Part 2. Elena Parra by Ana Consuelo Matiella

Elena Parra started feeling something she didn’t understand. It was as if there was something inside her that wanted to get out. Her skin was tight with cold, and she wanted to crawl out of her skin. Leave her body. Fly away. Anything but being here trying to keep this wild animal from attacking her.
Suddenly she felt a surge of anger. She kicked at the door and yelled at the coyote at the top of her lungs, “Get out of here! Leave me alone!”
The coyote winced, went around in circles three times, curled up on the doorstep and fell asleep.
The next thing she knew, it was morning, and the animal was stretched out across the walkway. He heard the truck first and ran towards the road wagging his tail.
At first, she panicked thinking it was the Driver, Beer Guy and Vico coming back to get her. But then she saw it was a big red Ford truck with faded paint and steer horns, real ones, on the hood.
The coyote was jumping and yelping like a dog. He obviously knew the man in the truck. A big, dark man got out of the truck. He was wearing a huge 10-gallon hat like the cowboy Hoss on an American TV show she saw once in an appliance store in Magdalena. He had on worn jeans and a plaid flannel shirt. His legs were enormous. The coyote jumped up to greet him and the giant man patted the animal’s head. He reached back into the truck and pulled out a rifle.
Elena could hear her own heartbeat as she waited behind the screen door, staring at the man coming towards her.
“Y tú?” He asked before opening the door. “Who are you and what are you doing here?” His voice was gruff and deep.
“Perdón señor, I am Elena Parra from San Ignacio.”
“And what are you doing here on private property?” He said. “I could have shot you. I can have you arrested for trespassing.”
“I’m sorry sir, it’s just that something terrible happened to me and I didn’t know what else to do so I hid here for the night, but I can go out to the highway now and hitch a ride back to San Ignacio. Please forgive me. I didn’t cause any harm. I was very frightened and then this coyote tried to attack me!”
Elena Parra started to sob.
The giant’s harsh frown softened, and he said, “That coyote is the guardian here, and he won’t hurt you unless I say so.”
“He kept wanting to get in.” She said.
“He sleeps here at night,” he said, “this is his home.”
Elena tried to compose herself as she wiped her nose with her arm.
The giant came to the door, “Unlatch the door, Muchacha and let me in.”
“Please don’t hurt me, Sir. Three young men tried to hurt me yesterday. That’s why I’m here. They brought me here and left me.”
“I’m not going to hurt you, Hija. Just open the door so we can get into the house. I can make you some coffee and scrounge something for you to eat before I take you home.”
“¡Orale, Capitan!” he called to the animal and opened the screen door. The coyote came over to sniff Elena’s leg, wagging his tail.
Elena moved back “He doesn’t bite, really?”
“No, I already told you. He doesn’t bite. Unless I tell him. If I tell him to bite, he’ll bite.”
“Please don’t let him bite me.” Elena said.
“Andale, come in. Sit down. You’re safe now.”
His name was Romeo Moreno and he was the caretaker of this part of the ranch and stables. He told Elena all about the houses and how he took care of them because the truth was nobody ever came to stay in these houses. The Maytorena girls had long grown up and lived in different parts of Mexico, and it was just the ranch hands and their horses that lived in the stables up the road.
Romeo made strong coffee and found a can of milk and sugar and made Elena a huge cup of café con leche. He found some stale crackers and some jam in the cupboard and gave her some to eat.
“Are you cold?” he asked looking at her bare arms.
“Yes sir, I am so cold. They took my sweatshirt and my money, and I thought they were really going to hurt me but one of the boys defended me and he told me to run. That’s how I ended up here.”
He showed her into one of the bedrooms and found a cardboard box with old clothes. “Here, look through these things. There might be a jacket there you can take.”
Elena found a green corduroy jacket with 4 pockets on the front. It was lined with red and white gingham flannel and smelled like moth balls. If fit perfectly.
“There’s a bathroom there, if you need to wash up or anything.” Romeo said.
He sat at the kitchen table and waited for Elena to come out of the bathroom, clean faced and wearing the green jacket.
“Drink your coffee and have some crackers.” He indicated towards the door. “I’ll drive you home.”
Romeo had a bag of peanuts in the car, and he told her to help herself.
His hands were scarred, and he had oil in his fingernails. He had a big silver ring on with the head of a tiger. He noticed that she was looking at it and said,
“It’s a beauty, isn’t it? My patrón gave it to me for my 20th anniversary with the Maytorena family.”
“They are good people if you ever need a job. How old are you?”
“I’m 15 years old, sir.”
“And you are out here on your own? Your parents must be very worried about you.”
In the hour or so that it took to get from Las Tres Hermanas to the crossroad to San Ignacio, Elena Parra told Romeo Moreno her whole story.
“So, when you get home, your father is going to beat you?”
“Yes sir,” Elena said, and then she raised her pant leg for him to see the scars.
Romeo winced and looked away.
“That’s why I was on my way to my Tía Manue’s in Nogales, Sonora. She’s my madrina and my father’s oldest sister. He won’t beat me in front of her. He’s afraid of her.”
Romeo nodded and got quiet. He drove down the paved highway. When they passed the turn off to San Ignacio, he kept going.
“That was the turn off, Don Romeo, back there.”
“I know where the turn off is, Elena Parra. I also know where Nogales is, and that’s where we’re going.”
“En serio?” She asked looking up to his big brown eyes.
“No one should be treated like that, Mija.”
Elena Parra started to cry again, and Romeo Moreno pulled out a dirty red bandana from his front pocket and gave it to her.
“We’ll stop and get some tortas and a couple of Fantas. Which flavor do you like?”
“Naranja, sir.”
“I like tamarindo.”
Romeo Moreno had Jose Alfredo Jimenez, the most famous mariachi singer in Mexico, on cassette and they listened to his music all the way to the bottom of the hill where Manue lived.
“Wave when you get to the top, Hija. I don’t think my truck can make it up that hill.”
“There are 106 steps to climb to my tía Manue’s,” she said sounding like a little girl, but I know exactly which ones to take.
Manue came out and started yelling, “Elena Parra, muchacha loca! What are you doing here and who is that man?”
Elena waved at Romeo from the top of the hill, as she said, “His name is Romeo Moreno, Tía, and he is a good man.”
“Qué bueno, Mijita. Now tell me, what in the world is going on?”
“I need your help, Tía,” she cried. “I need your help!”
“Ya estás aqui, Mijita. Ya estás aqui conmigo.” Tía Manue held her close and now they were both crying.
“Can I come and live with you, Tía? I have a lot to tell you.”
“You better be careful because I may never let you go back.” Tía Manue held on to Elena as if she was never going to let her go.
“Tía, Tía, do you remember Las Tres Hermanas ranch on the way to Santa Ana?”
Tía Manue smiled, “Claro que sí, Mijita…there was a pink house, a yellow house and one the color of peaches. The peach- colored one was always my favorite.”
“Mine too,” Elena Parra said, “Mine too!”

Elena Parra: A Story by Ana Consuelo Matiella. Part 1.

Elena Parra
by Ana Consuelo Matiella

Elena Parra walked down the dirt road, her chanclas making a flip-flop sound as she took each rapid step away from her family and her pueblito, San Ignacio. She didn’t take much with her, just a mochila with water for the day, some socks, underpants, and a sweatshirt, in case she got cold. She felt guilty about stealing her mother’s money, the cash she kept in a tomato sauce can at the bottom of the wooden table that held the wash basins to wash the dishes. But she had no choice. She had no money and she had to get away fast before anyone would find out what happened.
She knew that once she got to the edge of town, she could hitch a ride to Magdalena and from there she could take a Transportes Nortes de Sonora bus as far as Imuris because that is where the tourists would stop to buy quesadillas and beer before their final trek back to the border. Once in Imuris, surely a kind family of Gringos would give her a ride to Nogales, Sonora.
In Nogales, Sonora, she would be safe, even if she didn’t get to the Other Side just yet.
The Other Side. That is what everyone called it. “We are going to al Otro Lado,” as if al Otro Lado was some magical place where all your troubles would melt away just because you got a job. You might end up working for a nice family that would buy you clothes and feed you and pay you a few extra dollars, and all for just cleaning their big house and taking care of their children.
Elena Parra knew this story and had heard it many times because her friend Martha had escaped San Ignacio and made it all the way to el Otro Lado and came back to tell about it. She came back “with child” as they said, because what choice did she have when she got pregnant, and her boss lady didn’t know what to do with her. Martha’s “family” from el Otro Lado were a nice bunch of Mexicans who had become American. They drove her all the way back to San Ignacio and dropped her off at her grandmother’s little store. There Martha stayed and had her baby, a blonde little boy whom everyone called Güero. It wasn’t too bad for Martha. She had her grandmother and the store and her Güero and there she would make a life, helping her Nana, raising her son, and entertaining the local girls with stories from the Other Side.
Elena liked listening to Martha’s stories; Martha was a real cuentera and embellished her cuentos with sound effects and a few little tunes, mostly rancheras she knew by heart.
So now it was Elena’s turn to get out of San Ignacio with one big difference: while Martha came back with a baby in her panza, Elena was leaving San Ignacio with a baby in her panza. Another difference, and a big one was that Elena Parra’s father was not as benevolent as Martha’s Nana and would not take kindly to the fact that Elena Parra had opened up her legs to the wrong boy at the wrong time.
There it was, the predicament that Elena Parra found herself in.
Going to Nogales, Sonora was going to be okay because once there she knew that her Tía Manue would open her large fluffy arms and let her rest in the bosom of her tiny little house on top of the hill overlooking Stink Bug Bridge – El Puente del Pinacate. And while Manue did not have a tiendita to make her living, she did have a widow’s pension from when her husband fell off a ladder while inspecting a building for the health department. Manue would take her in because in addition to being Elena’s aunt, she was also her madrina. And the promise of the Madrina was that if anything happened to your goddaughter, you would step up and take care of her.
So, Elena Parra had a predicament, but she also had a plan. All she had to do was get to Nogales, Sonora. How hard could that be?
“Flip-flop, flip-flop, flip-flop,” the fine dust of the desert ground seeped in to her chanclas and was soft against her bare feet. The sky was blue like it always was and the day was warm but not hot. It was October and soon, the sun’s angle would be kinder to the eyes, and the night air would be just right for sleeping. She would be at her tía’s after dark, but she knew exactly how to get there even though she would be exhausted from climbing the 106 steps to get to the top of the hill.
Elena didn’t expect things to go right all the way, but she also didn’t expect things to go so wrong so quickly.
The three boys that picked her up to take her to Magdalena were not strangers, but she broke the rule of never getting into a car alone with more than one man, even if you knew who they were. And she only knew one of them by name. Vico. He was the wiry one that spoke too fast and always wore a white cowboy hat and boots. He dressed like a cowboy even though he had no cows. A vaquero sin vacas.
She could hear their laughter before they stopped to ask her where she was going.
“A Magdalena,” she said, “to the bus station.”
“Get in,” said the driver, a dark-haired boy she had seen only from afar at the dances on the plaza.
She hesitated, and Vico said, “Andale pues, Elena, what are you waiting for? We don’t bite.”
She got into the back seat of the old brown Toyota sedan next to another boy who didn’t look at her. He was drinking from a cahuama, a large brown bottle of beer.
They drove down the dusty road for a good half hour in silence. The beer guy kept dosing off and startling himself out of sleep. He was awake now and staring at Elena with blood shot eyes and a crooked smile.
Elena’s mouth went dry, so she reached into her mochila for her water bottle and when she pulled it out, her small coin purse slipped out and on to the floor of the car. The stuffed bills were sticking out of the metal clasp.
Beer Guy looked down and watched Elena try to reach for the coin purse that had fallen by his foot. He tapped Vico’s shoulder from the back seat and when Vico looked back, he pointed to Elena Parra’s coin purse with his chin.
“So where are you going, Elena Parra? That you are in such a hurry?” Vico said.
Elena put the coin purse back in her pack. “Just to visit my aunt in Nogales,” she said.
“How much did your mother give you to spend? Can you buy us some tortas for the road?”
Elena clutched her mochila to her chest. “No, I just have money for the bus ticket.”
“Well, let’s take a look,” Vico said, and reached over and grabbed her mochila.
“Please don’t be mean, Vico.” She said. After all, she did in fact know him and his family. She never thought he was a bad guy.
“I’m not being mean,” Vico said, “just hungry.” He chuckled as he grabbed the coin purse.
Beer Guy laughed a stupid drunk laugh and that is when Elena Parra realized she was in trouble.
“Ay, ay, ay,” Vico said finding the coin purse. “Let’s see how much you have for your little trip.”
He pulled the crumpled bills out and counted them. “Fifty pesos? That’s enough for tortas and a bus ticket, ¿qué no?”
Elena looked out the window of the old Toyota trying to muster up the courage to open the car door and jump out.
Beer Guy reached over to her side and slammed the door lock down with his brown fist.
The three boys laughed, and the driver swerved while he said, “Well, muchachos, it looks like we won the lotería!”
Elena sat back without saying a word. The driver turned on the radio full blast as they barreled down the dirt road that led to the paved road to Magdalena.
“We’re almost there, Preciosa,” Beer Guy said as he reached over and stroked Elena’s knee. When Vico noticed, he yelled at him, “¡Déjala en paz! Leave her to me.”
Vico winked at Elena and Beer Guy was amused. He attempted a celebratory howl.
When they came to the turn that Elena knew was a left turn to go into the narrow-paved highway to Magdalena, the driver turned right.
Vico said, “Where are you going, Pendejo? I thought we were going to Magdalena.”
“Change of plans,” the driver said and sped down the highway in the direction of Santa Ana.
Elena Parra sat in the corner of the back seat of the old Toyota pushing herself as far away from the scene as possible. The tears rolled down her cheeks as she realized her father’s beating would have been much better than this.
After what seemed like a long time to Elena, Vico as if startling himself out of a deep sleep, turned a deep shade of red and pounded on the dashboard.
“No! ¡Chinga tu madre, Buey!” He said. “This is going too far!”
The driver looked over to Vico and said, “No mames, Buey, I’m just fooling around.”
“Turn back,” Vico said staring at him. “I’m serious.”
“Cálmate, Pendejo. I know where I’m going. It’s not far. We can get some tortas and have a little fun.”
“Pull over!” Vico yelled. “Pull over now or I’ll break your face.”
Elena was sobbing softly to herself.
The driver jerked the car into a U-turn in the middle of the highway.
As Elena looked out the window, she saw the place that everyone called Las Tres Hermanas up ahead. It was a small gathering of out buildings and three houses in a row in a clearing behind a tall, barbed wire fence by the highway. They were grand houses by Elena Parra’s estimation. They belonged to a prominent family of ranchers, the Maytorena’s, and the story told that Mr. Maytorena built each of his beautiful daughters a house on the edge of his vast cattle ranch.
Vico pulled the steering wheel away from the driver and the car swerved and hit a dirt embankment as the driver slammed on the breaks.
The driver hit his head hard against the steering wheel and screamed. “¡Te voy a matar, Cabrón!”
Vico called out to Elena. “Get out! Get out and go!”
Elena saw that Vico was almost as afraid as she was.
The driver staggered out of the car to stop her, and Vico ran around and kicked him in the groin.
“What the hell are you doing?” Yelled the driver.
Vico opened the back door and yelled at Elena again. “Run!”
The driver shoved Vico against the car and started to make a grab for Elena and Vico punched him hard in the face.
Elena scrambled out of the car and ran toward the barbed wire fence that surrounded the property. She ran toward the gate and looked for a way to open it. The sign on the gate read, “¡Peligro¡” with pictures of red lightning bolts.
While Vico and the driver were fighting, Beer Guy got out of the car and stood by holding himself up against the car. Elena took off toward the periphery of the fence for a few yards and saw a space in the barbed wire where she thought she could crawl through without tripping up the fence. She put one leg in carefully and bent down in a straight line and inserted her head through the wire while her other leg straddled the barbed wire. With her body halfway into the yard she slowly balanced and pulled her left leg out away from wire and into the yard. Then she ran without looking back. She ran away from the highway, away from the fence and deep into the mesquite grove behind the houses. When she couldn’t run anymore, she hid behind a mesquite tree; she looked back but couldn’t see the road. She then heard the car peel out. From the sound of it, it sounded like they were heading back toward Magdalena.
Elena Parra sat by the mesquite tree until her heart stopped pounding. She felt a sudden urge to gag from the dust in her throat. She couldn’t swallow. She needed water but her water was in her mochila along with the rest of her belongings, and they were gone. She thanked God.
There had to be water somewhere near the houses.
As she walked toward the houses again, Elena remembered driving to Santa Ana with her mother and father on trips to buy feed or some other provision that they couldn’t get in Magdalena. She remembered her mother telling her about the houses…
“Look at the Tres Hermanas,” she would say, “and how beautiful they are. One of them pink, one of the yellow and the other the color of a peach.”
As a little girl Elena only imagined what those houses might look like inside. Maybe they had crystal chandeliers or velvet couches; maybe they had a real sink with running water and a gas stove. All the things that Elena Parra’s home didn’t have.
“I was lucky one time to know the lady that cleaned the houses,” Mrs. Parra said, “and I went into the pink house. That one belongs to Elsa, one of the three Maytorena sisters. The other two belong to Ciria and Maria del Carmen.”
Elena loved hearing stories about Los Maytorena and how rich they had gotten. The story told that their grandfather had come from Spain many years ago and married a Mayo woman, the beautiful and tall Gertrudes, now known as Doña Tule. She was so beautiful that no one minded that she as an Indian.
Although Elena Parra knew no one would be home, she knocked on the back door of the yellow house. Nada.
She knocked on the pink house. Nada.
She knocked on the house the color of a peach. Also, nothing.
The afternoon was dead silent. No birds. No cicadas. No crickets. Nada.
She went around the front of the houses, afraid to find the brown Toyota with her assailants waiting for her, Beer Guy sobered-up and ready to pounce on her while driver watched. Vico, gone, or worse, dead on the side of the road, hit with a rock on the head. Bloody.
She shook off her vision as she noticed that there were flowers growing by the front door of the peach-colored house. And then she saw that there were flower beds in front of the others as well. Perritos is what she called those miniature purple and yellow flowers that looked like little dogs, and margaritas were the white daisies with yellow centers. There had to be water if there were flowers!
Elena saw a thick green hose under the greenery and followed it to the faucet on the side of the house. She turned it and water gushed out from a leak. She sucked water into her mouth, spit out the dirt from her mouth and guzzled the water, not bothering to go find the end of the hose and drink from it.
She looked around the property and saw the stables and the animal corrals. There was no one there. She was alone.
Elena Parra had set out on a simple plan. To get to Magdalena, then Imuris, then Nogales, Sonora. She wasn’t even going all the way to the Other Side. She just wanted to get to her Tía Manue where she would be scolded and cussed at and then hugged and sobbed over and then blessed a million times and doused with holy water with a huge scream to our Blessed Mother – “¡Ave María Purísima! What are we going to do now, Child?”
That’s all she wanted. And look what she got.
She sat on the stoop of the porch of the peach-colored house, waiting for someone to come and help her. She did not dare go out to the highway to catch a ride.
“Please, please, somebody help,” she whispered and leaned against the screen door. It moved – it wasn’t locked. She let herself into the screen porch. She sat on an old wooden chair. She waited. And waited. The sun was almost down, and she wondered what she could do.
“Just sleep on the porch,” she whispered to herself. “Wait until morning and then hitch a ride back to San Ignacio. Tell them the truth.”
It was her fault. Her and Fidencio, the neighbor’s son, met up at the dance at the plaza and did it. It was no big deal, not what she was expecting at all, and she swore she would never do it again. She swore she would never have sex with anyone let alone Fidencio who was clumsy and had scratchy hands. He wasn’t even a good dancer. He just shoved her around the dance floor, dragging his feet in a haphazard way. Al trochi mochi is what that style of dancing was called. Willy nilly.
Nothing to tell stories about. No cuento here. Not like Martha’s. Nothing like Martha’s sexy escapades with the cute Gringo. No romance. No pretty dress. No French cologne. Just Fidencio on a whim on a hot night in San Ignacio.
Her father would kill him for sure because he was kind of a useless kid. And he would beat her with his belt like he had done so many other times before for much less offensive acts than opening her patas for some good for nothing kid who didn’t even know how to shave.
Night fell on the peach-colored house and Elena Parra was cold and hungry. She could stand the hunger more than she could stand the cold. While in the daytime the place was quiet, she started hearing a variety of noises coming from just outside the porch. The hooting didn’t bother her at all because for a long time she considered owls her friends. When she heard the owls late at night at home in San Ignacio, she always felt soothed by it like a lullaby putting her to sleep. Tonight, was different. Elena was alert to every sound. Coyotes never bothered her much either but here she was alone in a strange house and the yelping seemed to be getting closer. She laid down on her side and could feel her little bump under her shirt. Now there would be two of them and how would she be able to provide for the little creature if she didn’t go back home to her mother and father.
Would her father beat her after she had a baby? She knew the answer as she heard scratching at the door. It startled her and made her sit up. There was no way anything could get into the porch. It had a latch and the door fit tight. She was safe, but there was no doubt there was an enormous coyote trying to get in.
“I’m safe,” she said, and then she started repeating, “Blessed Mother, I trust in you. Blessed Mother, I trust in you. Blessed Mother, I trust in you.”
This was the way she prayed. Being too lazy to recite the full rosary with all Our fathers and all the Hail Marys, that’s the way she said her beads from start to finish and then end with, “Oh my God I am so sorry for having offended thee…” The Act of Contrition. She knew that one by heart from start to finish.
She had recited the Act of Contrition a dozen times a day since the Fidencio incident, on that terrible day behind the plaza. Much good it did her. God had obviously not forgiven her.
Elena Parra was sure that this mess that she found herself in was all just punishment for having sex with the wrong boy at the wrong time.
“I am never doing it again, ever,” she told Martha.
“Well, you are only 15 years old, and you might change your mind. So never say never.” Martha said.
But Elena Parra was resolved. She made a manda to the Blessed Mother. If she could somehow get to safety, to her Tia Manue’s and she took her in and let her have her baby and didn’t let Elena’s father beat her with the belt until he could no longer swing his arm, she would never ever have sex again.
“Sht. Sht.” Elena hissed at the animal. She got a stick and hit the door with it. “¡Andale! Go away!”
The animal wouldn’t budge. He kept whining and trying to pry the door open with his paw. He looked up at her through the screen with his yellow eyes and panted like a dog. He seemed harmless, but she knew these crazy beasts and they were not called tricksters for nothing. If she weakened and let him in, he would tear her to shreds.


Stay tuned for the ending, next post!

Haibun by David Meischen

Visits from the Wild

Night gives over to light when our rabbit arrives on the patio. We know he’s our rabbit because of the notched ear, the lame hind leg. No hurry hopping to the bowl of wild rabbit kibble poured for him between visits. He’s feral, yes, ears on alert. But accustomed to us. A streak of tame in him, he doesn’t startle to our voices. We watch him from the kitchen door.

cars rev along Unser
counting breaths
I whisper stay

Our rabbit nibbles briefly, then turns to his water bowl, a double bowl left over from the time of two cats. He shares water with doves and finches who converge around the bird feeder. He sips, wiggles his nose, sips again, returns to his kibble, puts his forepaws onto the edge of the bowl and tips it.

a flutter in the pine tree raptor wings

Renwick Gallery, Smithsonian Museum

Janet Echelman’s colorful fiber and lighting installation, suspended from the ceiling of the Renwick Gallery’s Grand Salon, examines the complex interconnections between human beings and our physical world, and reveals the artist’s fascination with the measurement of time.

It was overwhelming to see this–just transformative!

Photo by Isabel Winson-Sagan. We were lucky to share the experience.

Forest Fire Spotter, Lighthouse Keeper, Hotdog Stand Owner, Writer by Mark Pumphrey

A lone forest fire spotter sits Zen-like in a tower at the top of a slope in the Gila National Forest as he has done day in and day out for the past twelve years. He cannot read—distracting. He cannot watch television—eyes on the forest. He cannot talk on his phone—bad signal and too much dividing of his attention in case of a fire. He can only sit zazen, staring into the green and blue as they meet just above the tree line on the other shore above the lake below him. He had a canary once, but the canary died. And the forestry department did not approve of the canary.

The fire spotter chose his job and it chose him. He was one of those individuals, along with lighthouse keepers, hotdog stand owners and writers, who must have freedom before they can breathe. Who must be alone before they can ever be with other people. Who must have silence and inertness before any action can arise in them.

When the fire comes, he is then ready, and bolts into action, in the zone required for a sensible and efficient resolution of a dangerous situation.

The lonely lighthouse keeper, wife long dead, groping in the dark on a wind-swept, stormy shore, being overcome with an internal darkness except when in the tower watching out for the boats in distress in the night, is a stereotype that may be closer to the reality than we think. Am I the only person who has ever longed for such an existence?

The independence of the hot dog stand owner-master of his own destiny, answering to no one but himself, is probably a myth. Those buns and condiments have to come from somewhere. But how many of us as working stiffs whose creativity has been stamped out by the gods of bureaucracy have not longed to be our own boss, doing our own thing and doing it in the way we believe to be the most meaningful?

As a writer, I too, must have quiet. I must be alone. No café writing for me. No putting pen to paper before first sitting and emptying my mind of all thought. Only then can the real writing of consequence occur. Only then can meaning come into the writing, for my self and for others who choose to read what I have written.


This piece was written earlier this month in a Tumblewords workshop on zoom from El Paso. The prompt was a painting by Margarete Bagshaw that references forest fire, “The Day The Sun Turned Red”  36″ X 48″
In honor of Indian Market, 2011

Blog in Brief Hiatus

I’m heading back east for the unveiling of my father-in-law’s headstone. Jack (Jacob) Feldman–may his memory be a blessing. I’ll be back to blogging in about a week, and always answering email at

The Jewish Cemetery Association of MA says:

The custom of placing a monument over the grave of a departed person is a very ancient Jewish tradition. The Book of Genesis, for example, records that Jacob erected a tombstone (Matzevah) over the grave of his wife Rachel. From Biblical times onward, wherever Jewish communities have existed, Jews have continued this practice of erecting a memorial in honor of their deceased.
The monument is erected to indicate clearly where a person is buried, so that family and friends may visit the gravesite. It is also a way of remembering and honoring the memory of the person who has died.
Today, we refer to the ceremony of formally consecrating a tombstone as an “unveiling.”