained aloof; enigmatic; a scholar capable of that inspired assurance which has something formidable about it" (VW, p. 346), he was a sensitive soul whose physical and mental alienation caused him to be lonely and unhappy. More than anything he wanted to be accepted and loved. "To be loved by Susan would be to be impaled by a bird's sharp beak, to be nailed to a barnyard door. Yet there are moments when I could wish to be speared by a beak, to be nailed to a barnyard door, positively, once and for all" (VW, p. 258). Kathy Kretch

1. Bernard Blackstone, Virginia Woolf: A Commentary (New York, 1949), p. 165. 2. Virginia Woolf, The Waves (New York, 1931), p. 206. — hereafter cited in text as VW. 3. Josephine O'Brien Schaefer, The Three-Fold Nature of Reality in the Novels of Virginia Woolf (London, 1965), p. 141. 4. Schaefer, p. 144.

41 Photo by Michelle Lenz The Green Room trapped — surrounded by four walls. faded dirty green with black rubber scuff marks, wet looking scotch tape marks, even though the rules say masking tape only. and the posters black-and-white peeling and curling from the cold wall as the heat hisses from the silver painted radiator; black knob, radio blaring, brown tile floor dusty, scuffed, wanting to be polished. white ceiling touches nothing. windows closed against the sirens screeching only two blocks away — miles from concern — from the walls of the green room.

Christine Iversen

43 Reflections on an evening discussion with Joan, Susan and Hermina Or Chez Moi

I live in a square house. Sometimes I feel threatened Of being cornered at the crossings Where the walls meet and lock.

Sometimes I fall against the corners accidentally And my head flattens Forming an edge. The edge eventually wears down But never soon enough. Since I like most, am prone to fall Permanent edges develop.

If I lived in a tepee I wouldn't worry about corners. Perhaps my neck would ache From peering up at a tiny patch of sky. Or maybe moving in circles Would make me dizzy. But there would be no edges And I would have a smoother facade.

Sandra Spanier

44 Photo by Eileen McConnon 45

Crime in the Streets, Crime in the Suites

Band of sand fluttered like stripes small separate granules sparkled like stars Independence day (Quit laughing) Snails slept in the soft consumer sand developed by popular demand in this flagged blind land In the darkness the snails awoke naked and broke They crept and sneaked along the star-spangled band stealing abandoned shells to hide and home their separate hells No longer could they make homes of their own. Business thrived So did the shells

Kate Blau

47 Photo by Mary Koller Morning Ride

Promptly at 7:35 each morning, the school bus, a gleaming goldfish glory of polished steel, halted in front of our driveway. Like the mouth of a guppie, the twin doors opened, engulfing us four children. That is, it would, if Peggy had retrieved her galoshes from the heap near the front door, and if John had found his remedial hand- writing worksheets amid Mary Ann's kindergarten art catastrophes, and if all the other conditions that arose daily resolved on schedule. Against these stupendous odds, that genius known as "Momma" maneuvered deftly with fingers crossed in hope. Her four bundled babies eventually made it to the bus. Mustering all the sixth grade sophistication I could, I ignored the raucous remarks coming from the rear of the bus and wiggled my way to the fifth seat on the left. (Jimmy Dahle, blushing in the back seat, had a crush on me). I sat down beside Nancy Truben- bach, good old Trubie Boobie (that was her behind-the-back name). I plopped down in the seat and we began to exchange the fruits of last night's studying. Her New Math work- sheets looked like fruit, too. Rotten bananas. Pencil brown smudges and eraser worn holes decorated each page. Baffled by Cartesian sets and geometrical theories, we beg- ged for help from the generation of Old Math kids, three years older than we were. All they knew was long division and what good is that in these modern days? As Nancy and I juggled with figures, hoping for an answer, the bus rambled down the gravel road, first to Mickey's and then to Shari and Chuckie's and then to the Miller girls' home. No one knew their names for two years. The youngest finally confided to a few of us that her name was Margaret. Just like Dennis the Menace's girlfriend. This Miller girl probably invited many blue-jeaned Dennises to her home for afternoon tea. Nancy and I were positive that she knew Amy Vanderbilt personally. Just as nobody calls Queen Elizabeth "Lizzie", we could never call Margaret Miller "Peggy". That happy-child name could never fit that proper, pseudo-adult. Wheeling us along the route, Maynard, the bus driver, whistled FM Radio songs while the radio blabbed the St. Paul livestock reports. Maynard was a great person. He gave each kid a Snickers bar at Christmas and he bought each kid a ten-cent ice cream cone in the spring. He always smiled and he never yelled. Except once. At me. No one told me that eating your breakfast orange on the bus was forbidden. Nevertheless, I went to con- fession that week and was officially forgiven for having squirted sticky orange juice on the seat of the bus. Only one thing made Maynard nervous. It wasn't the yelling. Nor fighting. Nor cracking bubble gum. It was The Bump. The Bump climaxed roller coaster hill, an engineer's mistake, a bus driver's headache, and our delight. As we came rolling down the hill, we twisted and turned in our seats, following every motion of the bus. On reaching the top of the hill, we saw it. The Bump. That conspicuous cluster of loose gravel. Bodies bounced up and down. Books flew helter-skelter. Voices heightened,

48 louder and louder. Whew! Every day we discussed critically this morning's bump, swore to get the seat above the rear wheel for the complete impact on the ride home, and continued with our homework. We had only one more stop to make before reaching school — Clear Lake. The lake itself was never clear, rarely rough waved, so we hardly gave it a glance. Watching the Clear Lake kids board the bus intrigued us more. They were different. These eye-shadowed girls wore nylons with their penny loafers. Never knee-highs. They scorned anklets. The tobacco-scented boys wore leather jackets. No aura of the barn around them. Their actions were even stranger than their clothes. The Clear Lake boys would sit with Clear Lake girls, in the same seat. And they talked about things other than school. The Clear Lake kids never carried a book. We were fascinated. After Clear Lake, there were only three precious miles left before we got to school. Nancy and I would put away our books. She would stare out the window at the "rich peoples' " homes on Elm Avenue and I would daydream. Would my homework be all right? Would Linda let me jump rope with her and Barb and Suzie and Karen and everyone else? Would Mrs. Walters force me to give my speech on National Parks? Would there be something good for lunch besides peanut butter sandwiches? Would Jimmy Dahle pass a note to me? I'd know soon. Promptly at 8:10 each morning, Bus No. 3 would halt in front of the traditional red brick building. Like blinders on an old-fashioned workhorse, the twin doors opened and let us off. "See ya at 3:15!" we yelled while Maynard just shook his head.

Colleen Curran

49 Photo by Renee Savage

50 Praise to You in its Greatest Form

Praise the Name of the Lord

We return to Him the gift of creativity, Unique to Him alone. We create with our hands in art, Our voices in music, Our souls through prayer.

Lord we lift these colors to you. We spread our rugs under your feet in praise, Showing our fulfillment as love created beings. We imitate Your perfect beauty for you to look down upon Our praise to you in its greatest form.

Thankfully we sing, Your Spirit moving through us Women of Faith, we answer to Your calls Never alone, we follow in Your Shining light We lift our simple songs to your always open ears, Our Praise to you in its greatest form.

We beckon your presence in close meditation One candle lit, we concentrate on only Your greatness, We look into Your eyes, and recognize our human needs Return ourselves completely to You in prayer, Our praise to you in its greatest form.

Praise the Name of the Lord. Amen.

Michelle Murray

51 1. love moves slowly with spastic concentration across the shoreline of my life

look not at me but into me and my shadow tracing grotesque outlines beneath me and see how each step or swing of the arm stretches reaches out as if mysteriously meant for life.

2. Let a poem flow from every person's life a poem not only of joy — Let it be a poem of sorrow and ugliness also the poem will flow forever let all poems flow forever together I forge my words into razor blades which slash my inner being and let reality flow. Joan Pong

52 3. Winter Images (a) dried umbels of the hydrangea laugh in the wind winter's paper flowers (b) cold morning. Mushrooms have sprung up on the open wound of a tree stump.

4. Moments of Solitude (a) The sunset is such a silent attraction, subtle as a woman's touch, and bursting with the colors of a blooming flower. Time after time, people have stood still, drawn by its beauty, and intoxicated with a melancholic sugges- tion that falls on them like sunset dust. (b)There she sat, in front of a westward win- dow, lost in the sunset. She glanced across the Dew Drop, and held in her eyes the full reflection of sunset glory from the glassy surface of the water. The sky rose through shades of purple, red, pink, orange, yellow, and then continued into a deepening blue. The sun was a blood red gem in the sky. The clouds were on fire. Joan Pong

53 5 the sea will speak to you the waves that ride high and higher the low rumbling that rises to a clash the green water scattering into snowwhite crests and one tiny seashell blue grey as the sky.

6 Night time. Each of the dorms lit up like thousands of eyes staring into the dark, like so many questions unasked. Out on the campus, silence hung, stirred by the wind carrying the end of a careless laugh. It was a cantering wind that played with the bare branches, and swept away their austere bur- dens of snow. There she sat again, at her westward window, trying to find the flakes as they tumbled off the back of the wind and scattered on the ground. But the sky was snowing, the ground was white. Each little flake, merging into each other, had disappeared. Joan Pong

54 The Good End Unluckily

Player: We keep to our usual stuff, more or less, only inside out. We do on stage the things that are supposed to happen off. Which is a kind of integrity, if you look at every exit being an entrance somewhere else.'

The statement above might serve as an explanation of what Tom Stoppard has attempt- ed to do in his play Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead. Stoppard focused his attention on the lives of two very minor characters in Shakespeare's Hamlet, building an entire play around them and what their view of the tragedy in Denmark might have been. I found Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead (hereafter R & G) extremely illuminating. I had a hard time getting a grasp on Hamlet, so that I welcomed anything that might shed a little light on what Shakespeare was trying to say. R & G is one fascinating way of looking at Hamlet's world. In looking at the action through R & G's eyes, we relegate Hamlet, Ophelia, Claudius, and Gertrude to bit parts — seen when their lives cross R & G's, but never for long. What action occurs is centered around R & G as they try to puzzle out the mystery of why they were sent for and what is expected of them. In Hamlet I didn't feel any sympathy for R & G. They appeared hypocritical and underhanded, willing to betray their lifelong friend Hamlet to his uncle. I felt no sorrow when, after accomplishing nothing, they were put to death in England. Shakespeare presented them as flat characters, so that their coming and going had very little effect on the mainstream of the play. Stoppard, on the other hand, has blown life into these cardboard characters, trans- forming them into very real, very confused men, caught up in events beyond their con- trol. The play opens with R & G on the road to Elsinore, tossing a coin. They seem to have been there forever, suspended in a state of nothingness. They vaguely recall a summons to the court, but can't really remember when it was or what for. This scene set the tone of the play for me — a tone of uncertainty and doubt, of wondering what was real and concrete and to be believed, or what R & G had manufactured out of their boredom and insecurity. Insecurity plays an important part in the play. R & G are so unsure of themselves that they cannot exist alone. There is never a time in the play when one is seen without the other. At several points either R or G will try to make a break, but the world outside of their own little sphere is so complex and bewildering that they wander aimlessly back. Stoppard plays on this idea of a fused identity by having other characters in the play constantly confusing the two. Even R & G mistake themselves at times. They too have to pause to straighten themselves out, although ultimately it doesn't really matter which name was fastened on to either one of them. Without each other neither would exist.

55 The play deals with uncertainty, seen in the following exchange between Guildenstern and the spokesman for the troupe of players: Guil: The truth is, we value your company, for want of any other. We have been left so much to our own devices — after a while one welcomes the uncertainty of being left to other people's. _ Player: Uncertainty is the normal state. You're nobody special. 2

Uncertainty is the normal state in this play, as it is in Hamlet. Questions are raised, but not answered. Rosencrantz rebels against this, briefly: Ros: (flaring) I haven't forgotten — how I used to remember my own name — and yours, oh yes! There were answers everywhere you looked. There was no question about it — people knew who I was and if they didn't they asked and I told them. 3

Now there seem to be no answers. The two characters have fallen into a state of unconcern, of apathy. They feel that things will happen to them, unexplainable things, and that it's just as well to sit back and wait for events to come to them rather than to try and determine their own futures. Events do come to them, but the very fringes of events. Hamlet wanders on and off, as do the rest of the characters in Shakespeare's drama. We see Shakespeare's characters briefly, perhaps exchanging a few words with R & G (the actual lines from Hamlet are incorporated whenever one of those characters inter- acts with R & G), and then they move off into their own world, leaving R & G to decipher what their appearances have meant. Rosencrantz gets quite annoyed at this: Ros: (peevishly) Never a moment's peace! In and out, off and on, they're coming at us from all sides. 4

R & G are spectators in the game of life. Guildenstern aptly sums up their condition when he says ". . . we are little men, we don't know the ins and outs of the matter, there are wheels within wheels, etcetera — it would be presumptuous of us to interfere with the designs of fate or even of kings." 5 However, the most important aspect of the play isn't the overall hopelessness of R & G's situation. What I found most appealing was the wit and humor used to characterize R & G. Throughout the play they keep up a running dialogue, broken now and again with the entrances of other characters, but continuing throughout. They bring an ele- ment of humor to the tragic events taking place offstage. One of the funniest moments comes when they run through a pretend-examination of Hamlet, in preparation for the real thing. After a rapid-fire question-answer session, Rosencrantz puts it all together: Ros: To sum up: your father, whom you love, dies, you are his heir, you come back to find that hardly was the corpse cold before the younger brother popped onto his throne

56 and into his sheets, thereby offending both legal and natural practice. Now why exactly are you behaving in this extraordinary manner? 6

Alone, the two can devise plans for determining what's going on, but when faced by the situations they have envisioned, they fail miserably. Ultimately, they accomplish nothing. Woven through the pointless foolery of the two are some deep and troubling observa- tions on the human condition. They touch on tragedy and death, and their views become relevant and heartbreaking because they themselves will soon carry out their own prophecies. When at the end of the play they discover their own death sentence in the altered message to the King of England, they suddenly realize that there is nothing they can do about it. "There must have been a moment, at the beginning, where we could have said — no. But somehow we missed it." 7 The player, speaking of acting, says something that ties the play together: "We're tragedians, you know. We follow directions — there is no choice involved. The bad end unhappily, the good unluckily. That is what tragedy means." 8

Terri Miller

1. Stoppard, Tom. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, New York: Grove Press, Inc., 1967, p. 28. 2. Stoppard, p. 66. 3. p. 38. 4. p. 73. 5. p. 110. 6. p. 51. 7. p. 125. 8. p. 80.

57 Epitaph

Tombstones planted in unshaven grass. "In Memoriam" leaflets slapped against weathered marble. Half-colored plastic flowers land marked ancient names.

Humid wind stirred thoughts of these early land artists, imprinting with mind and muscle a love for rhythmed seasons I for planting and reaping.

And valley stretched beneath to see the rustic sun glide into horizon's edge, fusing with the harvest fertility.

The cemetery, neglected and unkempt, overhung the lowland carved from labor's fruit, keeping a timeless vigil for the tendered garden below, in memoriam.

Mary Hotz

58 Photo by Pam Owens

59 A Gift of Life

For a grandmother, mine was pretty smart. She knew the names of all the trees in northern Minnesota and she taught them all to me. She taught me how to make a sailboat out of a buttermilk carton. And she made the best hot cocoa, bread, and jam in the whole world. In the spring she spent day after day on her knees in the cold black dirt of her gardens — planting corn, cucumbers, peas, beans, potatoes and also every kind of flower that grows in Minnesota. During the hot summer days she put hours into tending those gardens. And she mowed the huge lawn around the house. She made punch and cookies for us and pushed us on the swing that hung from the huge birch tree in the back yard. As fall approached, out of storage came the huge pressure cooker and out of the garden came the vegetables. It was time to lay in goods for the winter. I remember the cold winter afternoons that my family spent at her house best of all. My two sisters and I would run from the car and along the shoveled path to the back door and burst into the kitchen calling "Paivva, paivva" — "hello" in Grandma's native Finnish tongue. The three of us would stand waiting for Grandma to turn from what she was doing and greet us by name. Looking back, I find it amazing that with twenty grandchildren she never called any of us by the wrong name. As Mom and Dad came into the house, Jane and Anne and I would deposit our coats on a convenient chair and race up the stairs to the attic storeroom leaving the adults and the present behind. The attic held the treasures of Grandma's past: pictures, material scraps, old books, news- paper clippings, used shoes, old hats, Daddy's old army uniforms, Uncle Dick's college basketball uniform, Uncle Ray's old drafting tools and Aunt Ellen's first high heels. We would rummage through these things, create a story and dress accordingly. Then we would go downstairs to where the adults were and present our creations. Grandma became Judith Christ at a gala premier. After the performance she'd clap and say, "The costuming is elegant, the story line superb! This show will be a hit!" We'd put our costumes away and then rejoin the adults downstairs for a post-theatre reception which included hot cocoa, fresh bread and homemade jam made from home-grown raspber- ries. The reception over, we'd all crowd around the television while Grandma brought out her latest winter-time project. One week it was doing beadwork; then knitting; then basket-weaving; then making stuffed animals. She crocheted an afghan for each of her four daughters-in-law and one for her daughter. Her fingers were never idle. She had a creative mind and a talent for making her creativity show. Christmas was the biggest affair of them all. All the cousins and aunts and uncles came together on that day. The house was filled with laughter, good cheer and love — and it all flowed from that remarkable woman. She remembered each and every grand- child from big Russell down to baby Kelley with homemade mittens, monogrammed shoe-bags and doll clothes. Grandma never had much income, but her hand-made gifts of love are among the richest presents I have ever received.

60 The days of presenting plays and being pushed on the old swing flew by. I grew older and so did Grandma. When I was a sophomore in high school, she slipped on the November snow and ice and broke her leg while doing her chores: she was not one to let age get in the way of her activity. She was not too happy about being in the hospital. One night, not long after Grandma's fall, I sat at my desk writing letters. My younger sister Jane came slowly into my room, big tears welling up in her eyes. She stood next to my desk and said, "Aunt Ellen called. She told Mom and Dad that Grandma has bone cancer. Mary, they said it's terminal. Do you know what that means? It means she's going to die." I could only mumble now-forgotten words incoherently. I shuffled papers around my desk and opened and closed drawers pretending to be busy and distracted. Things like death happened in other families, but not mine. Life had always been good and happy: sad things were not supposed to intervene. I did not want to believe that what my sister had said was true. I asked the only question that seemed important: "How long does she have?" "The doctor told Aunt Ellen two years at the most," Jane replied shakily. I was shocked into disbelief. I could not comfort Jane as she stood next to me crying: I could hardly comfort myself. The doctor said that the cancer had eaten up the bone in her right thigh, and that he would have to insert an iron rod into her leg. He also said that she would never walk again. Grandma listened patiently to him, but said that if she did nothing else before she died, she would walk again. By Christmas she was home again. She invited us all for Christmas dinner as usual. The only alteration was that instead of Grandma making all the preparations, all the aunts and oldest cousins helped with cooking, decorating and washing dishes; Grandma was very much the hostess, however. She needed to rest a lot, but walked around a bit with the aid of crutches. The new year became middle-aged. Grandma had kept her mind, her fingers and her legs busy. She read, cooked, sewed, knitted and her flower garden was the most beauti- ful one on her road that spring. At a family picnic on the Fourth of July, she amazed us all by walking a few quick steps unaided. We applauded her accomplishment but I was haunted by one thought: "Now that she has walked, how long does she have to live?" As the two years allotted to her shriveled away, she spent more and more of her days in hospital rooms. She too seemed to shrivel away with each passing day, each passing week. It became difficult to visit her: her once agile mind and body could not respond as clearly and quickly as they had before — the cancer and medications were taking their toll. I could hardly endure the sight of her once plump, now bony body; I could hardly stand the sight of her grimacing in pain as she lay in her hospital bed. Yet, I was drawn to her. I needed to see her, to be near her, to remind her again and again that I loved her. Perhaps I hoped that telling her that she was loved and needed would keep her from going away. It was May — a year and a half after we had first learned of Grandma's illness. Dad picked me up that Monday after school as usual. As I approached the car, he got out and

61 walked toward me. Just by looking at him I knew that there had been a change in his mother's condition. His face was tired and drawn and he moved slowly and deliberately. I smiled in an effort to cheer him. "You don't have a grandmother any more," he said. His words stunned me. I had never experienced death so close to me before and I did not know how to respond. I ached to console my father: I wanted to say something that would ease the grief I knew he felt, but no words came. That moment that I had unconsciously waited for was a reality and I did not know how to feel. I was numb: I felt nothing. We rode home in silence. The funeral was the following Thursday. I had not cried upon learning of my Grandmother's death, and so I did not expect to cry at the funeral. But the sight of her in her coffin made her death real to me and I burst into tears. About the service itself I remember only the reading of the Twenty-third Psalm. About the burial I remember more. The grave was right next to a young balsam tree. It was spring and the tree was sprouting new growth. Grandma would have liked being buried next to it. I remember Mrs. Knapp and Miss Milbrook. They were dear friends of Grandma's and I was glad that they had been able to make this final tribute to her. Forcing back tears, I walked up to them and introduced myself. I told them, "Grandma really loved you both and you were so kind during her illness: she really appreciated all the flowers and cards you sent." They were flattered. "Oh, thank you, dear," said Mrs. Knapp. "She was such a won- derful lady. You know, honey, you look a lot like your grandmother. Don't you think so, Grace?" Miss Milbrook nodded in agreement, "Oh yes, very much." Those two ladies hold a special place in my memory: I guess it is because they were a special part of my Grandmother's life. I have not cried about my Grandmother's death since her funeral: I have not needed to. She gave me life: I cannot waste her gift.

Mary Joki

62 Petrol, the Puddlejumper and Pa

My Volkswagon, Bug-a-boo O'Shea, chugged sickly like a drunk Irishman. With a mechanical finesse, I turned the ignition off, stepped out of my puddlejumper, opened the gateway to the engine and checked the oil. It was as black as a third-degree burn. Healthy petrol is usually colored a medium, tawny brown. I could tell from my empirical data that it was time for an oil change. Since I had a thing about self-sufficiency, I had already learned to change oil. The process is relatively simple, and it is completely diagrammed and described in my owner's manual. So, with great familiarity and practice, I prepared to change my oil, running a blow-by-blow play of the process through my head. But first, I entered my house for an early supper. As we were eating, I announced while passing the peas that I was going to replace my petrol. "I'll do that," my father ruled. "No, I can do it," I countered. "But you'll get dirty and you'll probably do it wrong." I asked him,"Who has changed that car's oil ever since we bought it?" He cleared his throat, took another bite and swallowed hard. My mother and brothers began to giggle without being too silent about it. To warn them, my somewhat deaf father threw them his contempt-of-court glare. But when he turned back to me his face softened with a proud smile. "Well," said the patriarch, "you have." I cleared my dishes, put on my jacket and went outside to my V.W. I gathered several wrenches and the oil pick-up pan. It was a perfect day for changing the old Pennsylvania crude: dry, sunny, warm and clear. I slid underneath Bug-a-boo and unscrewed the sand-encrusted nuts on the oil disc. Black gold poured out. Oil streamed all over my hand, staining my skin. Yes, I got dirty. How unfeminine! As a matter of fact my jacket was filthy from the grime on the driveway and somehow my scarf was spotted with oil drops. I smelled great, like a gasoline station. From underneath the car, I saw my father's feet. "You are a girl, you know," he said flatly with an intonation of doubt. I crawled out with the oil filter, oil disc and screws in my hand. "Oh," I retaliated, "girls should not do things like this, huh? Women are supposed to be incapable, is that it?" He was silent except for a sigh. We washed the dirty oil parts together, and then, returned to my V.W. As I crawled underneath, my father gave me instructions. "Get the filter and gaskets in there tight, otherwise the car will leak oil!" "I know that , Dad," I replied. "Your hands probably aren't strong enough to tighten the nuts," he challenged from his lofty position. "Oh, I'll manage," I mumbled, tired of his false assumptions. I screwed everything in tight, cleaned up my tools and put away the oil pick-up pan. As I poured the new

63 HABCO METALL. CORP. KROMCK & SON, INC. CalaigNI # SHEET- is Prnicos NUM COPPEI

Photo by Renee Savage

64 10W-20W-30W liquid in, placing the funnel just right, my father spoke. "Don't spill," he ordered. I told him I wouldn't and poured in three cans of Penzoil without mishap. I took the funnel out, put the oil cap on and checked the dip stick. The oil level was just right. I closed the engine gateway and picked up my mess. My father had gone in the house. I walked in smelling, oil-stained and content. My mother and sister smiled. I crossed the living room to the kitchen to wash up with Comet cleanser and hot water. As I scrubbed away, my father walked past me saying, "I thought only men got dirty."

Kate Blau

Bad Memories

Bad memories are like eating; a once-reality is swallowed, followed by an after-taste and returns to remind us at an awkward time by a loud BURP!

Deb Schauberger

65 Tapestry

Beyond sunset, through the night, the Artist interlocks with delicate stitches strands of deep hue. The beater presses gently into place the rare network — an everlasting vision of beauty and blinding color.

Tireless Hands design yarn through a maze of warp threads. Slowly, patiently, the Weaver celebrates over His loom the web spun from love.

Mary Hotz

V

66 Photo by Eileen McConnon Photo by Sandy Heinen Hike to the Top of the World

At 7:30 a.m., we began our fourth day of hiking in the San Jacinto Wilderness of Southern California. It was going to be the peak day — the highlight of the entire six-day trek into the mountains: by noon we would be atop Mt. San Jacinto — 10,831 feet above sea level. From our campsite in Round Valley, I could hardly see the peak and I knew the hike that day would be all uphill and difficult. After dousing the fire we had used to cook breakfast, and packing our tents, sleeping bags and dehydrated food, we made a final check of the campsite to ensure that we left nothing behind. Finally, we threw our packs up onto our backs and secured the billy-belts around our Waists to help keep the packs from cutting into our shoulders: it was time to begin. The starting pace was quick because we were quietly anxious to get to the top. The steady scuffling sound of boots beating trail permeated the early-morning stillness. Each step of eight pair of feet pounded the trail. The only break in the rhythm was when I tripped over a rock jutting up in the path. After that, I kept my eyes to the ground. Casualties were something we could do without here — five hard miles from the nearest radio-phone and fifteen miles or more from the closest town. With each stride I felt the straining of leg muscles pulled to the limit. Normal breathing grew heavy. We had by now reached 9,000 feet and the air was thin. My breath came in gasps: "Hey, we've got to stop. . . ." I leaned back — pack and all — against a tree just off the trail. My body gave a sigh of thanks. A canteen filled with water was shoved into my hands. Even though my throat cried for more, I stopped after a quick gulp: I could do without a side-ache from over- drinking. I passed the water on and stood up straight. Looking down the mountainside to the valley from which we had climbed, I saw a gentle, rolling hill dotted with scrub pine and rocks. Beyond that were other mountains in the San Jacinto range — barely visible through the morning mist, not yet risen. The climb thus far had been toward the peak. One thought constantly prodded my mind: why were we climbing this mountain? Even more specifically, why was I climbing this mountain? Dad's nagging question hung in my mind: "Why would anyone want to climb a mountain?" Yet, here we were climbing a mountain. It was amazing how the eight of us came together. More than a year earlier we had all applied for the chance to take part in this encampment. I was one of the two girls from Minnesota chosen to join Girl Scouts and Guides from countries all over the world in hiking up San Jacinto. I was really amazed at being part of this group. As I looked down that valley, I marveled not only at the landscape, but at the other seven girls in my patrol and especially the fact that they had elected me patrol leader. We caught our breaths and the trek upward began again — slower but steady. Breathe in, breathe out. Right, left. Breathe in, breathe out. Right, left. In front of me, Digger's

69 bright orange pack bulged and swayed back and forth and bounced slowly up and down. The sun beat down; our feet plodded on, Digger's in the lead. On uphill climbs Digger was the slowest. As patrol leader, one thing I insisted upon was that we hike together all the time. It would have been a less rewarding, less rich experience had we hiked only with those who travelled at the same speed as we did. But as the dust from 4 Digger's boots drifted up from the trail and settled into my nostrils and onto my arms and legs, I wondered if hiking together was such a great idea. The higher we hiked, the slower Digger walked. There were pleas from the back of the line: "Please hurry. Don't be inconsiderate.Hiking this slowly is just killing my legs." But Digger couldn't go any faster and so we continued on at a turtle's pace. Hot. My feet burned with each pounding step, even through two-inch, cleated rubber soles. I wanted to just race up the side of the mountain — past Digger and through the trees and boulders — instead of beating the trail with its switchbacks weaving to and fro across the side of the mountain. Exhaustion penetrated every muscle in my body: arms throbbed and hands swelled from hanging and swinging at my sides; legs were drained of any will to move voluntarily; steps became more and more labored and mechanical. We had reached the 10,000 foot elevation by this time — 831 more feet to climb into the air. I ached to reach the top. The next bend brought relief: the peak was close — within reach. My eyes interpreted the nearness of the peak for my body and it came alive. The adrenalin began to flow. I forgot my rubbery legs, my swollen hands, my tired lungs. I felt a renewed urgency to hurry — to get to the top. Even Digger speeded up. Striving for the peak, we picked up momentum and before we knew it were at the tree line. But we couldn't stop there: we scrambled over boulders and hopped over small crevices in our final struggle for the top of that mountain. When we reached the top of San Jac, I knew that we would not only be reaching a peak literally, we would be reaching a peak in each of our lives. We clam- bered upward — all heading for that peak which was in some way bringing us together. My watch said 11:30 a.m. The Forest Service sign said: San Jacinto Peak — 10,831. I stood on a rock and just looked at that sign. For four days we had been hiking, driving ourselves up and down mountainsides and valleys and we were finally there. I put my pack against a tree and looked around: 360° of mountains. In the south I saw mountains stretching forever until the earth curved them out of sight. The west was a myriad of rugged peaks and deep canyons. And in the east the clouds had finally risen up above the mountaintops and starting to float away. In the north stood San Gorgonio Mountain — old "Greyback" — a puzzle of jutting crags and treacherous trails. From the top of that mountain, I could see everywhere: my Minnesota, Lucy's Vir- ginia, Deb's Pennsylvania, Sandi's Wyoming, Digger's Utah, Pickle's New York, Pat's British Columbia, and Kim's California. As I looked out over the expanse of the land, I remembered that two weeks earlier the eight of us had not known each other. We had been chosen and put together arbitrarily. From all over North America we had come

70 here: in no other situation could we have conceivably come together. It was then I knew why I had worked so hard to get there; knew why I had hiked until it seemed I could hike no more. I knew why I had slept short nights on rock beds; knew why I had never given up. At that moment I was higher than I had ever been before. Standing on that peak was a moment that answered my question: "Why climb this mountain?" It is one of those questions that cannot be answered until the act has been accomplished. Why climb? Climb because the land you see can look the way you see it only for you. Climb because of the people you will climb with. Climb because climbing makes the world seem smaller. Some experiences are sacred.

Mary Joki

Feeding Calves in October

Black calves, Nuzzling 'gainst me, Lick my red jacket sleeve With their soggy, sandpaper tongues, Greedy.

Anita Eikens

71 Folly of a Fruit Cocktail 1

The spoon plunges Into velvety mounds of whipped cream, and Emerges with a soft chunk of banana, Camouflaged in fluff. A squish and a swallow send it slithering.

Next a firm grape; Poised; Attacked by cuspids, Explodes, Spurting tangy droplets. Only fragments of chewy peel remain.

Deeper, The silver tip probes, A watery melon ball dissolves into sugary pulp. A slice of apple crunches to tart slush. Teeth pierce a wedge of orange, Membranes split with a burst of sour sweetness, Ooops — a seed slid by.

Finally, The plump strawberry remains. Syrupy juices trickle, Mingle with cream, Gone, Dish and spoon stand alone.

Barb Sagstetter 7.0

72

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