A Haiku by Shirley Johnson

Spring

April afternoon

A red boat cuts a sharp V

On the glassy lake

Autumn by Shirley Johnson

                                                             

In my family autumn meant fall colors, closing the lake cabin, going back to school and celebrating the happiest of holidays, Thanksgiving. Christmas and Thanksgiving took place alternately at our home in Floodwood, Minnesota, or in Duluth with Aunt Edie, Uncle Burl and my cousins Dorothy and Burleigh Jr. Because the forty-mile drive could be chancy if it rained or snowed, we were always at the mercy of the weather, but generally both families managed to make the trip. It was just the eight of us together, except once when Grandpa McKenzie was included and delayed the turkey by saying a long and rambling “grace” while the bird waited to be carved, and Dorothy and I tried hard not to giggle aloud. Ordinarily, if grace was said, one of the children repeated a one-line Sunday school prayer, which almost rhymed:  “We thank the Lord for this our food, for life and health and every good. Amen,” Since my father was a non-believer, it was just as well to have a short prayer.

At both houses, the holiday table was carefully set with the Spode china, sterling silver, and crystal, which were only brought out on special occasions. The china and silver patterns were slightly different in each home, all having been bought at Oreck’s on Superior Street in Duluth. The menus were similar too: usually turkey, although sometimes Aunt Edie added ham, and even introduced a delicious raisin sauce that is a staple for my family now. In our minds, Aunt Edie was an imaginative cook. She even served spaghetti and her own homemade sauce for an ordinary family dinner when I was there. It was the first ethnic food I ever had. The one dish she made that I didn’t eat was mashed turnips. I’ve been grateful that I was never forced to eat food I didn’t like, unlike some children who had to sit at the table until they gave up, and swallowed the hated mouthful.

Ordinarily we didn’t have wine with meals, but on special occasions Uncle Burl went to a top shelf in the cupboard for a bottle of Mogen David wine, a gift from his Jewish employers, which was drunk cautiously by the grown-ups and sipped even more cautiously by the children from their parents' glasses. Conversation at the table dealt with the weather and the food and other safe topics. There was an unspoken agreement that religion and politics were unsuitable. Uncle Burl might tell an acceptable joke like the one I remember: “What does the little chick say when they found an orange in the coop? He said, “Look at the orange mamalaid!”  

After dinner, the men, including my cousin Burleigh, disappeared. They didn’t smoke after-dinner cigars like men in the movies; instead they sat in the living room exchanging hunting and fishing stories that grew longer with the years. Meanwhile, the women did the dishes, of course. We children dried the silver, and when we were older, were allowed to dry the crystal very carefully. Our mothers talked about the food, recalling how long the turkey had been in the oven, and deciding whether or not it was moist enough. It was agreed that the stuffing was better than ever, and the gravy tastier and smoother. After we children left the kitchen, they would talk about other family members, especially the sisters-in-law, and about everyone’s health. 

Later we would go outside to see Aunt Edie’s pots of begonias that she had taken into the garage, and her mums, which were still in the ground. The men, who had retreated to the basement, joined us outside, and then it would be time to start on home, leaving the cozy little house in Duluth, knowing that the following year Thanksgiving would be at our house, believing that the rhythm of our lives would go on in its predictable way. The changes were coming, but for the time I’m writing about, we felt safe trusting in the future and the roots that connected us.

The Seasons by Dorothy Herbert

What Vivaldi so beautifully expressed musically in “The Seasons” we shall try to present in prose.

I, for one, shall try to set the scene via colors and emotions.

SPRING is green. New leaves on trees, tender stems emerging from the earth with the promise of beautiful plants. New growth filling in the farmers’ fields. And new hope filling our souls and re-awaking our creativity.

SUMMER is gold. Sunshine spreads warmth and encourages the growth of golden grains. Fair skin turns tan. Flowers bloom. We bask in the warmth of others’ affection and in turn we reflect love and affection toward others.

FALL is orange. Again the trees lead, letting loose the now multi-colored leaves. We see blankets of red and orange piled around their roots. And it is time to reap the now ripe grains from the fields and fruit from the trees. And for ourselves it is a time to gather our thoughts and try to make sense of it all.

WINTER is blue. The color fingers and toes turn if left unprotected in the frigid breezes. Masses of ice reveal a deep blue hue within their structure. Ponds and puddles, once frozen, reflect the color of the sky, gray or blue. And we, huddled by our fireplaces, turn philosophic and review the events of the past year. Hopefully, they will not leave us blue.

EASTER IN CHOMULA by Shirely Johnson

 One spring in the early 80s, my friend Marge and I headed for NaBalom, an old hacienda that had been made into a bed and breakfast. It was run for anthropologists and others like Marge who were interested in the culture and people of Chiapas, the southernmost state of Mexico, bordering on Guatemala. There the Lacandoans, remnants of a Mayan tribe, had been living in the jungles, apparently unknown to the Spanish or the Mexicans until Trudy Blum, a Swiss photographer-journalist, and Frans Blum, a Danish anthropologist, introduced them to the world. Frans and Trudi married and bought an old hacienda which they refurbished. When Frans died, Trudy continued their work, befriending and employing the Lacandoans on the hacienda and providing a place where other anthropologists could continue studies of these people who had been thrust suddenly into the 20^th century.

We arrived at the door of NaBalom, hot and tired after a long crowded trip, just as other guests were finishing lunch. Happily, we were fed well despite our tardiness. Trudy was sometimes a tyrant and generally insisted upon strict punctuality at meals. At times when international guests were there, she presided in three languages, sometimes simply shouting “Shut up!” when she wanted to make an announcement. At our arrival, she was giving information about transportation to a nearby town which was having an Easter week celebration the next day.

After feeling somewhat cowed by Trudy’s manner and outbursts, we looked around the grounds a bit, visiting the extensive jungle-like gardens until the rain sent us up to our room. The altitude made the 15 or 20 steps upstairs a chore, but we were rewarded by the sight of our cozy room. Beside the corner fireplace stocked with wood, the room was filled with small treasures, bits of pottery, Trudy’s fine photographs of the Lacandoans, as well as feather ornaments and colorful hand-woven bedspreads. Trudy might have eccentric manners, but she was clearly an accomplished woman of taste. We hung our clothes in the hand-carved armoire, looked over the English and Spanish books in the bookcase and rested until dinner. While we were resting, the lights went out—not an uncommon event at Na Balom—and later we ate a good dinner by candlelight, along with the group then in residence.

The next morning, we awoke at six to the sound of jungle birds and firecrackers: it was Viernes Santo, Good Friday, and we were going to Chomula, the nearby village Trudy had suggested.  There, she said, we would see how the holiest time in the Catholic calendar is celebrated when the Indians superimpose their own rituals on the Christian tradition, a celebration not officially allowed by the Church of Rome, but tolerated as a way of bringing souls to God.

To get to Chomula, we had to be at the Plaza in San Cristobol by seven a.m. to catch a ride on the bed of a pickup. Watching a knowledgeable couple we met at breakfast, we found that the best place was nearest the cab, so we moved up, barely finding room for our feet as the truck got more and more crowded with new passengers. A boy with three large jars pushed on when it seemed we were already overloaded. A woman with a runny-nosed baby heavily bundled in woolens in the increasing heat stood next to me, balancing herself and her baby as we bounced over the rough country road. After an hour or so, we climbed a short way and at the crest of the hill, we were startled to see a wooden cross on which a white chicken was crudely nailed. Beyond that was the small village, the city hall, the church and a few other buildings. We got out and sat down in the shade of an instant café put up for the Sunday crowd, canvas roof, dirt floor, wooden tables and folding metal chairs.

The celebration taking place involved the drinking of a great deal of something called “posh” which was brought there in large pots and drunk from reclaimed bottles. Indian women with baskets of candles and bay leaves sat on the church steps. We asked some men at the city hall if we were allowed in the church. When they suggested a price, we paid, though we were fairly sure they had just invented this entrance fee. These men were wearing tall pointed hats like those worn by the KKK. They looked like they were accustomed to running things. We were uncomfortable and somewhat intimidated, being too foreign, too blonde, and too aware that strangers a few years past had made off with valuable silver relics from the church, leaving a trail of suspicion and hostility behind.  After paying, we went into the church.

There the scene was almost claustrophobic—pine boughs everywhere, covering the windows, the altar and the floor beneath, scenting the heavy air with the smell of Christmas overridden with the pungency of bay leaves. Indian women were squatting on the floor pouring out a milky liquid floated with rose petals, filling their own bottles from a large jug from which small babies, as well as men, women, and children drank. This was not the “posh” which was making the men outside drunk, but harmless rose water, as I later discovered. If or how it related to the ceremony I never learned.

In the front of the church, men were carrying baskets of bay leaves and candles on their shoulders, and although the noise and confusion seemed chaotic to us, a ceremony was unfolding. At the signal of a horn like a chofur, a large cloth embroidered with roses was lifted high to cover the figure of the Crucified Jesus. Behind the cloth, unseen by us, men worked to take him down from the cross. Then from outside, a great cry was heard and many people ran out the doors. The shouts accompanied the cutting down of the figure of Judas who had been hung from the steeple. This Judas was not the biblical apostle, but a European conquistador, who was rushed to the center of the plaza and furiously torn apart. This, I thought, was the subject people getting their symbolic revenge.

In the 90s the government of Mexico harshly put down an armed revolt by the Indians of Chiapas who were demanding a share in the oil wealth discovered in their land. Reading about it, I remembered the ceremonies invented by people trying to exist in the present, while also preserving their fast disappearing culture.

Spring in Alta California by Gareth Sadler

  

What majestic landscapes Alta California provides.  On a bright crisp day in late March, the road from Santa Rosa to Bodega Bay is a true Camino Real, a royal pathway for us, just as it once was for the Spaniards.  Its route leads us through the redwood groves with their  deep shade, along wide sunny vineyards, past green fields with grazing cows, hedges of golden gorse, trees twisted by the winds.  And then to the bay.

The water is flat calm. Above us on the deck at the Tides Restaurant the gulls tile and circle endlessly, and on the bay the mergansers plunge, only to resurface as suddenly.

Then the seals appear, swimming in unison like Olympic teammates, raising their snouts to probe the air, then slipping under. One sees only hints of their presence, just their shadow gliding. We are left with just a memory, an impression, an illusion. Then they are gone on their secret course. What shall we call them? Lions form a pride. Crows make a murder. An illusion of seals? 

I think of Father Serra, and his travels in Alta California. The countryside has altered since the 1770s, with fences and all. But the Father would have rejoiced in the bright days of spring, stood under the same redwoods, and watched the seals gliding on their quiet way.